Page 29 of The Last Rose of Ashwood

“Go.” A prince’s order—a brother’s final gift.

She had obeyed. The memory had never become easier.

A branch snapped beyond the clearing. Aelira’s eyes opened at once. Instinct replaced grief before the second sound came, her hand finding the blade at her side as silence settled between the trees. A deer, she decided after several moments. The bond between herself and the earth had frayed long ago, but every so often, the world remembered how to whisper. Tonight, it offered little. The stream continued flowing. The stars held their places. The horse tore at the grass with complete disregard for drama.

Aelira slowly lowered her hand from the blade. The pressure returned. Faint at first, then stronger, pulsing once through the soles of her feet before vanishing. Aelira stared into the flames. For the first time since receiving the letter, fear truly arrived. She feared not for herself—never for herself. She feared for everyone else, because if she was right, if the signs meant what she believed they meant, then the disappearances were not the disaster.

They were the opening note. A cold knot settled in her stomach, old and familiar, the same feeling she had known as a child beneath the Worldroot Tree while her father explained burdens meant for rulers alone.

For the first time in a decade, she wished she could ask his advice.

The earth had remembered her, that did not make her chosen—it made her responsible.

And responsibility, Aelira knew, was only another name for a debt that had finally come to be collected.

Chapter Seven: Seren Veyr

The road north had a way of making people talk. Perhaps it was the long hours in the saddle. Perhaps it was the uncertainty. Perhaps silence simply became harder to endure when everyone suspected something unpleasant waited beyond the next ridge and no one wanted to be the first to say so plainly.

Whatever the reason, Seren’s company had grown louder with each passing day, and rumors traveled with them like another pack animal no one remembered inviting. Every village carried a different version of the story.

In one town, the disappearances were blamed on witches. In another, ancient spirits. A farmer swore he had heard an army marching beneath the hills, drums beating so deep under the earth that his cows refused to cross the pasture for two days. A shepherd insisted the mountains were eating people. A drunken cooper claimed it was punishment for tearing down old imperial shrines, though he had lowered his voice when he exclaimed it, as if the very stones might hear him taking sides with the dead.

The details changed each time; the fear always remained.

Seren had stopped correcting anyone. Fear rarely listened to reason once it had already chosen a shape.

The winter sun hung low overhead as they followed an old trade road through rolling foothills and frost-browned fields. Dry grasses bent beneath the wind. Pines crowded the distant ridges, their dark lines rising toward mountains still veiled by cloud. Somewhere beyond those mountains waited answers. Or more questions. Seren considered both equally likely and neither particularly generous. The first vanished village had been left behind three days ago, but not truly. It had followed her. The lanterns. The cold tea. The wagon tracks ending in mud. The temple floor carved with symbols that behaved less like writing than roots. The words cut into stone with enough force to fracture it.

The heir must return.

The sentence had settled in her mind like an ember buried under ash. It did not burn constantly, but it remained hot enough to flare whenever silence gave it room. There was no Ashwood heir. The royal family had been extinguished ten years ago. She knew that was their reality.

Everyone has been told that was their reality.

Seren shifted in the saddle and tightened her grip on the reins. There was a difference between knowing and being told. She disliked that thought and so, naturally, it refused to leave.

Ahead, two younger scouts rode side by side, arguing in low voices about whether the creature allegedly seen near Durn’s Hollow had been a wolf, a bear, or old Garris after too much cider. One of them kept glancing back. Then again. Then a third time.

Seren released a breath.

Roran noticed immediately. Unfortunately, he made a habit of noticing when it was least helpful. “What?”

“He’s working up the courage," she spoke dryly.

“For what?”

“The question.”

Roran followed her gaze to the young scout, whose posture had taken on the tragic stiffness of someone preparing to speak to a legend rather than a person. Understanding dawned across Roran’s face, followed by an expression Seren did not trust at all.

“Oh,” he uttered. “This should be good.”

“No.” Seren scowled.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were preparing to enjoy yourself.”