Elohios, but it was home.
Deep longing twisted within, a sharp craving for the comforts of Reem. My palace. Routine. Structure I understood.
Ronan stood beside me, breath muffled as he tried to hide the toll the climb had taken.
The deer spooked and bolted, tails flaring white as they fled.
I squinted against the glare, picking out unnatural shapes in the distance: small homesteads too far to see clearly. A prayer slipped from my lips to Elohios that the families would steer clear of the bay, if only for today.
After giving Ronan time to secure his ridiculous pack stuffed with leathers, I started toward the main road leading to the city in the distance. I wanted to reach that worn stretch before anyone spotted us. While our claim of spending the night in the bay might fool strangers, natives would catch the lie and press for answers.
We made good time in silence, Ronan keeping pace. Sweat traced a slow path down my spine as the day’s heat settled in, urging me to shrug off my cloak. The mantle’s weight grew heavier with each step. I needed to see my people, to hear from their own mouths the state of my kingdom. Guilt gnawed atany scrap of hope, a reminder that this happened because I left, because I deceived Radaan concerning Nienna.
This was my penance.
Wellmoor rose from a sea of verdant land, an island of stone. Houses dotted the landscape, small farms stretching outward from its protection, the reason for building them so far beyond the walls, long forgotten.
My hood stayed pulled low, casting my features in shadow as we moved through the outlying villages at a brisk pace. Ronan left his face uncovered, taking in the surroundings with a guarded set to his posture that discouraged conversation.
Radaanians wouldn’t know him. They might not recognize me either—but I would not risk it.
A boy raced past us, buckets of milk swinging, cream sloshing onto the dirt.
“Slow down, Joab!” a woman called, her hands busy plucking herbs from the garden beside her house.
Soft humming reached my ears. I glanced back to spot a girl leading a docile goat along the road. She smiled, dipping her head for a better look at my face, but I turned away at once.
I was hiding frommypeople.
Shame burned up my throat, disgust rising thick and bitter.
No guards watched the entrance to the city gates, not this far west, and passing through proved as easy as expected. These walls stood against wolves and bears, nothing more. Here, war felt distant. Vellos remained a name carried on the wind, not a threat pressing at the door. The strain showed in the absence of men drafted away, but the women and children never faltered in the fields. It was one thing I allowed myself to take pride in. These hard-working folk would fight to keep their families from ever knowing the horror of battle.
Moments later, buildings pressed closer, the streets narrowing. Bottles rattled in a cart as a woman delivered milkdoor to door, her hair twisted into a careless knot, her dress clean despite the wear.
“Where are the men?” Ronan muttered, scanning the tightening lanes as we moved deeper into the city.
I blinked. The absence felt too familiar. “Dead.”
Women held this place together, running the shops and tending the homes. Wellmoor carried more male presence than most, sheltered by distance from the Craggs, but the war had still taken its due.
Tallon could never conjure the loyalty I earned during those years of fighting. He also bore none of the weight that came from watching so many lives bleed away.
A wooden sign creaked overhead, naming the weary establishmentThe Twisted Serpent. Not inviting, but I shifted course anyway, following a woman inside.
Ronan caught the door just behind me, close at my heels.
The main room opened wide, a roaring hearth dominating the space. A cook stood by the fire, stirring a pot. Sweet, grain-heavy steam filled the air. Porridge for the morning meal. A lanky boy lounged at a nearby table, tipping his chair back as we entered. He balanced on two legs, trying to peer beneath my hood. A dagger hung at his side, marking him as the guard of this fine establishment.
The woman we followed slowed near the hearth, keeping us in her periphery as she approached the cook. A basket of freshly cut herbs swung from her arm. They whispered together, eyes tracking me and Ronan as we took a small table along the far wall.
I tugged my hood lower, ignoring the flash of my signet ring turned inward. The Draconis prince pulled out the chair across from me, angling his body toward the entrance.
A younger woman, barely out of her teens, worked behind the bar, wiping down glasses with steady focus. We were the only patrons. She trusted the older women to keep watch.
Pride stirred, warm and welcome. The men might have been taken, but my people endured. They fed one another. Clothed their children. They survived. No fear haunted their faces, none of the hollow look born of persecution. Tallon’s malice had not reached this far, or his hold on Radaan remained too weak to matter.
“What can I get ye?” the cook asked, approaching and wiping her hands on the deep folds of her apron. Lines carved her face, the mark of years spent beneath an unforgiving sun.
