Tyren grunted in agreement, turning to me. “The river’s too fast, Your Highness. And too deep. It would wash us off the rocks before we found footing.”
Alaric exhaled sharply, running a hand through his rain-damp hair. He didn’t argue again, but the frustration in his stance said enough.
Jasira slumped against my shoulder, a fragile balance of weakness and stubborn will. Even on her own feet, her weight felt like a dead load, pressing down on me. Erindor turned his gaze eastward, toward the tangle of shadowed forest past the broken trail. “There’s another way. In the old groves, we passed an entrance earlier, barely visible from the main path. If we follow the groves, we can meet the road again after the cliffs. It’ll take time, but it’s safer than trying to cross that.”
It was settled.
We turned off the main trail shortly after dawn, heading east into a grove no one recognized.
I felt it the moment we passed under the first arch of trees.
The air changed.
There wasn't a temperature shift, but a palpable switch in the very fabric of the air, as if the world itself had slowed to a crawl, its breath held in a heavy silence. The wind was still. The scent of damp moss became sweeter, and twisted trees arched toward each other like hands folded in prayer, leaning in strange, deliberate ways.
We moved beneath them like trespassers in a cathedral. Each step seemed heavier, but not with dread. The deeper we walked, the more the hush pressed in. Not oppressive. Just watchful.
My heartbeat slowed here, or maybe the gentle pace of everything else made it seem as if time stood still. My fingers twitched at my sides, not out of fear, but from the weight of something unspoken. The stories I’d read in the castle library—the old ones, barely preserved, spoke of places like this. Sacred groves, thinned from mortal memory, where gods once whispered through bark and breeze. The membrane that separated the living world from the echoes of the past wasgossamer-thin, almost transparent, as if it threatened to tear at any moment. I glanced at Erindor. His hand lingered near the hilt of his sword, but did not draw it. Alaric said nothing. None of us did. Jasira continued to lean against me, still struggling to balance herself as we walked. So, I adjusted my steps to match hers.
I wanted to say something. Anything. But every word I thought of felt too loud for this place.
Then, the animals appeared.
A fox, sleek, russet-furred, its paws silent on the moss. Eyes bright and tail flicking, it stepped from the brush as if we were unwelcome visitors in a forest that clearly belonged to them. It didn’t run. It merely observed.
I stopped walking. Something stirred in the back of my mind—a page from a book I’d once read, its corners torn and its ink faded with time. Not all creatures in Wildervale were simply beasts. Some were signs.
“Messenger beast,” I murmured softly, not really meaning to say it aloud. “They say foxes walk closest to the old gods. They appear only when the divine is paying attention.”
Jasira’s breath caught beside me. I didn’t need to look to know she’d remembered the same stories.
Then, a red-breasted bird landed on a branch above my head and chirped once, softly and clearly.
And then a deer with velveted antlers and moss-touched, one of its eyes glowing faintly blue. It stood across the grove, perfectly still, gazing not at the group but at me.
I stopped walking.
Wynessa.
The name whispered across my spine like wind without breath. My mind wrestled with the sound, unable to classify the creature as real or an illusion. The foxswiveled, its eyes holdinga lingering spark before it began toprowlaway, its steps silent and unhurried.
Suddenly, I noticed my friends weren’t following.
Alaric, Jasira, Gideon, Tyren, and Erindor all stood still, frozen in place mid-step or mid-turn. Not rigid with fear, but paused. It was as if someone had stopped time for them.
But the animals were still moving.
Ahead, the fox walked. The bird shifted on its branch. The deer’s breath steamed faintly in the air.
“Wynessa,” my name was called again.
I stepped forward toward the voice with Bran padding quietly after me.
He didn’t hesitate. The massive hound followed each of my steps as if the pull of the place beckoned him too. When we reached the edge of the deeper grove, he gave a small chuff and pressed his body against my leg. Then, without prompting, he trotted ahead.
I followed.
The grove deepened, the trees forming high arches overhead, so perfectly curved it appeared to be a place designed by thought, not nature. The light was golden and dappled, filtering through leaves that shimmered with a faint silver tint.
