He stood and stepped away from the ledge, posture stiff. I caught one last glimpse of the scar trailing down his back before the shadows swallowed him.
And I stayed where I was, the light of the Veilfire catching in my eyes, wondering what it was I had awakened inside myself.
What exactly had he awakened in me?
I drew my knees to my chest, curling under the shadow of a half-fallen pine, the veilfire flickering through the gaps above me. A dormant partof me ignited, a vibrant spark of life that hadn’t burned so brightly in years, or perhaps ever. I had spent my whole life within stone walls. Being quiet. Proper. Small. Measured in silks and curtsies, in whispered obligations and words I never said aloud. I’d once watched a noblewoman scold a servant for crying and been told, “Feelings are for peasants.”
I practiced curtsies while dreaming of running barefoot through trees; something that now feels so close, so true.
But out here, in the dirt and ash and sacred flames, I was louder. Wilder. Real.
And I realized I didn’t want to go back to who I had been.
Not if it meant losing who I was becoming.
So, I stayed curled in the quiet hush of the flame-streaked sky, the mark on my arm still warm, as I whispered to the night,“Please…let this be real.”
Chapter Nineteen
Wynessa
The forest widened into a yawning canyon, its smooth boulders draped in moss and dappled with gold-touched mist. Wind whispered low between the stone crevices, weaving a melody that tugged at my bones. Jasira called it the Singing Stones.
We weren’t camping again; we were pausing for a rest, though no one said as much. The path ahead still sloped down into the canyon’s belly, but the way behind was too steep to climb back. The Vorrhounds and Mimics were gone, but the memories still stalked me. Every shadow held a shape. Every breeze felt like a breath on my neck. The air, though fresh, still carried the weight of something watching, as if the new land we’d trampled on had not yet decided if we were welcome.
Tension hummed within our group like a second wind song. Gideon muttered under his breath about cursed echoes and ghost rocks. Jasira busied herself with her tea satchel, but her hands trembled when she thought no one was watching. Even Bran growled low at nothing. We were all on edge, and the Singing Stones seemed to listen.
Alaric inspected the perimeter with half-tired caution, reinforcing what little defense we could manage. Erindor was onthe river’s edge, cleaning his hands in the water.
I watched him from the shadows of the canyon wall. He didn’t move with the usual tension he carried, didn’t pace or glare into the trees. Instead, he knelt by a patch of wild thistle near the bank, fingers brushing the petals without picking them. For a man who could end a life with one blow, he was oddly gentle with small, defenseless things.
I needed space. Air. Silence. Something else.
So, I wandered.
Alone, I followed a narrow ledge deeper into the canyon, where moss softened the stone, and the wind’s song grew louder, humming like a lullaby beneath my skin. The ground felt alive, every footfall stirring echoes not from rock but from somewhere deeper, older. People didn’t name the Singing Stones simply for their sound. They were a place of memory, and beneath our feet, the ground thrummed with a resonance of long-gone footsteps.
Suddenly, a jagged edge of the landscape revealed a sightthat stopped me in my tracks. It was a boulder torn in half, its face carved with strange fire-marked symbols. They shimmered faintly, like the last embers of a dying flame. The shapes were not of any language I knew. More like memories burned into the rock, etched by a hand that didn’t need tools.
I held my breath as I reached out.
The surface pulsed warm under my palm.
A flicker of light danced at my fingertips, a golden flame, delicate as lace. It curled and vanished. A frantic rhythm began, as if a blacksmith was suddenly at work within my chest, striking steel with eachpoundingbeat.
Then I noticed another stone nearby, smaller and weathered by time but unmistakably carved with the image of a fox. The lines were simple yet elegant; its eyes were formed from smooth insets of glinting amber. It sat as if waiting, its tail curled, its head tilted toward the canyon’s deeper reaches.
The divine messenger.
I crouched and traced the image with my fingers, awed with quiet wonder.
Had it been following me? Or was I following it? I didn’t know. But something about the way its image lingered here, carved into stone as old as the gods, made my pulse stutter. This was no mere coincidence; foxes never appeared twice without a purpose, especially not like this. I sensed movement behind me, familiar. The hair on the back of my neck didn’t rise, and something in my chest settled.
“Alaric?” I called softly over my shoulder.
He appeared moments later, arms crossed, gaze already on the stone. “You found it, too.”
“I’ve seen the fox before,” I whispered. “Near the glade. And now here.”
