I turned and lifted my head behind me. The Mimics stood on the other side, masks tilted. Watching.
But none crossed. I gave a small sigh of relief.
Erindor set me down slowly. A beat longer than necessary, his arms stayed on my waist. His chest heaved with breath. His dark eyes seemed to hold me captive.
“You alright?”
I nodded, tears stinging. “Yes.”
We scrambled to the edge of the creek, boots skidding in the mud, lungs dragging in ragged breaths.
Everyone was breathing hard, Jasira clutching a stitch in her side, Alaric doubled over, Gideon muttering a prayer between gasps. Even Tyren’s calm had cracked, his shoulders heaving as he stared into the distant trees behind us.
Bran stood at the edge of the water, hackles raised, teeth bared in a low, guttural growl that never stopped.
Across the creek, shadows shifted.
The Mimics emerged slowly, unnaturally still, their forms flickering at the edges like smoke trying to be solid. Some wore our faces. Some didn’t bother. One had eyes that opened too wide. Another’s mouth stretched too far, a grin carved into something that should not grin at all.
Alaric spat, grabbed a stone from the riverbed, and hurled it across the water.
“Cowards,” he snapped. “Come try me, you bastard patchwork sons of—”
The rock vanished into the mist behind The Mimics. They didn’t flinch.
They just watched.
He stepped back. His words hung in the air: “They don’t cross running water.”
Wildervale, I realized, had rules.
Old ones.
Deadly ones.
But I was still alive.
Because we ran.
Because he came back.
And carried me out.
…
After resting and catching our breath, we continued to walk. However, my legs still trembled from the adrenaline. My fall caused pain in my side, and the river water soaked and weighed down the hem of my skirts.
“I’m sorry,” I murmured, breathless. “I shouldn’t have tripped, I wasn’t watching, I—these skirts are awful.”
Erindor halted, turning to look at me. His eyes scanned down the length of me, making my cheeks burn under his scrutiny. Suddenly, he dropped to one knee and unsheathed a small knife.
I blinked. “What are you doing?”
He didn’t answer right away. With a few swift motions, he cut the skirt below my ankles, straight and clean. The fabric fluttered to the snow, lighter, freer.
As he worked, my thoughts scrambled. I placed my hands lightly on his shoulders to steady myself, the heat of him rising through my palms. A heat of a different kind stirred low in my belly; sharp, unexpected, impossible to ignore.
He glanced up at me. “Hold still, Princess,” he murmured.
