“He wouldn’t believe you’re real,” Aoife went on. “Not even if you stepped on his foot. He’d call it superstition, or a trick of the light.” She swallowed. “He thinks we make you up.”
The Athraith lowered its head, nudging gently at her shoulder. Aoife leaned against it. She let out a slow breath.
“Why don’t you do anything?” she asked, her voice cracking. “Are they… are you… are you just watching?”
The Athraith gazed at her with those impossible eyes. No answer came.
Aoife let her head fall back. “Why don’t they see you? The Eldrossi. It’s like they walk around blind.”
A soft whicker rumbled in the Athraith’s throat. Comforting or sad, she couldn’t tell.
She sighed, long and tired. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. I don’t know how to stop any of this.”
The Athraith said nothing. It simply nudged her again, a gentle push almost like an embrace.
Aoife closed her eyes.
They sat like that for a long time. She couldn’t help thinking about Cormac. What would he say if he could see her now?
Minutes passed, then hours. The day slid by.
She didn’t think about the visitors or the lessons or the cutlery or the perfect Eldrossi vowels.
She sat, leaning into the creature’s warm flank, letting the steady rhythm of its breathing anchor her.
The sun drifted across the sky; shadows changing shape around them. The Athraith stayed, patient as an old tree, and the world beyond the hawthorn slipped away entirely.
And for the first time in days, her heart eased a little.
A shiver ran through her. Aoife rubbed her arms for warmth; her skin was cold to the touch. The sky had dipped into bruised grey, storm clouds building over the distant hills. It was time to go. The Athraith rose first, shaking droplets of light from its mane, and slipped between the trees as silently as it had come.
Aoife stood, brushing the grass from her skirts, and walked toward the house. She’d have to sneak up to her room and hide there until Clara could help her change. There was no way Halverton could see her with mud under her nails and grass stains on her skirts. A lady did not play in the dirt; of that she was sure.
She cut through the ornamental gardens, passing between clipped hedges and stone urns. Halfway along the path, she froze.
Voices. Low and tense, beyond the hedge.
“…didn’t sign up to shove starving widows around,” one man muttered. His voice was young, cracking slightly with anger he was trying to swallow.
A second hissed back, older and sharper. “Keep your voice down. Lord Halverton doesn’t tolerate dissent. And the Commander’s worse. He’ll skin you alive if he hears you talking like that.”
A third exhaled, weary. “Aye, well… it needs saying. This isn’t soldiering. This is—”
Footsteps. A rustle. Then three soldiers rounded the corner and stopped dead when they saw her.
Aoife lifted her chin. “I don’t bear tales,” she said quickly. Hoping it would be enough to reassure them.
Silence fell heavy.
The youngest soldier, whose nose looked like it had been broken several times over, looked away first. His rifle strap slid down his shoulder, and he jerked it back up. His uncertainty was written in every line of him.
The tallest stepped forward. Broad-shouldered, hair tied with a strip of leather. Aoife recognised him, the soldier who had stepped between Cormac and the butt of a rifle. His eyes softened in faint recognition.
“Forgive us, miss. We were…” he trailed off.
“Enjoying the gardens?”
He smiled. “Yes, miss.”
