Page 70 of Aryn

Aryn crouches to look closer, running his fingertips over the fronds. “I know you have a hard time picturing it, but the Elyra I remember was full of color. Back then, these were almost invasive. They’d grow in places no plant should. They’d pop up in the cracks of village walls and on slate rooftops. Hells, they’d take up residence in a windowsill after a single afternoon if you didn’t catch the seedlings.”

“Think it’ll be like that again?” I ask. “If we can actually do this?”

“Having doubts?”

I shrug, glancing at where the others have walked ahead of us, then speak low enough that only he can hear me. “Every mission I go into, I try to be realistic, you know? Obviously, I aim for success, but there’s always a contingency plan if something goes wrong. I make sure I can get out, and here…”

“There’s no getting out,” he says with a grim nod. “Sovran had enough faith in his sight to put us on this path. I have to trust his reasons for sending us.”

“He sent you,” I remind him. “You and Ronan were the chosen ones. I was just bored.”

He chuckles softly. “Still, the Fates are never so direct with their intentions.”

“Your people worshipped them, right?”

He nods slowly. “Worshipped is a strong word, but I suppose it fits. We viewed them as our deities, though we never expected anything from them. Others pray to the Fates or the Old Gods, asking them for help or blessings. I like to think we weren’t so selfish.”

“If you weren’t asking for things, what were you doing?”

“Seeking guidance. Showing them we didn’t take for granted the gift they’d given our people.”

I hum, though there’s a healthy dose of skepticism in it. “I’d argue the Fates didn’t do shit for your people. If you give them credit for what Kuu did, doesn’t that take away from her accomplishments?”

“I can see how you might think that,” he says as he tilts his head back and forth. “In the writings she left behind, Kuu credited the Fates for giving her the strength to follow through with her plans. Who am I to deny her that?” I grunt, not wanting to burst his bubble by arguing further. He only chuckles at the sound. “I take it you don’t believe in a higher power?”

“Hard to say I don’t when I’ve seen it with my own eyes,” I say with a shrug. “Being a higher power means jack shit if you aren’t using your power for good, though. Living on some superior plane and watching two worlds destroy each other doesn’t seem very godly to me.”

He gets quiet, and I kick myself internally for not just keeping my mouth shut. I reach over and nudge his pinky with mine, the contact like fire even through our layers. He glances over at me in surprise.

“I didn’t mean to insult your beliefs or anything.”

He takes my hand and gives it a squeeze before releasing it. “No, I know. It’s something I’ve thought about a lot over the years. Once I was taken by Zadeus’s people, I struggled with the same concept.”

“Why you?” I ask quietly.

He glances at me with a sad smile. “Yes. Why such a bad thing would happen to a good person. I’m not perfect, not by any means, but I live my life in such a way that doesn’t bring harm to others.”

“It never seemed fair,” I agree.

We’re talking about two different events—two circumstances in life that happened a century apart—but they connect us in a way few others can understand.

Things grow silent between us again, both of us lost in memories, when Ronan holds a hand up. We go on alert, turning to scout behind us, but find nothing of concern.

We face forward to find what’s stolen Ronan’s attention. A large tree just off the path has been hacked up. Deep, angry gashes are carved into the trunk, forming some kind of jagged symbol. Below it, smears of what appears to be old blood stain the bark and exposed roots. Everyone falls silent, but there’s nothing to hear besides the wind. Ronan and Lillith search around the tree, but aside from the carvings, there’s nothing out of place.

We continue, guard up.

A little further down the trail, we find a campsite with obvious signs of a struggle. Thick hide tents are bloodstained and slashed, and even with the fresh snow on top, there are gouges in the ground that look suspiciously like bodies being dragged away. A piece of a tent has been nailed to the tree as a crude banner.

I trace the symbol painted on it, an outline of a hand crushing a crown. “I’m going to take a wild guess and say this is the group they were telling us about.”

Ronan nods, gesturing toward some characters painted above the crown. “The Viskari.”

My stomach tightens. “How recent do you think this was?” I ask.

Aryn steps closer to examine the banner. “Within the last few days,” he murmurs as he inspects the symbols.

Ronan’s hand flexes around his hilt as he glances around at the group. “Thulga said they scout the roads. It might be a good idea for us to travel off the path.”