The camp stirred, waking to the light. Cooks stoked fires in preparation of the morning meal. Blacksmiths heated forges to begin repairs of gear and weapons. By the feeding troughs, the horses stamped restlessly, ears flicking toward the hills. In the distance, the low and haunting sound of beast howls crested the surrounding hills, signaling the company could not afford much more delay before departure.
Zarrek was nowhere to be seen. He’d likely gone into the heart of Brackenrood to barter for supplies and privileges in Resh’s place. Much needed to be done. Prepared. Gathered. Judging by the state of the camp, they’dneed one more day to pack up the wagons and secure all essential gear for the journey.
Villagers arrived just after breakfast—locals bearing travel packs and worn cloaks, bundles of food, and a quiet reverence for the legendary Kelvasari who had saved them from the Shades and varkhounds. Zarrek must have made an impression. He was well versed in many languages and could leverage his fearsome reputation as the Resh’Agar’s Second to win over merchants and mercenaries alike.
A noise to his left. Footsteps.
“The morning weeps,” Auryn said, her voice softer than the murmur of the shifting grass. He turned, caught off guard—not just by the words, but by thewayshe spoke them. Like she’d been conversing with the clouds. And in the common tongue. Not in the strange lilting syllables she’d spoken yesterday.
“You speak our language?” he asked.
“Becauseyouknow the words, they now flow through me as well.”
Their eyes met, gazes locked. Different from the day before. No wariness lingered there. For him, only awe. And for her, only trust and a sparking curiosity.
"Yesterday, you used magic," he said. "You were afraid."
She thought on it for a moment. "You moved too fast for my eyes. I wanted you still." Her head tilted. "Did I frighten you? You do not seem like the sort of man easily frightened."
"Just…surprised," he said, more unsettled than he would have liked to admit. She’d snuck up behind him, the fur blanket wrapped around her shoulders—her feet still bare against the dew-drenched earth.
“You should stay inside,” he suggested, gesturing toward the villagers. “We’re going to trade with these people. I can barter for some shoes for you, if you’d like.”
He examined his coin purse. A few Lutes jingled within. A Plat or two. Not all cultures on the Surface used the same currency, and only developed regions like Maradryn bothered trading gold and silver tokens like those in his possession. The people of Brackenrood were some of the few that did both. Being a trading town, they liked to maintain that sort of flexibility.
When he next looked up, Auryn was halfway to the forges. He cursed and followed, worried her gleaming hair, bare feet, and reckless curiosity might stir the camp from its uneasy order. He tapped her shoulder when she reached for an abandoned tool kit on an anvil, giving her a nod of reassurance.
“This way,” he pointed. “I’ll show you the lay of the land.”
She smiled. “Withyou, I will remember.”
Her words slipped past his armor like a blade. He met her gaze, just for a moment, and the world quieted. It was the way she saidyou, like he was a place. A promise. A memory she hadn’t yet made but already missed. His pulse jumped, wild and hot.
“Then stay close to me,” he said, voice lower now. “There’s much to see.”
He guided her through every part of the camp, sparing no detail—using the time to double-check that everything was going to plan. The Reskala warriors looked at Auryn like she’d fallen from the sky. Not a far-fetched theory, considering. Especially when she paused beside a dying tree and pressed her palm against its bark as though in prayer.
After a few moments, she padded back to his side, her hair flowing and sighing as though it were a thing alive. He wished the traders would hurry in their morning preparations. He wanted to get her some shoes as soon as possible, worried she’d brush her foot against a firethistle or catch a thornroot fang between her toes.
His tension mounted as he neared the edge of camp. Still no sign of Zarrek. The man had never blatantly avoided Resh before.
Hopefully he’s drunk in a tavern and not off plotting a coup.Last thing we need is infighting before we set off for home.
Something tugged on his tunic, and Resh glanced down to see that Auryn had captured one of the stray ties of his armor in her hand. She was twirling it absently around her pinky, her touch featherlight, as she watched a large group of villagers approach from behind the closest inn. It was nothing. Innocent. But something about it sent heat crawling under his skin. He fought the urge to catch her hand in his. To see if she’d let him keep it.
Her body was relaxed, but her mouth carried an unfamiliar tension in its downward curve.
“It’s all right,” he assured her. “Those are the traders I told you about.”
“Their voices are big,” she observed. “And their hearts. But they are too bright.”
The corner of his mouth tipped up. "Don't try to freeze them with your magic."
The curve of her lips dipped downward. "They would not survive my magic," she said. "I used it on you because you are strong enough to bear its weight."
The villagers laughed and bantered as they strode into Resh’s outpost. No fear. No hesitation. As though among friends gathered in a lifetime.
Loud and brazen, the men traded jokes and slapped backs. The women giggled, casting flirtatious glances at the warriors. A few young boys rolled casks of bloodwine larger than their bodies towards the storehouse, playfully kicking each other in the shins as they went. All of them bore supplies—baskets of food, bundles of leather and fur, and the easy camaraderie of people who’d survived the hardships of the world together.
