I’m not sure Iria ever really wanted us to leave though. She didn’t cry when we left, that wasn’t her way. But I could tell it was hard for her to let Will go, knowing she might never see him again. She even looked a little sad to see me go. I hadn’t expected that. Maybe she’d gotten used to living with us. Maybe I had gotten used to living with her too. She packed everything a woman might need, everything I might need, into my bag and pressed enough gold into Will’s hand tobuy two horses and whatever else we might have needed on the road south.
I hadn’t ridden much before. A few awkward loops around the paddock at the neighbor’s stables when I was younger, nothing more. Just enough to stay upright. Not enough to feel steady. By the first hour, my thighs were screaming. Every jolt of the road shook loose something in my spine. My hands ached from how tight I clung to the reins, as if I was afraid the horse might throw me off, or maybe like I was afraid of where it was taking me.
Will never said anything when I fell behind. He just slowed his horse until we were side by side again. But at least we were moving. After nearly a month with Iria, we’d finally left. I didn’t know if I was ready, but I wasn’t sure I ever would be.
The wind had a bite to it now. Winter was coming. We had to beat the snow, or we’d be trapped. And I wasn’t sure I’d survive another season without a reason to keep going. We spent Iria’s coin at quiet inns and backroad taverns, but the beds were always the same. Lumpy straw, itchy wool, the faint stink of mildew clinging to the sheets. I never really slept.
By the eighth day, the cold barely touched me. It still bit at my knuckles, slipped through the seams of my clothes, but my body didn’t seem to care anymore. The sun was already sinking when the next village came into view. A scatter of rooftops tucked into the crook of the hills, slumping under too many winters. Reaching Alevé would take at least two more weeks. At least we had enough coin for an inn and a warm meal each night.
Will turned slightly in his saddle, watching me.
“You hungry?”
I shrugged. I wasn’t. And the fact that I wasn’t scared me more than I wanted to admit. It wasn’t just the pain anymore. It was the absence of everything else. Lately, I found myself bristling every timehe wanted to stop and eat. He did it so often. Too often. I just wanted to keep moving.
“A little,” I said, though it didn’t sound convincing.
By the time we got there, the last of the light was stretching long across the road, casting muddy streaks between the stones. The buildings were low and close together, dark silhouettes hunched against the cold.
The inn sat at the very edge of the village. Its thatched roof slumped in the middle, as if the weight of years had finally pressed it down. The windows glowed from the inside, flickering warm behind warped panes. And the scent of roast meat drifted out onto the road—thick and heavy, like it belonged to another life.
Will dismounted first and handed his reins to a stable boy. He turned toward me and reached out a hand. I didn’t take it. I slid down on my own, my legs were stiff, still trembling from the ride, but I managed to stay on my feet.
The moment we stepped inside, the heat hit me like a wall. So did the noise. Laughter too loud. Chairs scraping. Mugs hitting wood. Every sound was sharp and messy, crashing into me all at once. There were so many people. I kept my head down and followed Will through the room. He found a table tucked into a far corner, and I sat with my back to the wall. A woman came over. She looked tired, her apron stained with grease and her cheeks flushed from the heat.
“What’ll it be tonight?”
Will looked at me first, but I didn’t answer. I couldn’t think about food.
“Meal for two,” he said. “Whatever’s warm.”
She nodded and disappeared into the crowd.
“I’m gonna wash up. Be right back.” He said.
I probably should’ve gone too. I could feel the horse still clinging to my skin, the stench of being on the road, but I stayed where I was.
And I watched. It was mostly men.
They filled the room with their presence. Their coats. Their voices. Their boots. Of course it was men. They were the ones who left. Who traveled. Who chased war and work and whatever else called them. Women stayed behind. We raised children, kept a clean house and a warm hearth. That was just the way it was, and I’d never seen anything wrong with it.
The old me had dreamed of having a family of her own. A little house on the edge of town, a garden, maybe a dog. A man who loved her, and children to fill her life with joy.
Gods, I’d been so naive. So shielded, so unaware of pain and heartache. And fear. Too busy romanticizing the life that was sold to me. The life I thought I’d have.
Until the night Selma was taken.
Until I stood at the crossroads with my heart thudding like a fist against my ribs, and for the first time in my life, I didn’t want to go back.
Ididn’tleave. But I wanted to. And at that inn that night, all I wanted was to keep going. To leave Vestance behind. To see what lives beyond the hills and rivers and borders on the maps. Places where no one knows me. Where the past can’t follow.
I knew their names, those far-off cities. I knew how the ocean curled around the continent. But I didn’t know what the streets smelled like. Or what the wind felt like on my skin. What would it be like to live somewhere else? To be someone new?
I didn’t know. But I wanted to find out.
One of the men glanced at his pocket watch, his face tight with worry. Maybe someone was waiting for him. Another tossed back his ale in one heavy gulp and slammed the glass on the bar. His coat was torn, his beard unkempt, and he turned from the bar with slow, uneven steps, head bowed.
And then he looked up.
