“You’re wrong, though.” She leaned her shoulder against his. “You’re all of those things, true. But you’re also a skilled healer. You’re intelligent and determined. You seek power not for your own gain but to protect others. And you’re good with cats.”
“I do like cats,” he admitted. And then, far more quietly, “And you, too.”
As Branwen’s fingers wove through his, she knew the truth of it.
She did not love him. Not yet. But she could.
She could love him for his wit, for his dry humor, for the way he spoiled Palug, and how he never gave up on those who mattered to him.
“I don’t know what’s going to happen,” she said. “But for now…”
“For now…?” His gaze flicked down to her mouth and then back to her eyes.
And before she lost her nerve, she kissed him.
The kiss burned through her like a hot wine. His mouth yielded to hers, an answer to a question she did not speak aloud. His left hand came up, thumb sliding along the old scar at her cheekbone. She indulged herself and ran her hand through his unruly dark hair. It was soft, curling gently around her fingers. He shivered beneath her touch.
This was unwise, she knew. They lived in wholly different worlds. But for tonight, they were simply together. There were no politicalmachinations, no monsters to be fought, no rings to be found. There was simply the warmth of him, the unsteady rhythm of her breath, and the knowledge that in this moment, she was enough. She was wanted—and so was he.
He pulled back first. She kissed the corner of his mouth, then his cheek, then the corner of his eye. She might have kept going, but she knew they were both exhausted. And this was enough. Truly, it was more than enough. “Branwen,” he whispered. “I—”
“Not now,” she said. This moment was perfect. She did not want to mar it with talk. “Tonight, we rest,” she said. “Tomorrow, we win the Wild Hunt.”
CHAPTER 32
THREE HUNTERS SLIPPED through the morning mists.
They awoke before dawn, ate a hurried meal of stale cheese and old crusts, and left the ash tree behind. Branwen’s right side throbbed faintly, but Gwydion packed the wound with herbs and bound it securely. The injury would need time to heal, but for now, she was ready to move.
For there was one last hunt.
She had to find her brooch and Gwydion’s ring. Pryderi’s would be simple to retrieve, at least. Palug trotted alongside them, tail held high and ring dancing on his makeshift collar.
“How are we going to find two specific animals in all of this?” asked Pryderi, gesturing at the forest. It was a fair question.
“We’re heading back in the direction where we first began the Hunt,” replied Branwen. “From there… hopefully we’ll pick up a trail for the roe deer. Deer tend to keep to the same trails, the sameplaces to graze. They’re creatures of habit. The lapwing might prove more troublesome.”
“Trust me,” said Gwydion. “I’ll find them.”
They walked for the better part of the morning, diverting when they saw evidence of a recent camp. The ashes were still smoking, and Branwen saw the places where two people had slept.
There were still other hunters. They needed to be wary.
Pryderi carried the small pouch of rings. Branwen found herself glancing at it, just to be sure it was still there. That small bag held all her hopes for the future—and part of her wanted to snatch it and shove it into a pocket so she could be sure it would never be stolen. But Pryderi was unhurt and the most intimidating of their little group. Any hunter would hesitate before challenging him.
They followed Branwen’s memory and Gwydion’s magical senses. She retraced their steps back to where they had hunted that first night. It felt like ages ago.
She did not know how she would find her lapwing again. It was a single bird in a mountain forest. It might not even have remained in the woods; lapwings preferred open fields. Or would the magic of the Hunt keep every animal contained? She did not know. Her only comfort was that she knew no one had found her brooch. Her oaken ring remained on her finger, the magic sleeping within.
She found the deer trail first. There were a few broken ferns, a trampled bit of moss. This was where the herd had fled from them, where Gwydion had captured the buck with divining and brambles.
“Hold on,” Gwydion murmured. He pulled off his boots, settling his bare feet on the earth. Branwen winced, but he did not seem to mind the cold nor the prickle of plants. Gwydion knelt, runninghis left hand through the dead grasses. Then he closed his eyes and sang a proper tune.
It was a beautiful melody. Tendrils of gold slipped through the earth. It was a gentle pulse of power, a searching. Those golden flickers danced through tree roots, glittered along the canopy, and vanished from sight. Gwydion kept quietly singing, and the trees creaked in answer. Leaves rustled and shifted.
Gwydion was using his power to search for their animals, Branwen realized. He was speaking with the forest in a way that no one else could. Gwydion’s head tilted, listening.
Those flickers of gold ran through the ground again—but this time, they returned to him. They flashed along branch and leaf, darting like lightning toward Gwydion. He blinked his eyes open.
