The warmth of her pressed into me with every stride of the mare. The scent of her hair, the curve of her back against my chest—it was too much. I wanted her. Gods, I wanted her. But the last time I reached for something I wanted above all else, I damned my entire people. I could not afford that again. So I forced the hunger down, burying it beneath duty, beneath the weight of everything riding on her.
By midday, the fog had thickened, and the light had turned gauzy as we pushed deeper. Roots heaved from the ground like bones. Stones jutted from the earth, scarred with old markings. Keepers’ runes.
Santiago reined in beside me, eyes on one of the stones. “I’ve seen these before. Back home.”
“Someone’s still tending this land,” Lysara whispered. “No rot here.”
We slowed. The ridge curved ahead. Smoke threaded through the air, faint but steady. Too deliberate to be an accident. Eyes were on us, though none revealed themselves.
Aurelia dismounted. Her gaze sharpened on the ridgeline, breath held. “There,” she said evenly. “Someone’s watching.”
Santiago squinted. “I don’t see anyone.”
“They’re there,” she whispered. “Hiding in the canopy.”
Gabriel reached for his blade.
I followed her line of sight. Shadows and branches. Nothing clear—until a shimmer broke, too neat to be natural.
Then the whistle split the air. An arrow, fast, silent, perfect.
Time fractured. Shadows ripped from Aurelia. They coiled and stretched, catching the arrow mid-flight, cocooning it inches from Lysara’s face.
No one breathed.
The shadows snapped. The arrow splintered and fell.
I swung down and stepped forward slowly. “Aurelia?—”
But she didn’t turn. Shadows danced at her fingertips, trembling like things newly alive. Her eyes burned with rage, and something hungrier.
43
Aurelia
I could hear everything.
Not just birds and twigs, but deeper. The pitch of grief. Roots groaning under the earth. Old things turning in their sleep. Every breath scraped too close. Every heartbeat, mine and theirs, pounded behind my eyes.
I could see too much.
Moss glowed soft underfoot. Ridges and roots swelled like arteries. The trees rose, bark chewed by time. Light slivered down in narrow green slits.
Figures gathered at the edge of the clearing.
Four of them stood, holding to the cardinal points as if they’d always belonged there. They made a ring without stepping in. Leaves leaned toward them, shadows bowed.
They did not speak. They watched. And still, I heard it?—
Aurelia.
Not a call. Not a warning. A knowing. A name spoken into marrow. The voice wrapped around me.
You are not breaking. You are becoming.
My knees hit moss. My palms sank into its damp, pulsing give.
They will fear you, because they cannot bind what was born unclaimed.