I ran. Branches clawed at my cloak as I pushed through the underbrush, thorns snagging at my sleeves.
I dropped to my knees beside him, the cold from the soil seeping into my skirts. Blood spilled from his thigh, dark and fast. His face was pale beneath the grime; his lips were blue at the edges.
“Hold still,” I whispered, my voice trembling. “You’re safe now. You’re safe.”
But he wasn’t, far from it. Nevertheless, I needed him to believe it.
I pulled herbs from the pouch at my belt: yarrow, crushed comfrey, a thick salve of beeswax, and lavender. My fingers pressed into the wound to slow the flow,ignoring the warmth, the smell, and the way my hands shook. Jasira appeared beside me, helping to unroll the bandages as my fingers became tangled in the cotton.
“Breathe, Wyn,” she whispered. “You’re here. He’s here. Breathe.”
“I’m trying,” I rasped, blinking against the sting in my eyes. “I’m trying.”
When I looked up, the raiders were dead. One guard was wounded. Erindor stood still in the mist, blood dripping from his blade, his breathing measured. He looked like something carved from stone and fury.
The boy stirred. Alive. His lashes flickered—a breath caught in his throat.
Then he sagged against the earth, slipping into a dark unconsciousness.
I sat there, frozen in a paralysis that defied the will to flee, his blood drying into a sticky film beneath my nails.
Jasira stayed beside me, gently taking my hands and wiping them clean with a strip of linen. “You’re alright,” she said softly. “You did well.”
I whispered, “I was breathless.”
“But you didn’t run. You stayed. That matters.”
I looked across the clearing.
Erindor stood apart, shoulders squared, sword still in hand. He wasn’t looking at anyone. Not at the boy. Not at me. But at the trees. The way someone looks when they’ve already seen this too many times.
He didn’t speak. He simply wiped the blade clean and walked back into the mist.
…
We traveled more slowly after that.
The boy named Kellen now rode with Lark, barely awake, hisleg bound and stiff. He had woken only once, just long enough to whisper his name before slipping under again. He would heal, but only if we found him a proper shelter soon. By mid-afternoon, wesought refugein apatch of sun-dappled clearing, where the light broke through the canopy ingolden shafts. The mist had thinned, but tension lingered in the branches.
Jasira unpacked a small satchel of dried fruit and broke it into portions, handing pieces to anyone who passed. Alaric reclined with one arm behind his head and the other tossing twigs into the low firepit. Despite the risk, we built a small, smoky fire, tucked low into a ring of stones, for the sake of the boy. Kellen needed warmth and something hot in his belly. The twigs crackled softly beneath the pot, the flame of their fire barely more than a flicker, but it was enough to boil water for soup.
Gideon was crouched nearby, fiddling with a half-bent buckle on his armor and telling Tyren an embellished story about a cursed heirloom that made its owner fall in love with frogs. His laughter was a mere echo of its usual boisterous self, a soft breath of sound almost swallowed by the quiet. Tyren, bruised and winded from the morning’s fight, didn’t join in, but did appear to be listening intently.
Corren sharpened his blade with careful, practiced strokes, his eyes constantly flicking toward the treeline. Lark sat with Kellen propped against him, dozing. He hummed softly under his breath, some lullaby that sounded older than the kingdoms.
I sat cross-legged with my journal, Bran’s head resting heavily in my lap. I tried to write something, anything wise or comforting, but the words wouldn’t come. My hands still smelled faintly of iron and moss. I looked down at my palms, the persistent aroma, a strange blend of raw iron and the cool, damp breath of moss, still clung to them.
“Princess.”
I looked up.
Erindor stood over me, a dagger in his hand.
“You froze,” he said. His voice gave away nothing.
I took the statement slowly. “I acted.”
“Badly.”
