Erindor stepped back fast. I lowered the dagger, mortified.
“Are we interrupting?” Jasira asked, smiling far too knowingly.
“No,” I said too quickly.
“Yes,” Gideon replied at the same time.
I spun on my heel and rushed back toward the clearing.
Jasira fell in step beside me. “You’re glowing.”
“It’s the firelight,” I muttered.
“There’s no fire over here,” she said, smirking.
I almost dropped the dagger.
…
That night, sleep evaded me.
Kellen whimpered softly near Lark, who stayed beside him like a quiet anchor. Tyren and Corren took watch while the others tucked themselves in beside blankets or saddle rolls. The forest pulsed with slow tension, like it hadn’t quite forgiven us for surviving the morning.
I lay curled beneath my cloak, my gazelifted upwards through the canopy at slivers of sky, too faint to hold the distant sparkle of stars. Jasira shifted beside me, turning to me and propping herself on an elbow. “You’re quiet.”
“I’m thinking.”
She gave me a knowing look. “Dangerous pastime.”
“Do you think I’m foolish?” I asked softly.
Jasira didn’t answer immediately. Then she said, “No. I think you’re brave enough to be kind in a world that punishes kindness. That’s not foolish. That’s rare.”
I swallowed, my throat tight.
Somewhere across camp, the steady scrape of a blade met stone. I didn’t need to look to know it was Erindor.
“Do you think he heard?” I whispered.
Jasira offered a hesitant reply. “Perhaps, but I believe he was already aware.”
I turned on my side, Bran’s warmth tucked against my back, and I listened to the rhythm of thewhetstone. Even in sleep, the forest watched.
I closed my eyes, but the weight of the day still clung to my skin. All the blood, the fear, the way his hands had steadied mine. Today, I held a life in my hands, and I stood toe-to-toe with someone made of storms.
And tomorrow, I will try again.
I curled my cloak tighter around my shoulders; the fire had long since been reduced to coal. The others were asleep: Jasira, finally resting after tending to the boy; Gideon snoring softly nearby; Alaric murmuring something in his sleep, Bran twitching beside him. Erindor stood beyond the firelight, his back to us, watchful as ever.
My fingers ached from clutching the dagger too tightly. I was still conscious of its weight even now, long after he’d sheathed it for me.
With sleep evading me, I reached into my satchel, pulling free the leather-bound book tucked between sprigs of dried peppermint and crushed willowbark. The familiar scrape of charcoal against parchment steadied my breath.
I don’t think I’ll sleep tonight.
Every time I close my eyes, I see his face—the boy from the road. Blood pouring from his leg, his eyes full of fear. We saved him. I saved him. But it wasn’t clean. That moment was not an insignificant one, like the ones in my old healer’s books. It was real. It was messy. And it was terrifying.
I keep wondering what would’ve happened if I’d hesitated longer. If the others hadn’t fought so fast. If Erindor hadn’t…been who he is.
