“You see the consequence,” he replied. “Not the cost.”
“You sent them to my home,” I said incredulously. “Do not speak to me of cost as though you are untouched by it.”
“I did,” he answered without hesitation.
There was no excuse in his tone. No apology either.
“I do not abandon my duties,” he said. “Even when I would prefer to.”
I stepped back, instinctively, though he matched the movement with a step of his own.
He lifted his hand slowly, as though allowing me time to object. His fingers hovered inches from my cheek but he did not touch me.
“Return home,” he said at last, and the edge in his voice had roughened. “You are too near your solstice to stand this close to a Veythar without consequence.”
“You would prefer to see me fail,” I accused, though the words lacked certainty. “To watch me cataloged and sealed away.”
“That is not true.”
I turned my nose up. “The Thrynn Chambers will never see me.”
Appreciation flared in the depths of his ocean eyes. “I hope they do not.”
Heat stirred low in my stomach—unwelcome and wholly ill-timed.
I turned before it could root itself more firmly, descending the cracked steps of the shrine.
I did not look back, though awareness of him lingered like the press of unseen heat between my shoulder blades.
3
CHAPTER THREE
My encounter with Talon at the Shrine yesterday had only unsettled me further.
Safety, for the unbound, was simply another word for surrender. It meant bending to the law, silencing instinct, or binding oneself in haste to avoid scrutiny.
None of those paths felt survivable.
The scent of fresh bread and simmering spiced apples drifted from the kitchen, as my parents spoke in lowered voices over the table. Their conversation was circling endlessly around remedies, introductions and distant acquaintances who might know a suitable match.
I tuned them out, because nothing they could do or say will have me turn against my beliefs. Against the life I wanted for myself.
I still had time.
By midday, the air had grown strangely heavy for late autumn, thick and unmoving beneath a pale sky. As the season turned, foraging the higher peaks became a gamble; the air grew thin and the frost more aggressive. I had a moon cycle, perhaps two, before the cold claimed the harvest entirely.
Today was one of my final chances to gather enough berries and moss to keep food on our table. While Lyra was a scholar, content within the quiet walls of our teaching house, I had always preferred to get my hands dirty. It was a choice my parents never understood, let alone agreed with—but in the biting mountain air, I felt more like myself than I ever did in the city.
“I am heading to the South Ridge,” I said as I secured the straps of my leather foraging pack.
My father’s head lifted sharply from the notices spread before him.
“The South Ridge?” His voice tightened. “That is too close to Blackthorn Pass. Patrols sweep that area without pause.”
“It is where the high-country moss grows best,” I stated. “The lower slopes are too damp this season. We will need it for winter.”
Lyra stepped forward, concern etched across her face. “Let Theron accompany you.”