Her voice was soft as dusk.
She turned and walked back toward the others.
I didn’t follow.
My chest felt as though it was caught in an invisible vise, a suffocating grip of emotions too new and too potent to be easily labeled. Whatever left that mark, I thought, we’d be ready.
But I wasn’t sure if I meant the gods or myself.
The more I watched her, the way she looked at the world, the way she touched it with courage, the more I wanted to believe in things I’d buried long ago.
The gods weren’t what scared me.
It was the quiet ache of wanting something gentle.
It was hope.
And I didn’t know how to survive that.
As the camp settled into quiet and the fire burned low, I noticed Gideon helping Jasira adjust her blanket. She grumbled something at him but didn’t push him away. He nudged her flask toward her with the toe of his boot.
“Drink it. You’ll sleep better.”
“Only if you promise not to snore again.”
Gideon grinned. “No promises.”
Their banter was low but familiar. They seemed to fall into a rhythm of it effortlessly.
I turned slightly and caught Alaric watching me.
He raised an eyebrow and smirked. “I’ve seen you, you know. Careful,” he murmured. “She’s promised to another.”
I grunted and turned away, jaw tight.
Alaric’s tone softened. “Don’t let your guard down, Erindor. You’re here to keep her safe. That’s all.” He paused for a moment before uttering. “I’m sorry.”
I nodded, but the words sat heavy.
Was I sure that’s all I wanted to do?
Chapter Seventeen
Erindor
The Hollow Watcher’s Glen was silent in the same way a grave was. Trees rose like petrified bones, their bark blackened and flaking with age, and their limbs tangled in a canopy so thick the daylight barely touched the ground. Fog moved across the soil in low sheets, curling around our boots like grasping hands. Every sound, every breath, every creak of leather seemed muffled. Swallowed.
The air was cold; this chill lived deeper, in the marrow. It clung to us like a second skin, heavy and wet. The scent of rot lingered beneath the moss and soil, as if something had died an extraordinarily long time ago and still remembered how to fester.
Everything in this place felt old, but not in a way that earned admiration. It was forgotten. Abandoned. Trees wept black resin like sap that had soured, and fungal growths bloomed pale and trembling along the trunks. Stones, half-buried and slick with slime, jutted like teeth from the ground. This was not a place where things lived. This was a place where things were forgotten to die.
We were in the dead heart of Wildervale now, where even the gods no longer looked. The center of the forest. The cursedmiddle.
The river had narrowed into a sluggish vein of dark water beside us, barely making a sound. Even our footsteps were too loud. Each one echoed back from the trees like a warning.
Wyn’s steps faltered beside me. She whispered, “It feels like we’re being watched.”
I nodded. She wasn’t wrong.
