Page 104 of The Last Rose of Ashwood

“Which proves my point,” she said.

Elira looked toward the sealed recess. “We should not leave it unattended.”

Seren took the second watch because she trusted exhaustion less than she trusted the dark. The standing circle lay half-buried beneath snow, its old stones rising from the hillside like the knuckles of something dead but unwilling to stay under the earth. Below them, the stair into the chamber had been marked with three strips of torn cloth, two carved arrows, and enough warning signs to insult the intelligence of anyone who ignored them. Mara slept near the horses with one hand curled around the knife beneath her cloak. Coren had fallen asleep almost before his blanket touched his shoulders, his young face slack with the brutal innocence of someone whose body had finally overruled his terror.

Elira did not sleep. Seren knew because she had counted the woman’s breathing from across the small fire for nearly an hour and found it too controlled to belong to dreams.

That irritated her more. Everything about Elira irritated her most when it almost made sense. The stillness. The careful distance. The way she watched the old stones as though they were not ruins but witnesses. The way the chamber below had answered her. Seren was not ready to give the suspicion that much shape. The old place had known something of her, had leaned toward her, had tested her name and found it wanting.

Elira was not the full truth of the woman sitting across the fire. Seren had known that for days. The problem was that knowing someone was lying and knowing which truth they had buried were two vastly different wars.

Snow moved softly through the dark, whitening the edges of Elira’s cloak and silvering the loose strands of her hair. Firelight made her look less human than usual, which was impressive, considering she rarely looked as if humanity had been consulted in her design. Her face remained turned toward the northern slope, where the forest thickened and the old road vanished beneath black pines.

“You are staring again,” Elira said.

Seren did not look away. “You say that as if you are not doing something worth staring at.”

“I am sitting.”

“You are waiting.”

Elira’s mouth curved faintly, though the expression did not quite reach her eyes. “For what?”

“That is what I am trying to decide.”

The almost-smile vanished.

Seren rose from her place near the fire and walked toward the edge of the standing circle, her boots crunching over the thin crust of ice that had formed across the snow. The cold had settled into her side where the earlier descent had pulled at half-healed bruising, a steady ache beneath her ribs that sharpened with each step. She ignored it. Pain, at least, was honest. It stated its intentions plainly and repeated itself until one either listened or grew used to the argument.

Behind her, Elira persisted. Seren heard the shift of fabric, the soft press of boots over frozen ground, the absence of hesitation. Elira followed her too quickly for someone who claimed only to be sitting, and Seren had just enough time to decide that was interesting before she stepped beyond the last stone.

The world dropped out from under her.

It happened too quickly for dignity. Frozen ground vanished beneath her boots as the snow collapsed inward with a wet, tearing sound, and Seren plunged through a hidden crust of ice into the black space below. Her hand struck stone hard enough to send fire up her arm. Her shoulder slammed against packed earth.

The breath tore from her body in one brutal burst, leaving only shock, cold, and the violent instinct to hold on. For half a heartbeat, the world went dark. Then she realized she was hanging. Her left hand had caught a root jutting from the collapsed edge, its bark slick with ice beneath her fingers. Below her boots, darkness opened into a narrow fissure she had not seen from above, a split in the hillside concealed by snow, dead leaves, and the kind of old magic that preferred its traps patient. Cold air breathed up from the gap, damp and ancient, carrying the familiar scent of rootway stone.

Seren tightened her grip and looked down. “Of course,” she muttered, because apparently the ground had opinions now.

The root in her hand shifted. It tightened around her wrist. Seren went very still. Above her, snow scattered over the edge. Elira’s face appeared against the dark, pale, and sharp and suddenly stripped of every ornamental expression.

“Do not move,” Elira said.

Seren looked down into the fissure. Something far below glimmered green. “I had not planned to begin dancing.”

“Seren.” Her name in Elira’s mouth sounded different without sarcasm wrapped around it. Too bare. Too immediate. Seren hated noticing it.

The root around her wrist tightened again, not enough to break skin, but enough to hold. Another pale tendril slid from the wall and brushed against her boot. Seren’s free hand went for the dagger at her belt, but the motion loosened the ground under her ribs. Snow and earth crumbled. Her weight dropped another inch.

Elira inhaled sharply. That, more than the fall, frightened Seren.

“Elira,” Seren said slowly, “if you know something useful, this would be an excellent time to abandon your commitment to being insufferable.”

Elira’s eyes flicked from the root to Seren’s face. There it was—a choice. Seren saw it with the same awful clarity she had seen battle lines break. Elira could leave her dangling, and it would be easy.

One step back.

One shout delayed by a handful of breaths.