He doesn’t take his eyes off me as he gives this command of discretion.
His words are deliberate, shaped carefully around a purpose they all pretend is purely tactical. But it’s not…I felt the shift in the air the moment they offered their preferred versions of me. The underlying tension in every sentence since then, that isn’t about duty, war, or strategy.
It’s about taking possession of me. The shiny unknown.
I nod slowly, unsure of what to say. Perhaps someone will report a missing loved one. Maybe I’ll get lucky and be returned to my home.
Sylvin clasps his hands behind his back, chin lifted with an amused tilt. “So, the real question, little echo…” His voice curls with velvet arrogance as his gaze sweeps over me, eyes alight with intrigue. “Which of us gets the honor of escorting you?”
“It’s Wren,” I sigh, blinking back at his expectant expression, not because I don’t have an answer, but because I don’t understand why they think Iowethem one. “Why do any of you assume I’d go with you at all?”
I may want allies, but I’ve yet to voice that to them, and their increasingly possessive assumptions don’t sit well with me.
My question catches them off guard. Even Sylvin’s smirk falters for a beat.
“I don’t know what I am,” I continue, my voice quiet but steadier now. “And neither do you. For all we know, Iamhuman. I saw how the others trembled–how they screamed, and shoved, and ran to escape you. I was kicked in the ribs in their rush to survive.”
Riven’s eyes drop to my side, to the place where the coat hides my injury. His fangs press against his lower lip, elongated and gleaming. Fury simmers behind his gaze.
My fingers tighten around the coat again, the fabric pulling taut between my fists as I glance at the ground surrounding us.
“Even now, we’re standing among the dead. The aftermath of your cause.”
Torryn’s jaw ticks, but he doesn’t speak. None of them do.
“You might not be monsters,” I murmur, “but you’re not saviors either.”
A pause follows.
Then Riven steps forward, his eyes raking over me–slow and full of hunger. “You’re not human. I can guarantee that by the scent of your blood. You have magic within you.”
I don’t shrink beneath his stare, but something unsettles in my stomach–a hollow twist of instinct that warns me that not all fascination is harmless.
“She doesn’t have to go with any of us,” Torryn says next, voice low and rough, as if each word is drawn from the very core of him. “But she shouldn’t be left here alone. Not without supplies. Not in this state.”
Sylvin hums, recovering his composure with a flick of his wrist. “And certainly not with either ofyou. Little echo, obviously you should come with me. I’m the most civilized of the lot, and if anything dangerous does happen, I’ll at least make sure your death is memorable and sung of in our stories.”
“I don’t have plans of dying,” I whisper, frowning faintly at his odd tangent.
Torryn’s eyes darken, golden irises sharpening like blades beneath his brow. “I really can’t leave you here alone. My instincts won’t allow me to, but I’m not sending you off with one of them if you’re not comfortable, either. You are welcome to come visit my pack for the night.”
“Because you’re the model of comfort in your weird dens,” Riven drawls, arms folding lazily across his chest as he leans ever-so-slightly closer. His gaze drips down the length of my frame, slow and deliberate. “She should come with me. I can offer her the most lavish accommodations. Soft beds. Silk. Everything she could ever need.”
The pressure coils in my chest again–dense,suffocating. It’s the same sensation I felt when they offered names.
I lift my gaze and find Azyric, still shadowed, still silent. He hasn’t reached for me. He hasn’t demanded.
It’s true that I can’t stay here alone, as much as I hate to admit to my codependency.
“If I have to go with someone,” I say quietly, “I’ll go with Azyric.”
The words cut clean through the argument. Three heads swing toward the shadow-cloaked figure who has shown he doesn’t want anything from me.
Azyric shifts at my announcement, straightening slightly and glancing back at me with a guarded expression I can’t decipher.
“I don’t think that’s wise,” Torryn says, glancing back with a frown etched onto his face. “He–”
“She’s made her choice,” Azyric cuts in, cold and calm, his eyes never leaving the trees beyond. “Let it stand.”
