I deserved it.
I opened my satchel and pulled out the little leather-bound journal. Although the charcoal nub wore nearly flat, it would do.
I made a mistake.
I thought I was doing the right thing. The bandit was bleeding out. He was human; scared, dying, alone. I saw a person, not an enemy. So, I moved toward him. I wanted to help. Like I always do.
But I forgot something important.
I’m not just a healer anymore.
I’m a target. A symbol. A liability, if I forget the world we’re walking through.
Erindor yelled at me. He’s never yelled like that before. His voice was sharp, wounded. I think I scared him because I didn’t think it through. I think…he expected me to be wiser.
Or, I expected that of myself.
He didn’t speak to me again after that. He kept pacing the perimeter, jaw tight, cloak snapping behind him like it was angry too.
I hated that I hadn’t listened.
I don’t want him to think I’m reckless.
But I’m unsure how to end my desire to help, even if it proves deadly.
-W
I shut the book and pressed it against my chest, eyes stinging. Somewhere behind me, I heard the faint crunch of boots on frostbitten grass—soft and deliberate. Erindor, circling the camp again.
I didn’t look at him or move either.
Tomorrow, I’d try again.
Chapter Ten
Erindor
The rain began as a hush against the leaves. It was soft, steady, almost gentle as we slipped into the forest.
The Wildervale did not welcome us.
The others sensed it too. Alaric pulled his cloak tighter and glanced over his shoulder more than once, his usual banter silenced by the weight of the air. Jasira muttered something under her breath about the silence being too loud, her hand drifting toward the dagger at her hip. Gideon, trying to lighten the mood, cracked a joke about ghost squirrels planning an ambush, but no one laughed. Not even he, really. The three additional guards, Corren, Lark, and Tyren, rode in uneasy silence. Corren made a quiet blessing motion with two fingers over his chest, and Lark kept fiddling with his reins like they might suddenly snap free. Tyren muttered a silent prayer in a tongue I didn’t recognize.
We all felt it.
Like the Wildervale had opened its mouth and swallowed the sound whole.
The towering, enigmatic forest embraced the narrow trail, its air a dense, damp veil rich with the scent of moss and wet bark, underpinned by a subtle, almost melancholic floral hint, likecrushed violets slowly fading into the earth. The silence wasn’t true silence, but a layered hush filled with distant drips of rain through branches and the soft rustle of unseen creatures moving in the underbrush. Every hoofbeat felt louder here, swallowed not by space but by something older, something listening. The chill of Wildervale was not only in the air, but in the way the light moved, reluctant and fragmented, as if it were trespassing. Its trees were impossibly old; their trunks split with time and slick with moss that shimmered faintly in the mist. Vines hung like braided ropes from crooked branches, some trailing into the underbrush as if they had minds of their own. The light barely touched the forest floor; what sunlight broke through the canopy came in filtered shards, painting the path in watery gold and green. Here and there, crumbled stones jutted from the earth, the remains of something ancient, half-swallowed by vine and root.
Wyn sat in front of me again in the saddle, her cloak damp and clinging to her shoulders, her posture quiet. Her mare still hadn’t turned up, and no one argued when I helped her onto my horse again that morning. Least of all, me.
She didn’t speak. Neither did I.
And yet, I was too aware of her. Too aware of every breath she took.
I told myself it was duty. Just vigilance. She was a princess, and I was her shield. Nothing more.
She wasn’t a woman to whom I was drawn to. Too trusting. Too easily hurt.
