Erindor
The cliffs fell away behind us.
We had descended from Stonespine Crossing in tense silence; the sun rising pale and uncertain through low clouds. A light frost still clung to the rocks in places, catching the morning light in sharp glints. Wildervale opened again below us in a vast hush. It was less jagged here, but no less strange.
The trail snaked deeper into a forest that predated the very mountains themselves, where ancient trees with trunks like weathered monuments stood in silent, watchful ranks, barked like cracked stone, and moss hung from their branches like faded banners. The air smelled of damp earth and crushed lichen, with a faint trace of old smoke that lingered low in the underbrush.
We walked with more precision today, keeping our voices hushed.
The mimics had shaken us more than anyone would say aloud. Jasira walked beside Wyn, steady but pale, still recovering from her sickness. Alaric led up front with Bran pacing ahead, ears alert. Gideon was behind him, though, looking back at the Princess and her friend more often than not. Tyren flanked us loosely. I took the rear.
It let me watch them.
Let me watch her.
Wyn had spoken little since we broke camp. But her eyes flicked to the tree line often, her fingers brushing the hilt of her dagger every so frequently, like she needed to be reminded it was there. I couldn’t blame her. The memory of the river, raw and unforgiving, haunted her waking thoughts as it did mine. There was something about her walk today. It was more measured, cautious, and sure. She loosely braided her hair, and strands escaped, brushing the collar of her cloak with each step. She walked like someone waiting to be called back by something unseen but still choosing to move forward. It wasn’t a strength I recognized in her initially. It was persistence. And I admired it more than I knew how to say.
She didn’t look back at me, but I watched the way the sunlight struck her. The way animals moved slightly toward her. Bran lingered closer when she spoke. A sparrow had landed on her shoulder earlier and stayed there for a moment longer than made sense. Wildervale was paying attention to her.
And so was I.
It was midday when we decided to take a break. We found a clearing ringed with old stone pillars, worn down to stumps and lichen-crusted. Something about them felt purposeful. Some had fallen sideways or cracked in half, but a few still stood, leaning slightly as if bowed by time. Vines coiled at their bases, and faint carvings marked their surfaces: weathered spirals, sunbursts, and long-faded glyphs. The moss underfoot was thick and springy, and the filtered light fell in long gold shafts like columns, striking only the stones. It was a silence that felt like breath held.
The clearing felt inhabited by history. A place where the earth itself recalled names no longer spoken. The hush of moss and memory. The light slanted through the trees in shafts likecolumns, touching only the stone as if nature itself dared not intrude.
Tyren passed through the ring first and muttered, “Creepy place,” under his breath. He didn’t stop moving, but he gave the pillars a wide berth.
Unpacking was a silent ritual, each item placed with care, every offering food with a wordless acknowledgment. Wyn settled against the cool stone, carefully unrolling a small parcel of dried fruit, and Bran instinctively curled close, a silent testament to the fragile intimacy of the moment. I didn’t sit. I couldn’t.
My eyes stayed on the woods.
Eventually, Wyn rose and walked to me leisurely. “You haven’t eaten.”
“I’m not hungry.”
She raised a brow and held out a slice of pear.
I shifted my weight for a moment, then took it. Our fingers brushed. Her touch didn’t linger, but my awareness of it did.
“I’ve always wanted to come to Wildervale,” she said softly. “It feels like the world’s thinning.”
I glanced around. “It is. The gods lived here once. Places like this, they remember.”
She turned to look at me. “Do you?”
“Do I what?”
“Remember.”
Her voice held no accusation, only a tender curiosity that frayed my defenses. The air became too thick, too revealing, and my gaze darted away, unable to meet hers.
“I remember the things that matter.”
She stepped closer. “And what matters now?”
My jaw flexed. “Getting you to Caerthaine alive, Princess.”
She didn’t argue.
