“So are you.” He stepped closer, tension drawn tight across his shoulders like a bowstring. His voice was low, roughened by restraint. “You could have died, Princess. And then—” He stopped.
There was more in his eyes than anger, frustration, and fear. Something unspoken. And then he said it.
“This isn’t some fairy tale. You show mercy like that again, and you’re going to get yourself killed and the kingdom with you.”
For a breath, I couldn’t speak. A gasp stole the breath, voice simply vanishing, trapped behind a sudden, solid wall of disbelief.
The words hit harder than the battle.
We stood there with the trees pressing in. I saw the regret in his eyes the instant after he said it and the way his shoulders tensed, how his mouth opened slightly, then shut.
But the damage had already been done.
Before I found my voice again, Alaric stepped between us. His posture was firm and protective.
“That’s enough,” he said to Erindor, his voice cool and even. “We’ve all had enough death for one morning.”
Erindor’s eyes flicked to him, unreadable, then back to me. Whatever storm had risen in him was now buried deep.
He turned without another word.
I watched as hetrudgedaway, each step heavy, his figure growing smaller with every purposeful step.
…
We rode in silence for hours, the forest pressing close on either side of the narrow trail. No one spoke of the fight. No one spoke at all, really. The mist returned as the sun sank, curling low around the hooves of the horses, brushing the hems of our cloaks like it was meant to follow us all the way to sleep.
By the time we found a clearing large enough to make camp, dusk had bled into near dark. The light was dim, silver, and strange, like the forest had forgotten how to be warm.
We made camp under the limbs of an old cedar tree. The mist still clung to the edges of the clearing, curling over the forest floor like smoke. The air was thick with everything unsaid.
Gideon built the fire with more force than finesse, stabbing kindling into the pile like the flames had offended him. Alaric sat with his back against a stump, one leg stretched out, absently running a whetstone over his sword while Bran dozed at his feet. Corren checked the perimeter twice before finally resting.
Lark busied himself mending a torn satchel with trembling fingers, and Tyren watched the dark with his usual, unsettling calm.
Jasira stirred the stewpot with slow, methodical motions, humming a soft tune I didn’t recognize, her eyes occasionally flicking to me as if she wanted to speak, but never quite did.
Erindor sat apart.
I could feel his gaze on me.
I sipped my tea, pretending not to notice, cheeks still warm with the ghost of that argument.
His words echoed in my mind, a relentless clamor that drowned out all other senses. They circled, an endless, tormenting loop:Do you think any ofthis will mean anything if you’re dead?
Perhaps he was correct. It was possibly reckless rushing in like that. But how could I have left someone to die when I had the means to help?
Still, his words struck something deeper than frustration. Not because they were cruel, but because they weren’t. He hadn’t been only angry.
He had been telling the truth.
That shook me more than his anger.
My fingers traced the rim of my mug; the tea within lay inert and cold, a mirror to the chill that had settled in my bones. No matter how much I’d scrubbed my hands earlier, the scent of iron-rich blood and the sweetness of the salve still clung to my skin, stubborn as a stain. I was aware of the wounded man’s pulse beneath my hands. The flash of fear in his eyes, the resignation. No one else would have helped him.
But I had.
What did that make me? Brave? Or foolish?
