I couldn’t watch any longer. “Here,” I said, stepping in. I kneltand adjusted the belt, tightening the leather until it sat flush.
“Still dangerous,” I murmured, “though not to your enemies.”
A flush of pink rose to her ears, and she smacked my arm. But left the blade as it was.
We continued to walk. Wyn’s fingers curled back around my arm, saying nothing.
And neither did I.
We returned to the inn before sunset. The place was old and drafty; the floorboards creaking beneath every step like old bones groaning in their sockets. They had hung dried lavender, mint, and yarrow as herbs above the lintels, seemingly to ward off mildew or misfortune. The hearth crackled low, throwing flickers of gold against the scarred walls. Travelers hunched over chipped bowls of stew, muttering in low voices, eyes flicking toward the windows with a kind of habitual dread.
Near the fire, Kellen was curled beneath a woolen blanket, a faint sheen of sweat still clinging to his brow. Jasira sat beside him, brushing damp hair from his forehead. She had coaxed a few spoonfuls of broth into him, though he mainly remained quiet. The boy had spoken little since the attack. I wasn’t sure if it was the pain in his leg or the terror at losing his family in the way he did. His kin slaughtered beyond the trees, their wagon ransacked and left to the crows. Sometimes grief was louder than fear.
A bard sang near the hearth, voice low and lilting.
“Ash for eyes, a blade for breath—He walks where whispers feed on death. Beware the man with a bloodless grin, for where he treads, the end begins...”
My stomach sank. I didn’t need to ask who the song was about.
Wyn glanced at me, her expression pale. Wary. “That song…”
“Rumors,” I said quickly, in a bid to comfort her, before looking away.
...
Night fell like wet wool.
I took a walk to clear my head. The fog curled through the streets like smoke. Lanterns glowed faintly behind shuttered windows.
Then I saw him across the square.
A man in a dark cloak. A bone-hilted blade strapped casually over one shoulder like it belonged there, like it had always been there. His hood was low, but I would have recognized him anywhere.
Riven.
He didn’t move. Didn’t blink. He stood there in the mist, as if he’d been waiting for my arrival.
Our eyes met. And though he stood yards away, I sensed it. The familiarity, the challenge, the memory of ash and ruin.
The corner of his mouth twitched. Not a grin, but the promise of one.
And then—
He was gone.
Like smoke, or memory,a whisper of something that had never truly existed outside of my mind.
But he did.
And he wasn’t finished with me yet.
Chapter Nine
Wynessa
We rode out of Greymere on the same horse, my back pressed lightly against Erindor’s chest, the rhythmic sway of the mare keeping us in an uneasy but constant closeness. His arms bracketed me on either side as he held the reins, silent and steady. Every time our knees bumped, or his breath brushed my hair, the warmth didn't just settle. It spread, a slow burn igniting something nameless and new inside me. The storm washed the sky above; the fog swallowed the village’s crooked rooftops behind us. Silence pressed close as the forest swallowed us once more. Not a peaceful hush, but something that waited, watched.
The boy we rescued in the Emberwood days before, Kellen, was not with us. We had left him, safe and warm, in the innkeeper's care in Greymere, promising to return when we had a workable opportunity. I thought of his quiet eyes and wondered if he was dreaming of forests now, or if he, too, still saw the shadows behind the trees.
