Beside me, Wynessa scribbled in her journal again, oblivious to the crunch of poison-bramble underfoot. She rode with both legs side-saddled today, her boots tucked neatly under the pale lavender riding skirt, which was utterly impractical. Her hands moved like a painter’s, sketching the shapes of moss or lichen, as if they were worthy of a crown.
We were riding through a forest that had eaten whole patrols. And she was writing poetry about vines. Silly girl.
“Why is it called the Emberwood?” she asked aloud, turning in her saddle to glance at Gideon.
He perked up like a bard on cue. “Because it looks like it’s perpetually on fire,” he chirped, gesturing at the trees. “And sometimes it tries to eat you.”
She laughed. Light, high, like something unafraid. “Eat me?”
“Carnivorous moss,” he said, deadpan. “Hangs from trees like lace. Pretty, until it isn’t.”
She squinted upward. “You’re joking?”
He paused for a moment. “I am,” he said. “Well, mostly.”
I didn’t correct him.
This forest had killed men. Not only with teeth but with silence. With wrong turns, with half-remembered paths, with spores that paralyzed and vines that waited. The monsters weren’t the ones who initially got you; it was what you couldn’t see or hear.
Ahead of me, Wyn reined in and her gaze caught sight of something in the undergrowth. I watched it with her. A cluster of low ferns, their fronds tipped with pale lavender blossoms.
Until suddenly, she slipped from her saddle before I could call out.
Her boots hit the earth softly. She crouched beside the flowers, inching closer to sketch their shape in her little notebook, her silken strands tumbled from beneath her hood, catching the dappled light filtering through the canopy. Itgleamed, a vibrant spill of color like captured firelight.
She looked like she’d wandered into the wrong story.
I leapt from my horse, my boots landing with a soft thud into the soil. The air ahead had grownunnaturally still, the silence pressing down,heavy and wrong.
“Stop,” I said, sharper than I meant to.
Wyn jumped, her head snapping up to meet my gaze. “What?”
I closed the gap between us in swift strides. I dropped my voice low, “What are you doing?”
She glanced down at the blossoms. “I’ve never seen these before,” she said. “They looked like some kind of fern, but with open faces. Like asters, almost. I thought—”
“Poisonbramble,” I said, cutting her off. “Don’t step in it unless you want to hallucinate your own ancestors.”
Her head snapped back, eyes wide, as she recoiled
“You might attempt walking if you do not want to survive this forest,” I grumbled.
She looked at me for a long moment, narrowing her eyes, expression unreadable. Then she stepped aroundme without a word and went back to her horse.
I almost let it pass, but as I watched her fingers quiver as she lifted the reins, the knot of impatience in my gut tightened one more.
She acted as if kindness were a weapon, as if smiling at strangers and scribbling flower names into a book would protect her. Maybe she thought it made her brave. Perhaps she thought it made her likable. Who knew what went on in that poor girl's head?
But places like this did not suit her. Not for silence that devoured sound or forests that buried names. She didn’t understand the rules. And people who didn’t understand the regulations usually died before revising them.
So, I said nothing.
…
Before dusk, a low rustling reached our ears, too heavy for wind. It moved against the trees, then vanished. We paused, listening. Nothing followed. But we kept our hands near our blades and our voices low.
We made camp soon after, in a clearing edged by blackbark trees. Shadows danced long between the roots. As the others unpacked and began settling around the fire, Alaric dropped beside me, offering a wineskin I didn’t take.
