But she didn’t leave either.
Beside me, she remained, a soft, insistent warmth that sparked both comfort and a frustrating ache for more. I felt a sensation of being both filled and left wanting more at the same time.
She wandered along the ring of ancient pillars. Her fingers brushed one and paused. “There’s a mark here,” she murmured.
I stepped forward. Someone had scorched a spiral into the face of the old and distinctive stone. The pillar itself leaned slightly toward the riverbank, its surface marred with soot and ancient fire scoring that had blackened the glyphs into ghostly relief. Moss and faint golden lichen framed the spiral, as though nature itself remembered its shape.
Wyn traced it lightly. “I read about this in one of the temple records,” she spoke softly. “It’s called the Flamebite Mark. Supposedly left by Vireya’s chosen when they fled the god’s wrath. It only appears before a death.”
Her voice dropped lower, her fingers trembling against the scorched stone.
“I told no one I read Vireya’s lore,” she added. “People called it dangerous nonsense. Said I was wasting time with stories meant to frighten children. But the texts didn’t feel like warnings. They felt like memories someone didn’t want forgotten. I think she was the first to break. And everyone else called her dangerous because she didn’t stay small.”
My eyes widened, and my muscles suddenly locked, a stiffness seizing at my limbs.
I knew that mark. I’d seen it before. On a cliff. In fire. Burned beneath Riven’s feet.
Smoke. Screams. Blood. Riven’s eyes light with something not entirely human.
My grip on the hilt of my sword tightened.
“Where did you say you read that?” I asked too sharply.
She looked at me, startled. “A temple text in Elyrien. Why?”
I shook my head, forcing calm. “Doesn’t matter.”
But it did. Gods, it did. I stared at the spiral again, my stomach knotting. Knowing what this meant didn’t require me to believe in every myth. I’d seen the mark appear before someone died. I’d seen it glow.
I looked at Wyn’s face; earnest, curious, unaware. She didn’t know any of it. She didn’t understand what Riven was. What I used to be.
She turned back to the stone, thoughtful. “We weren’t supposed to study Wildervale lore. They deemed it too speculative. But I always found myself drawn to it. The pieces scattered throughout the old temple archives felt like secrets left behind intentionally. Even after exile.”
“You studied more than they intended you to? ” I asked.
She gave me a small smile. “Books were easier to face than most people. And the gods…” She paused, searching the trees. “The gods never asked me to be anything I wasn’t.”
Something in me tugged at that. The way she said it. Like it meant more than she was letting on.
I said nothing for a long moment. Then, surprising myself, I muttered, “I never had access to temple texts. Or any library.”
Wyn's gaze found mine, a bewildered crease appearing between her brows. “Never?” The word was a bare whisper, loaded with disbelief.
I shook my head. “I used to sneak to the edge of the scribe’s hall in the city, to hear lessons. But I’d get kicked out. Too dirty. Wrong clothes. Wrong everything.”
She didn’t speak for a moment. Then, quietly, “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be,” I said. “You didn’t build the walls. You walked through them.”
We stood there in the hush of ancient stone and soft wind.
A breeze stirred, and a leaf caught in her hair. I reached forward before I thought twice and gently pulled it free.
She looked up, surprised, lips parting slightly. Her eyes locked on mine.
I opened my hand to show her the leaf, then let it drift away.
A beat of silence stretched between us, thick with unspoken things, before she finally uttered, “Goodnight.”
