Curse of the Dragon King

THE FLAMESWORN SAGA™

BOOK ONE

LYN SOUTH

MICHAEL ANDERLE

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Copyright © 2025 River Tatum

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Published by Florid Romance

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Las Vegas, Nevada 89119 USA

Version 1.00, June 2025

eBook ISBN: 979-8-89354-533-3

Print ISBN: 979-8-88878-863-9

Chapter

One

Maisie and Sela Fairborne sat in a tree a hundred or so yards from Greyfen Lake. The tree was ancient, gnarled, its trunk so wide it would take twenty grown men hand-in-hand to encircle it. Moss carpeted its bark on its North-facing side in velvety green layers, and the tree’s twisted roots snaked across the forest floor like petrified serpents. Its limbs stretched out in every direction, not straight like the trees of younger woods, but crooked and curling, forming basket branches that provided the sisters a natural perch.

The air around them smelled of damp earth and old magic, the kind that clung to places forgotten by time. The wood grove on the outskirts of Tissington wasn't just a cluster of trees—it was a brooding entity, steeped in mystery and the kind of ancient memory that sent shivers down your spine. The village itself, a patchwork of hardscrabble dwellings and the tenacious souls who called them home, lay nestled amidst patchy farmland

Maisie’s back pressed against the mossy bark, her eyes scanning the still, silver surface of the water below. Beside her, Sela sat still, her shoulders hunched, as she watched the clearing with a hunter’s focus.

They’d been in the trees since dawn, perched high above the lake. The mayor of Tissington had summoned them in a panic several days before. His letter stank of desperation as he wrote of the monstrous Bonecrushers that rose out the water to slaughter their livestock and attack any villager who fished the waters of lake.

A ripple in the trees opposite the lake made Sela tense. Two creatures stalked into view, hulking and gray-skinned, walking upright like men. Bonecrushers were hulking brutes, their reptilian features as unmistakable as the primal hunger burning in their eyes. Their gray skin seemed to shift and shimmer, blending with the surroundings as if they were part of the landscape itself. They moved with a deadly grace, yet their elongated limbs and those jaws—oh, those jaws—revealed the truth of their nature. Their faces were a chilling mosaic of scales and razor-sharp teeth, the very embodiment of a predator on the hunt.

Maisie held her breath. The Bonecrushers paused at the water’s edge. One let out a low, guttural hiss, and then both dropped to all fours and slithered into the water. Sela’s eyes met Maisie’s, a flicker of shared purpose passing between them. Now.

The sisters climbed down from the tree, and their daggers, twelve-inch, narrow blades that could pierce thick monster hides or plate armor with equal efficiency, were drawn the moment their boots hit dirt.

The sisters crouched by the water's edge, eyes locked on the spot where the Bonecrushers had slipped beneath the surface.

"We can't fight them in there," Sela murmured, scanning the shoreline. "We need them on land."

Sela and Maisie huddled on the shoreline, quietly discussing their options. They considered several strategies—using a decoy, creating a scent trail, or even one of them serving as bait—but ultimately decided on a more cautious approach. They would throw stones into the water to create splashes and ripples, mimicking the movements of larger prey. At the same time, Maisie would use a polished metal mirror to catch the sunlight, casting bright flashes across the water's surface to resemble the glint of fish scales. This combination of sound and light would draw the Bonecrushers out of their aquatic lair, enticing them into the open where the sisters would have the advantage.

She drew a slow, trembling breath. She hated this part of the job, the wait before a monster attacked, the stiff tension that squeezed her chest. But Sela needed her calm. So Maisie pressed her lips together and tried to focus. Her heart hammered against her ribcage.

Something sinister about the dark water’s movement caught Maisie's attention. She flicked a glance at her sister. Sela's shoulders tensed, the lines of her body going taut. Maisie could smell the adrenaline rolling off Sela in waves, it was the honed readiness of a seasoned hunter. Sela had always been the steadier of the two, quick to act and deadly precise. Sometimes, though, Maisie spotted that flicker of pain in Sela's eyes, proof of the lingering heartbreak she rarely voiced. She held her daggers in a white-knuckled grip. A single stride carried her closer to the water lapping the shore.

Long reeds bobbed around them. The quiet that enveloped them pressed in so thick that every ripple sounded magnified. Maisie forced herself to exhale softly. Her mind conjured images of crisp bread, a warm house, and her father's gentle scolding for heading into danger at such an early hour. Concentrate, she told herself. She could daydream about home after they survived.

The lake beside Sela exploded into a torrent of frothing water, cascading in a shimmering arc as the first Bonecrusher surged up from the depths. Its massive, scaled form loomed ominously, jaws snapping with a sickening crunch that reverberated through the air. The hulking brute’s eyes blazed with primal hunger as it lunged, claws lashing out to snare her in its grip. Sela staggered back, instincts kicking in as she raised her dagger, struggling to deflect the beast's relentless assault. Its sheer strength was overwhelming, dragging her inexorably closer to the water's edge.

The monster struck first—fast, too fast for something that size—its jaws snapping inches from Sela’s shoulder. She barely had time to jerk back. Before it could lunge again, Maisie darted in from the side, her dagger gleaming in the pale light as she slashed a deep gash across its broad snout. The Bonecrusher reared up with a roar that made the surface of the lake tremble.

Sela didn’t hesitate. While the beast was distracted, she slipped behind it and drove her blade into the thick meat of its side. It let out a guttural scream, staggered—but didn’t fall. Not yet.

It whipped its massive head around, eyes wild, and dropped to all fours. Its thick tail lashed in a wide arc, a blur of movement too fast to track. Maisie jumped back just in time, but Sela took the hit square in the ribs. The force of it lifted her off her feet and sent her skidding into the water with a loud splash.

"Sela!" Maisie shouted, her voice raw with panic. But she didn’t freeze. She planted her feet, braced against the soft lakebed, and launched herself at the monster.

The Bonecrusher turned on her, now wounded and furious. Blood streaked its flank, and foam flecked the corners of its wide jaws. It charged, mouth open wide, fangs glinting.

Maisie ducked, the beast's bite missing her arm by a breath. She didn’t back off. Instead, she stepped in, fast and close, driving her blade into the softer scales along its underbelly. Hot, dark blood spilled across her hands and into the lake.

The Bonecrusher bellowed, twisting away, but Maisie was already moving, circling to its blind side. Her dagger flashed as she aimed high for the neck. She drove the blade deep and held on, even as the beast reared back, thrashing in wild agony. It bucked, water churning around its legs.

Sela staggered back to her feet, soaked and coughing, but alive. She saw her sister hanging onto the monster and sprinted forward. With a sharp cry, she vaulted onto the Bonecrusher’s back, straddling it like a wild horse. She braced herself with her knees, found her balance, and struck hard—once, twice, three times—each hit aimed for the thick cords of muscle at its neck and shoulder.

The Bonecrusher’s movements grew erratic. Roars turned to ragged gurgles. But before it could collapse, the lake erupted again—this time behind them.

A second Bonecrusher burst from the shallows with a screech, its body glistening, eyes wild. It had waited, stalking from beneath the surface, and now, seeing its companion wounded, it surged forward. It hit the shoreline like a boulder, jaws wide and fixed on Maisie.

Sela screamed her name, but the warning came too late. The creature was already there.

Maisie twisted, yanking her dagger free and diving clear just as the new beast’s jaws clamped down on empty air. She hit the water hard, rolled, and came up sputtering, blade still in hand. The wounded Bonecrusher gave one last, shuddering breath and collapsed under its own weight. Its body sank slowly, dragging a blood and foam with it.

Maisie yanked her dagger free, rolled off the wounded beast, and stumbled into the shallows. The first Bonecrusher collapsed behind her just as the second erupted from the reeds.

Sela!" Maisie shouted.

They had no choice but to fight fully immersed in the water. Retreating now would leave the bastard room to escape, and they'd likely return to feast on more animals or even Tissington's children. Maisie couldn't bear to imagine that.

"Stay alive," Sela replied, voice betraying only a trace of tension. Then her sister sprang into motion. She surged toward the Bonecrusher. Her movements, usually graceful on land, became a series of deliberate, forceful thrusts through the swirling lake. In a flash, she was upon the beast, stabbing at the most vulnerable spots of its underbelly. It unleashed a roar that rattled Maisie's bones.

The second beast swung its head, maw opening wide in a show of fangs. Putrid breath slapped Maisie, and she gagged at the rancid stink. The creature sprang toward her with shocking speed. She gasped, lifting her blade. Scaled shoulders rammed into her chest, driving the air from her lungs. She stumbled backward, water flooding over her chin, sword nearly slipping from her hand.

Claws raked the surface with a wet scrape. Pain bit into her forearm as she raised it in defense. Her leather bracer took the brunt, but she still felt her flesh burn. Panic seized her for a heartbeat, memories of old hunts flashing through her mind. Don't let it pin you, she ordered herself. If the Bonecrusher dragged her under, there would be no second chances.

She twisted aside, ignoring the sting of the cut. The beast's jaws snapped inches from her face, eyes wild with hunger or rage. Its breath nearly made her vomit. Summoning adrenaline she didn't know she had, Maisie stabbed at the creature's throat. Her blade skittered harmlessly across thick scales. A strangled curse escaped her. How was she supposed to pierce that hide?

Off to her right, Sela unleashed a savage cry. The water churned under the older sister's onslaught. Maisie risked a glance. Sela's sword flashed in an arc, connecting with the first Bonecrusher's neck. The creature's pained roar split the dawn air. Blood, dark and viscous, spilled across the lake's surface. Sela pressed in, eyes alight with ferocity. The memory of heartbreak had etched permanent shadows into her sister, and Maisie watched that pain transform into unstoppable will.

The second Bonecrusher reeled forward again. Its momentum caught Maisie off guard, and she slipped, losing her footing in the mud. Panic fluttered as she struggled to keep her head above water. The beast lunged, jaws parted wide, and she hardly had time to react. She angled her sword, hoping to push it away. The beast bellowed and knocked her fully beneath the surface.

For a disorienting second, Maisie was underwater, deafened by the rush of liquid and the heavy thud of her own heartbeat. Wet hair tangled around her face. Fear pounded like a drum in her chest as she flailed. She refused to let the creature pull her under. Her lungs ached for air, and her mind screamed to find a foothold. She kicked hard, bursting upward with a desperate gasp.

The Bonecrusher snarled, but an instant later, the water around her boiled with movement. Sela appeared, face drawn tight, sword swinging down. She sank the blade deep into the creature's flank. The Bonecrusher whipped its tail, rattling both sisters with a powerful splash, and it nearly pinned Maisie underwater.

Maisie scrambled aside, breathing hard, her arms heavy as though weighted by stones.

"Get clear!" Sela growled.

Maisie saw Sela's strike had wounded it severely; ugly blackish blood seeped into the water. Yet it still thrashed, dangerously alive. Maisie's ankle burned from another grazing claw, but she had no time to examine it.

Bracing herself, Maisie lunged. She aimed her sword at the beast's exposed throat, just under the jaw. With a surge, she stabbed down. This time the blade slid through the hide, unleashing a monstrous roar from the Bonecrusher. The sound vibrated through her arms. Her boots slipped again, but Sela pushed forward, adding her own blow near the base of the spine. Finally, the creature sagged, half sinking.

"Finish it," Sela commanded. A note of iron underlined her voice, as though she couldn't bear the thought of leaving it alive. If they didn't end it now, it might rise again or lash out in a final frenzy. Sweat and water stung Maisie's eyes, but she lifted her sword, trying not to dwell on the gore. It took three strikes to decapitate the thing.

She gasped for breath as the bone parted, warm blood rolling along her wrist. Despite the nauseating churn in her stomach, she forced herself to keep going until the beast went limp. Her heart pounded, hammering with the ferocity of a war drum. She sucked in air, the stink of death filling her nostrils.

The Bonecrusher slumped, lifeless, floating in the water. Maisie's shoulders sagged. She realized she was trembling. Across from her, Sela glanced back at the first dead creature. It lay decapitated some yards away, half-submerged. Sela's eyes glittered, but her chest rose and fell with ragged breaths.

"You all right?" Sela asked, voice edged with that protective worry.

Maisie swallowed, trying to steady her racing pulse. "I'm—I'm fine." Her forearm throbbed, and she suspected a bruise would bloom across her ribs by evening. But she was alive. They both were.

Sela's gaze hardened, a flicker of old panic swirling behind her dark eyes. She didn't speak for a moment, letting her tension drain. Maisie realized her sister was scanning for any last sign of movement. Finally, Sela nodded, satisfaction mingling with grim relief.

They moved in tandem, checking the beasts to confirm they weren't about to jerk up awake while at death's door. No one wanted a last-second thrash. Sela pulled out two coarse burlap sacks, the ones they had brought specifically to carry proof of the kills. Hauling monstrous heads never lost its grotesque novelty, but it was part of the trade. The mayor would want to see undeniable evidence that the Bonecrushers wouldn't menace his livestock anymore.

"Watch yourself," Sela said tersely as she crouched by one severed neck. The water around her grew cloudier with each passing moment. Carefully, she maneuvered the rope drawstring around the dripping head.

Maisie wiped sweat and blood off her brow, ignoring the sticky film that clung to her skin. Her arms shook from exertion. She forced herself to focus on the grim task: bagging the second hideous skull. The bones around its jaws gleamed in the growing light, and she had to swallow back bile at the thought of these teeth ripping into anyone—human or otherwise.

Tying her sack tight, she stood on unsteady legs. Dawn had fully broken now, painting the lake in pinkish gold. The horror of the fight contrasted sharply with the peaceful color of morning. She tasted salt and iron on her lips, her side aching from the force of earlier blows. Yet, a small elation stirred within her. They had done it. Tissington's people would be safe from at least these monstrous predators.

Sela stepped closer, burdened with the lumpy sack that held the first Bonecrusher's head. "Next time, move," she said, her tone sharpening with frustration. "You nearly got pinned under that thing."

Before Maisie could answer, Sela's expression softened ever so slightly. "I just—I can't lose you," Sela murmured in a voice frayed by lingering memories. Maisie knew well the tragedy that haunted her sister. Even after these years, it lived in every slash of her sword.

"I'm sorry," Maisie whispered, adjusting the heavy weight in her arms. She tested the rope, ensuring the monstrous head wouldn't slip out. "I was just trying to keep it in sight."

They trudged through the shallows, water sloshing around their waists, then hips, then ankles. With a tired grunt, Sela dragged the thick, dripping burlap sack up onto the muddy shore. Maisie followed, noticing at last the morning birds singing in the distance. The contrast felt surreal. Mere moments ago, she'd been fighting for her life in a gloom of savage roars and thrashing limbs. Now she heard the gentle calls of larks and the soft rustle of reeds in the breeze.

Maisie set her sack down, leaning on her knees to catch her breath. Her body shivered from the lingering chill of the lake, but she took heart in the pale sun's warmth on her back. Flicking her gaze to Sela, she tried for a wry smile. "Well, that was…something," she said, voice still shaky with leftover adrenaline.

Sela only nodded, eyes flicking to the two monstrous shapes half-submerged in the water. "Bonecrushers," she muttered. "Rancid brutes."

Wringing some of the water from her shirt, Maisie let out a nervous laugh. "You think Tissington will celebrate us as heroes once we plop these heads in front of them?"

"Heroes, or nuisance," Sela replied with a curl of her lip. "They promised coin, but from what I've seen so far, we might end up with some scrawny chickens in payment." A dark cloud of frustration passed over her face. She had always resented villagers who tried to shortchange them just because they were women. "Let's not hold our breath for gold."

Maisie tried for levity, her natural impulse to lighten the mood reasserting itself. "At least if they pay in chickens, we'll never run out of eggs for breakfast." She forced a chuckle, but it sounded hollow.

Sela shook her head, not quite smiling. Then she sighed, bending to rub a hand over the bruises forming on her thighs. "We'll do what we must. Long as they don't try to deny our payment." She glanced at Maisie's bleeding arm, then reached for a small pouch at her belt. Inside, there were a few meager supplies: cloth strips, a little shard of soap, some disinfectant. She jerked her chin at Maisie's wound. "Let me see."

Obediently, Maisie offered her arm. Sela cleaned the cut, carefully washing away the lake scum. The sting made Maisie wince. Her sister's eyes narrowed in concentration, the same no-nonsense care their father always showed when treating injuries. At moments like this, it was easy to remember that Sela, for all her hard edges, had a deeply protective heart. Maisie's breath caught. She wanted to reassure Sela she would be more careful next time, but the words lodged in her throat.

A fresh wave of exhaustion settled into her bones as Sela bandaged the wound. The watery sunrise elongated their shadows, painting the lakeshore in amber light. The reflection of the Bonecrusher carcasses bobbed behind them, a testament to how swiftly violence could erupt and just as swiftly subside. Maisie inhaled, letting the crisp air fill her lungs. Though her body ached, a sense of accomplishment danced at the edges of her awareness. They had succeeded—saved Tissington from further destruction.

"All right," Sela said gruffly, tying off the bandage. "We should get going. The mayor wanted proof."

Maisie nodded, feeling the ache in her ribs. She lifted her sack of horror again and slung it over her shoulder. Heavy clouds skidded across the sky as the sun rose higher, and the wind began to dry the water clinging to Maisie's clothes. Her boots squished with every step.

She rubbed her arms, the chill swiftly turning into a vague numbness. They had done their day's work and were ready for a warm meal and a chance to rest. Maisie skimmed a quick glance at her sister. "You all right?" she asked, her voice still quaking with leftover adrenaline.

Sela usually brooded after a monster kill, her gaze distant, shoulders tense, as if every drop of blood spilled awakened ghosts only she could see. It wasn’t a surprise to see her expression was shuttered now, eyes fixed on the dark water as if daring it to rise again, jaw clenched against whatever memories stirred beneath the surface.

Sela paused. She seemed to weigh her reply before speaking, her gaze flicked behind her, in the direction of the lake like it held a memory she couldn't wash away. Then she shrugged. "I will be." It was all she said, but Maisie recognized the storm behind the words.

Sela wore her pain like armor—quiet, constant, heavy. The words she offered were always simple, always enough to close a conversation but never enough to reveal the weight beneath. "I will be" was never just about bruises or blood loss. It was the echo of rivers that took and never gave back, the promise ring she still wore on a chain, the dreams buried in mud and bone. Behind her calm tone lived a hurricane of grief, rage, and guilt that she refused to unleash, because if she did, Maisie wasn’t sure anything would be left standing.

They walked for two hours until they reached the crest of the hill, Tissington's humble roofs came into view, the late afternoon sun gilded them in soft golden light. Dogs barked somewhere in the distance, and smoke from cooking fires curled in the air. Maisie moved the burlap sack from one shoulder to the other and then She looked once more at Sela, took in the faint lines of strain around her eyes, and offered a small, tired smile.

Despite the battle, the gore, and the bruises blossoming along her arms, Maisie felt proud. They had saved an entire village from two vicious Bonecrushers. Now all they had to do was get paid for it.

Chapter

Two

Sela and Maisie trudged into Tissington's muddy square, exhaustion etched into every line of their faces. The rough burlap sack on Maisie’s shoulder squished and gave off a putrid stench she was certain would linger on her skin for days. The weight of the severed Bonecrusher head inside the bag pressed heavily on her shoulder, though she tried to hide any sign of discomfort.

It seemed like the entire village had come out to the square. Maisie was used to people staring at them. First, she and her sister did not dress like the women of the kingdom. They did not wear gowns or skirts or the long, trailing sleeves that noblewomen swanned around in. Nor did they wear the rough homespun shifts and aprons of village wives. Maisie and Sela wore leather britches fitted close to the leg, thick enough to withstand brambles and blood but supple enough to move in. Their linen shirts were practical, the sleeves rolled or pushed back to the elbow, and covered with laced leather vests that hugged the torso like a second skin.

Their belts, cinched their waists, holding knives, flint, pouches of herbs and remedies, and anything else that might come in handy. Their boots were mud-crusted and scuffed from travel, but the stitching held, and the soles were quiet on stone. They looked nothing like ladies, and everything like danger wrapped in grit and leather.

Anyone who’d caught a glimpse the monstrosities that inhabited Greyfen Lake didn’t live long enough to tell the tale, though rumors traveled fast when monsters attacked. Maisie offered a gentle smile at a redheaded girl holding a rag doll. The child blinked shyly back.

Sela came to stand beside Maisie, hefting her own burlap sack with a grimace. Blood seeped through the coarse fabric, leaving dark smudges on her callused fingers. The rancid odor of their monstrous trophies caused several women to move away. Maisie recognized the tension in her sister's stance. They both expected a better reception than what they saw: a scattering of villagers whispering, unconvinced applause at best. At worst, more suspicion.

"All right," Sela muttered under her breath. "Where's the mayor? He was so desperate for us to get the job done last night. He'd better not vanish now it’s done."

Maisie gestured toward a cluster of men headed straight for them. "He’s coming," she said. "He'll pay us fairly. I'm sure he will." She willed her tone toward optimism, even as a pang of doubt settled in her chest. The memory of the watery battle churned through her mind, reminding her that people, even the grateful ones, often found ways to undervalue a service provided especially when done by a pair of women.

The mayor was a stocky man whose nose showed a perpetual reddened tip, as though he spent his days sampling cider instead of governing. He wore a patched cloak and carried himself with an air of forced confidence. Behind him marched three other men, the town council members Maisie and Sela had met when they arrived in Tissington. They were the sort of men who wore threadbare finery, yet still tried to pass themselves off as wealthy.

Maisie drew in a steadying breath as Sela stepped forward, trying to hide the twinge in her ribcage where a Bonecrusher's flank had slammed her.

"Mayor," she said. "Here is proof the Bonecrushers are slain." She and Sela emptied their sacks onto the ground in unison.

The heads within landed with fleshy thuds, their jaws slack, eyes glassy and half-lidded. The creatures’ thick necks were ringed with fresh blood and torn sinew ragged where the blades had done their work. Their skulls, broad and ridged, looked almost carved from stone, and the muddy green scales along their snouts were mottled with rot. A collective gasp, half in awe and half in horror, rippled through the gathering.

Wrinkling his nose, the mayor surveyed the heads and coughed. "Goodness." His watery eyes flicked to Sela's and Maisie's blood-stained clothes. "You two look as though you've been in a war," he said. To Maisie's ears, his words sounded more bemused than sympathetic. "I trust that means the lake is safe?"

Sela's jaw tightened. "Unless new creatures move in, yes. The lake is safe. If you don’t mind, we’d like payment for our work now."

Maisie bit her lip, sensing her sister's simmering impatience. Neither of them craved nothing more than a good meal and some rest before the day-long journey home, and the sooner they got paid, the sooner they could get home.

An older councilman stepped forward. "Quite impressive, ladies. Your work has spared many of our sheep and cattle, not to mention our own lives. Yes, indeed.” he added with a dismissive wave, as if children were an afterthought. "We are grateful for you."

Sela's shoulders tensed visibly, and she moved a fraction closer, still reeking of monster blood. Maisie could feel the shift in her—alert, tight as a bowstring. She didn’t interrupt, not yet, but the way her fingers brushed the edge of her belt said enough. Words were fine. Nice, even. But they wouldn’t fill their packs or buy horseshoes. Gratitude without coin always made Sela twitchy.

“Then we’ll take our payment and begin the journey home in the morning,” Sela replied.

The mayor plastered on a thin smile that failed to reach his eyes. "Yes, yes, of course. We have your reward right here."

He waved to a pair of boys in drab tunics who pulled a small cart behind them filled four wood-slat crates and several smaller boxes. The box rattled as the boys walked, glass bottles inside it tinkling as they knocked together like wind chimes in a restless breeze. Maisie's heart sank. She shared a quick glance with Sela, who looked ready to punch somebody.

The crates held a dozen chickens between them, all fluff, feathers, and full-throated outrage at their confinement. There was also one boisterous rooster who didn’t seem to realize it was long past dawn, he crowed every few minutes apparently

It should have been the clink of gold ringing through the square as the mayor poured coins into their purse. But if this was the best Tissington could cough up, she wasn’t sure how much more Sela could wring out of them. Let me do the talking, her sister had said. So Maisie kept her mouth shut.

The mayor cleared his throat. "Here is your payment," he said. "Tissington's best bird stock and some of our cherished ginger mead. We regret we cannot pay you in coin, as you requested. Times are…hard."

The whole village had turned out to see the Shadowslayers. Flour-dusted women and grizzled farmers applauded, children shrieked and bounced with joy as though they saw a parade of trumpeters instead of bloodied Bonecrusher heads. All of them cheering with the wild relief of folks who knew their proverbial bacon had been saved. Yet it all felt like empty, token gestures because when it came time to put a price on gratitude, the village had offered scraps dressed as generosity—nowhere near what had been promised, and far less than the danger was worth.

No one knew how many Shadowslayers there were. They didn’t have a guild or titles granted by crown. They’d come into existence hundreds of years ago through a bloodline that never bred male Shadowslayers. No one knew why. The gift, or the curse as many thought it, was passed from mother to daughter.

The villagers watched them with the awe usually reserved for saints or storms. Because when the dark things came crawling from the deep places of the world, it was never a lord or a priest who stood in the gap to protect them. It was women like these who were fierce and scarred. They carried weapons and magic and stories no one wanted to hear.

And here they stood, mud on their boots, monster blood on their leathers, being offered mead and livestock for work that should have earned gold and the kind of thanks that echoed for generations. Maisie searched the mayor's face for any flicker of shame. All she saw was smugness.

"Chickens," Sela echoed. "We put our lives on the line for a few chickens and bottles of mead?"

"In times like these, good mead is worth more than you think," the mayor said, either oblivious to the insult or rubbing salt into the wound. "And you can breed the hens. You'll have eggs all winter, when it comes."

Sela inhaled sharply. " We saved your livestock and your people from being devoured. We told you to pay in coin and you agreed. That,” her voice held a tight quiver as she pointed at the chickens, “is an insult.”

The mayor's eyes narrowed. "No need to be ungrateful. We called you all the way here, gave you a roof to sleep under last night⁠—"

"It's not about gratitude. It's about fairness,” Sela replied. “We have a family to feed. Mead and chickens won't settle our debts or pay for supplies and weapons so we can protect more villages like yours."

A younger council member sneered, glancing pointedly at Sela and Maisie's worn leathers. "That’s all well and good but this is all we have to pay."

Maisie’s eyes narrowed, ignoring her sister’s direction to stay quiet. “We named a price. You chose to ignore it. If we were the sort to haggle, we’d be selling vegetables in the marketplace, not dragging monster heads into your square before breakfast. You owe us.”

The mayor stepped closer, leaning in with a condescending smile. "Listen well, Shadowslayer.” He said the word like it was something pitiful and vaguely unclean, an affliction to be endured rather than a fact to be respected.

“Slaying monsters is a noble calling, but coin is tight for everyone. We will pay you in what we have or not at all. We will give shelter you for the night " He gestured behind him to a weather-beaten structure near the square's edge. "We have a hayloft in the village stables prepared for you. The cook at the tavern will prepare your meals today, and we’ll throw in breakfast in the morning, too, as well as bread and cheese for your journey home."

Maisie's stomach twisted. He was not offering kindness just a dangling carrot he could easily retract if they refused his pathetic payment. She saw Sela clench her fists, and they shared a look. The crowd remained silent, some looking uncomfortable.

Someone in the crowd shouted, "You’re lucky you’re being paid at all."

Maisie’s jaw tightened as she glanced at Sela, who had turned to face her, standing tense and still, fury simmering just beneath the surface. They didn’t speak, didn’t need to. One glance passed between them, sharp, resigned, and heavy with all the things they couldn’t afford to say aloud in front of a watching village.

Sela gave the smallest nod. She took a breath. Then another. She turned back to the mayor, voice low but steady. “We’ll take everything you offer. But make no mistake. This is a debt paid short. And one day, you might have need of us again. Next time monsters threaten you and yours, handle it yourselves."

The townsfolk parted, murmuring among themselves. Maisie noticed how some shrank back, clearly unsettled by the grim trophies the sisters had brought. The mayor's smirk wavered, but he said nothing more. Instead, he turned to a council member, muttering instructions to move the severed heads so no one else would faint at the sight. Meanwhile, two of the men hauled forward the crates of flapping chickens and lined up half a dozen mead bottles on the cart's plank.

Maisie lifted the mead with a resigned sigh. She spotted lumps of dirt on each sealed cork. This was hardly top quality, but the label was too smudged for her to read. Sela accepted the crate of hens with a shaking hand. The birds clucked and flapped their wings, sending bits of straw everywhere as she dragged the small cart toward the barn which had warped beams and a sagging roof.

Sela carried the crate of agitated hens inside, trying to calm them with a low whistle. Darkness settled in, and the stable smelled of damp hay, old manure, and musty straw. The assistant cleared his throat. "That corner's empty," he said, pointing to a rickety partition. "Don't disturb the other animals."

Maisie craned her neck. One side of the stable housed two aged plow-horses and a skinny mule. The rest was stacked with supplies, broken wagon wheels, and patched harnesses. A faint gap in the roof let in a sliver of moonlight. The breeze outside rustled the stable doors, making them groan on their hinges.

"Thank you," Maisie replied. “You’ve been very kind.”

The assistant bowed his head in reply, then grunted something about bringing their meals, and hurried out of the barn, leaving them alone. Sela pulled the cart with the chickens and mead close to the barn wall. There was an empty horse stall where the sisters loosed the crates of chickens so they wouldn’t be cooped up for the night. They’d been paid in poultry enough times to have gotten that process down to a precise, effective task. The chickens settled gradually, clucking in a subdued chorus as they pecked the ground in the horse stall. The bottles of mead rattled when Maisie set the moved the

She saw Sela pry the top off her travel pouch and pull out an herbal salve. At once, a faint, medicinal aroma drifted through the stale air. "Let me see your shoulder," Sela said, gesturing for Maisie to sit on the hay. Her voice was firm, but Maisie caught the note of worry behind it. She complied, rolling up her sleeves to reveal abrasions on her arms.

Sela's expression hardened. "We can’t let these get infected," she said quietly. She dipped her fingers into the salve. "Hold still."

Maisie winced as the cool paste contacted her skin. Sela's movements were gentle yet efficient, learned from years of patching wounds after hunts.

"If we had been paid in coin," Sela muttered, pressing the salve in small circles, "we could be in soft beds right now and not a filthy stable."

Maisie's throat constricted. She tried to muster a lighthearted quip. "At least the chickens will keep us company," she teased softly. "Bright side, right?" She sniffed. The stable air did not do much for her humor. "Maybe we can name them. Although Mam might prefer if we didn’t."

An unexpected twitch at the corner of Sela's mouth signaled the barest hint of a smile, though it vanished almost instantly. "Mam would kills us. Jelah always gets so upset if something when one of the animals gets sold or slaughtered," she replied, referring to one of their younger brothers.

"True enough," Maisie conceded, cheeks warming at the absurdity of their predicament. She forced a smile anyway, ignoring the straw poking her legs. The stable lights flickered, and a draft rattled the door. "We'll manage, Sela. We always do, right? We survived worse than being underpaid."

She remembered the monstrous jaws lunging from the lake. A memory flashed of Sela's urgent cries as they fought the beasts. Yes, they had survived that. They would endure this humiliation too.

Sela nodded but said nothing more. The day's grime and fatigue clung to them like a second skin. Maisie reached for the borrowed horse blanket they had draped over the cart. She spread it on the hay, forming a crude bed, and motioned for Sela to lie down.

"You first," she insisted. "I'll clean up the rest of these scrapes." She gestured at the bruises on Sela's forearms. "Just for a moment, let me check⁠—"

But Sela gave a terse shake of her head. "I'll be fine," she murmured. "I'll treat them myself." She pressed the small pot of salve into Maisie's hand. "You're the one who could’ve drowned if that monster had pinned you in the water. Fix yourself up and then rest."

Maisie swallowed, remembering the moment she almost went under, the Bonecrusher's stench choking her. The memory still left a coil of dread in her stomach. Instead of arguing, she nodded and eased sat down to dress her wounds as Sela busied herself with making beds with their cloaks over swaths of loose hay in the loft. Maisie was almost done with her first aid task when the barn doors creaked open.

The mayor’s assistant stepped inside, cheeks flushed from the cold night air. He pulled a small wooden wagon behind him, its wheels bumping quietly over the packed dirt floor. Without saying much, he rolled it to a haybale near the horse stall/chicken coop and, after laying a tablecloth over the hay, and started unloading its contents: a heavy pot of stew, a loaf of bread wrapped in cloth, and a small wedge of pale cheese. There were also two bowls, two spoons, and two tankards along with another bottle of what turned out to be cherry mead.

The smell hit them at once—rich and savory, with warm spices and slow-cooked meat. It filled the barn, clinging to the cold air and making Maisie’s stomach growl in response. The assistant gave them a quick nod, then after bidding them good night, turned and slipped out of the barn.

As soon as the door closed behind him, Maisie reached for the bowls and spoons, hands moving fast now that food was in front of them. They didn’t talk while they ate. They didn’t have to. The stew was hot and delicious, each bite cutting through the lingering cold and the ache of the day’s fight.

They sat in silence for a time, letting the food go down. Maisie closed her eyes, letting exhaustion pull her toward sleep, though her mind still drifted. She pictured a real bed in Draklûn Bay, the smell of warm bread from Mam's kitchen. A faint longing ignited in her chest—dreams of a peaceful life without monstrous battles or pragmatic slights from men like the Tissington mayor.

Maisie felt her eyelids grow heavy, but before she slipped under, she heard Sela exhale a long, ragged breath. That sound told Maisie her sister's thoughts had drifted somewhere painful. Possibly to heartbreak. Possibly to memories of her fiancé taken too soon by other monstrous jaws.

“Come,” Sela said. “Let’s get some sleep. It will be a long journey home tomorrow.”

The wind outside whistled through the gaps in the wooden boards. Horses snorted softly, and the chickens occasionally squawked as if complaining of their cramped crate. Sela's figure remained in the half-light, shoulders hunched, gaze distant. She pressed the salve against her bruises, each motion methodical. But behind her guarded eyes, she clung to old guilt and older sorrow, silently replaying events from years past—another time when she lost someone she loved to ravenous fangs.

She let out a quiet shudder, then finally lay down on the prickly hay, close enough to keep watch over her sleeping sister. The ghost of her fiancé's laughter rang in her memory, just out of reach. As night settled, Sela closed her eyes, her thoughts circling the awful sense of helplessness that hovered after each kill. All around them, Tissington slumbered in smug safety. The sisters could only brood in a drafty stable, left with battered bodies and half-fulfilled hope. Yet Sela silently vowed it would not break them. Not again.

Chapter

Three

The next morning, Maisie and Sela rose at dawn and packed their things. Maisie helped wedge coarse burlap sacks between the bottles of mead already loaded in the cart to keep them from clinking together. She grimaced at the sharp, sour smell of poultry droppings drifting from the nearby coop. The birds were certainly not the answer to their financial troubles, and all Sela said all she saw was when she looked at them feathered trouble. Still, she managed a small, wry smile for her sister's benefit.

"They don't like being jostled," Maisie said, glancing at the crate that held one particularly cranky rooster. Its beady eyes seemed to glare at her through the gaps in the slats.

Sela grunted. "I don't like jostling either, but we’ve got miles of bumpy road ahead of us," she muttered. With a resigned shrug, she secured the cart's harness to the mare's collar. "Better we get moving before I go back to the mayor and give him a big piece of my mind. I'm in no mood to deal with anybody right now."

Maisie nodded her agreement. Morning light filtered across the huddled roofs of Tissington, illuminating the muddy paths and shuttered windows. She did not relish the memory of suspicious stares they had endured the day before. Whispers had circulated about two female monster hunters - how they didn't deserve real coin, how they should be grateful for anything at all. Frustration quivered in Maisie's chest, but she forced it aside, focusing on the road ahead. At least Tissington was behind them for now.

They climbed onto the cart's rickety bench. Sela took the reins while Maisie shifted her weight to make room for the sacks of mead and the crate of chickens wedged at her feet. The rooster crowed in alarm as the cart lurched forward, wheels bumping over a patchy stretch of uneven ground. Maisie offered a quick pat on the crate. "Easy there," she murmured, though the bird seemed beyond calming.

A crisp breeze stung Maisie's cheeks while they rolled out of Tissington's outskirts. The towering pines east of the village swayed gently, their needles whispering across each other. She drew in a deep breath of morning air, trying to ground herself in the moment. Sela kept her gaze locked on the winding path, jaw tight. Maisie studied the way her sister's knuckles tensed on the reins and wished she could soothe that worry.

"I can take over driving if you need a rest," Maisie offered. She saw a flicker of gratitude cross Sela's face, but her sister shook her head.

"Tissington's behind us, so I'm fine," Sela said curtly. Her eyes tracked the distant line of a sluggish stream running parallel to the road. "Not far until we reach that bend by the crossing. Then it's a straight route toward home."

The idea of returning to Draklûn Bay gave Maisie a stab of longing. She pictured their ramshackle house, all mismatched windows and crooked door frames, bursting with her younger siblings' laughter. She missed the smell of Mam's spiced bread, missed Da's absentminded humming as he cleaned his surgical blades or tested the edges of sharpened arrowheads. Perhaps she was more homesick than she realized. With a small sigh, she tried to settle her thoughts on something lighter.

They followed a narrow, rutted road that hugged the winding streams snaking back to the coast. By midmorning, the sun climbed high enough to cast warm patches on the dirt, and the dew on the wild grass glinted in the light. The rooster crowed again, agitated by every bump, while the hens clucked inside a second crate. It felt as if the entire cart was full of restless birds, wings rustling each time the wheels jostled over a rock.

When the sun rose higher and the breeze carried a hint of warmth, Maisie began to ramble about daydreams she rarely spoke aloud. "What if we had a cottage," she mused, voice soft enough that Sela might ignore her if she chose. "Something small, but big enough for children to run around. I can see them tumbling in a meadow, chasing these silly hens."

Sela's shoulders stiffened. She kept her gaze forward. For a long moment, Maisie thought she might not answer. Then Sela said, "Your daydreaming is getting out of hand. Get your head in the game, sister. We had monsters to fight today, there will be more of them tomorrow.”

Maisie smiled ruefully. "I know," she said. "Sometimes I wonder what a quiet life would be like." She toyed with a piece of frayed rope on the crate, twisting it around her finger. "No more monster hunts at dawn, no more wading into blood-soaked lakes for a meager payout."

Her sister's reply came softly. "You've always wanted a quiet life. Even when we were younger."

Maisie lifted her eyes to Sela's face, seeing a shadow there that matched the tension in her voice. "I worry we'll never get the chance to be happy."

Sela's grip flexed on the reins. "The realm still needs Shadowslayers. And it's what we're good at." She paused, then glanced at Maisie. A flash of sorrow crossed her features. "I want you safe, but safe is expensive for people like us."

Heat prickled behind Maisie's eyes, and she swallowed. She understood the cost of safety all too well. Coin was forever tight, and the threat of forced deals, like the one that lurked at home in the form of Alistair Bramble, hovered ominously. Their father's healing trade brought in goodwill but rarely gold. Even so, the longing in Maisie's heart refused to vanish. "We'll figure something out," she said, voice hesitant but hopeful.

The track curved around a gentle hill, where a few fields of stunted crops rustled in the breeze. A pair of farmers paused in their chores to watch the sisters pass, offering half-nods of recognition. Maisie returned a friendly wave, though her cheeks warmed at the idea that they might be judging them for traveling with squawking crates. The farmers turned back to their fields, and Maisie's attention drifted to a cluster of wooden fenceposts where two small children stared at the cart, wide-eyed. The older child reached up to catch the younger's hand, as if uncertain who these strangers were. Maisie's heart squeezed at the sight. One day, she thought, I want children who stare at travelers with that same nighttime wonder, safe in the knowledge that no Bonecrusher or lurking beast threatens them.

As midday approached, the sun reached its zenith. The air felt thick with dust and the tang of feathers, and Sela reined the mare to a brief stop near a trickling stream. "We'll water the horse," she announced, dismounting stiffly. Maisie hopped down as well, wincing when her boot slipped in muddy soil. The cart shuddered behind them, the birds unsettled by the sudden halt.

While Sela carefully led the mare to sip from the stream, Maisie stretched her aching back and inhaled the fresh smell of running water. She scanned the surrounding farmland. Patches of pale wildflowers dotted the grass. She bent to pick a few, bundling them in her hand, imagining how they might cheer up the gloomy interior of their battered cart. It was a small gesture, but their journey so far had lacked any brightness beyond her own forced optimism.

She joined Sela at the stream's edge. Her sister's expression had softened a fraction. With gentle movements, Sela let the mare drink, brushing her free hand across the horse's flank to soothe it. Maisie knelt, splashing a bit of cool water against her own face, chasing away weariness. When she straightened, Sela eyed her thoughtfully.

"How's that arm from yesterday's standoff with the Bonecrusher?" Sela asked.

Maisie flexed her bandaged forearm, aware of a dull ache. "Healing," she said. "The salve Da made helped, but I'll rewrap it once we're home."

Sela gave a short nod. "Let's not linger," she said, flicking a glance at the sky. "I want us in Draklûn Bay before dark."

They returned to the cart, situating themselves amid the fluster of feathers. Maisie placed the small bouquet of wildflowers near her seat, hoping the sweet scent might counter some of the poultry odor. She imagined Mam's face lighting up at such a simple gift, or one of her younger siblings giggling if she tucked a blossom behind their ear.

The hours passed in a steady, dusty blur as they continued along the winding road. The rooster crowed at unpredictable intervals, sometimes for no reason beyond the jostle of the cart's wheels. Each time it did, Sela's face pinched with annoyance, and Maisie stifled a guilty laugh. She tried rubbing the side of the crate to quiet the bird's temper, but it never lasted long. The bray of a donkey from a distant farm caused another round of crowing. Maisie guessed the rooster was convinced it had competition in that braying echo.

Eventually, the farmland gave way to more uneven terrain. The rolling fields flattened, and the distant sound of surf - or perhaps a heavier wind - teased Maisie's ears. But it was another hour before the outlines of Draklûn Bay began to appear on the distant horizon. She recognized the soft haze that loomed over the coastline. The air there always tasted of brine, as though it carried a piece of the sea itself. Though her muscles ached and her spirits were worn thin, her heart soared at the sight.

As they drew nearer to home, Maisie could make out the blotches of buildings leaning into one another, as though braced against the constant coastal winds. She detected the faint clang of metal on metal that drifted over the gentle hum of the harbor. Hearing that familiar rhythm made her chest tighten with emotion. Da sometimes used an old forge behind their home when he needed to craft specialized clamps for healing or sharpen the odd blade for a neighbor.

They passed the first scattering of houses at the edge of the village. A trio of children, arms loaded with wet laundry, gaped at the dusty cart rolling by, the cacophony of chickens in the back turning heads. Maisie flushed under the attention, giving the children a small wave that made them giggle. Her eyes jumped from one cottage to the next, each building showing cracked paint or a sagging overhang, all distinctly home.

Sela slowed the horse as they navigated the busier stretch near the communal lavoir. There, families knelt beside broad troughs of water, scrubbing clothes and linens. Bright chatter and occasional spats of laughter filled the air. A group of men rinsed heavy blankets while a few women teased them about splashing. The energy of the place reminded Maisie how her own family bustled daily in a similar flurry of tasks.

She inhaled, savoring the brine-kissed breeze that wafted in from the docks. The faint stench of fish mingled with the deeper scent of salt, stirring old memories of daybreaks spent helping neighbors pull in nets. The familiarity was almost too much; she realized she had an ache in her chest that was both relief and regret. Relief at returning, regret that she could not stay forever in the safe orbit of home.

They continued past the lavoir, and a few heads turned to wave. "The Fairborne girls are back," called a gray-haired man with a warm grin. Maisie recognized him as an old friend of Da's, perhaps a fisherman who once received healing for a broken foot. She and Sela lifted weary hands in greeting, though Sela's face remained guarded. Maisie had learned to interpret that expression; her older sister was balancing the weight of their monster-hunting life with the wonder of returning to a place that wasn't always easy, but was theirs.

Ahead, the ragged lines of the wharf and a modest cluster of moored boats jutted into restless surf. Gulls circled overhead, scolding the fishermen who shouted and traded goods along the docks. Maisie envisioned the cawing magpies that usually waited in the rafters of their cottage, no doubt eager to see if they had returned with fresh spoils. She hoped Whisper or Glim had not decided to vanish in their absence; Mam had a habit of letting those troublemaking birds roam wherever they wished.

At a fork in the muddy street, Sela steered them toward the quieter residential stretch that led to the far edge of the village. Each jolt of the wheels made Maisie's shoulders ache, but she ignored it, too eager to see home. As they passed the final row of cottages, the silhouette of their sprawling house came into view. Its roof slanted awkwardly where Da had added an attic room for new siblings years ago, and extra planks patched over a wind-battered wall. It might be the most misshapen dwelling in all of Draklûn Bay, yet Maisie felt tears prick her eyes at the sight. This was home.

Stifling a ragged breath, she said, "We made it." The rooster crowed in counterpoint, as if trying to claim some triumph of its own. Sela's lips curved with something that might have been a smile, though it vanished quickly when she saw her sister's brimful eyes.

The familiar clamor of many voices spilled from inside. Even this late in the afternoon, older siblings rushed to do their chores, with younger ones possibly out in the back garden. Maisie was half-certain she heard Mam's sharp call for someone to fetch more water. Over it all came the faint but rhythmic hammer strikes of Da using that makeshift forge behind the house.

Jostling across the yard, the cart finally drew to a halt. Sela set the reins down, then slid from the bench with a tired exhale. Maisie followed, taking a moment to stretch her cramped legs. The horse whickered in relief, probably eager for rest and stable feed. From around the side of the house, two of their younger siblings spotted them and charged over with excited shrieks. A boy of about ten, hair streaked with dust, hollered, "Maisie! Sela!" while a smaller girl, pigtails bouncing, hung back with wide-eyed curiosity.

Maisie's face broke into a broad grin. She scarcely had time to wave before they were upon her, hugging her waist, exclaiming about monstrous heads and chickens and whether they had found new stories to tell. Sela leaned down to ruffle the younger girl's hair, the older sister's guarded expression softening around the edges.

The door of the swung open, and their ten other siblings poured through the door onto the porch. They jockeyed for position around Maisie and Sela, asking rapid-fire questions about the hunt, the payment, or how Tissington had treated them this time. Overhead, two magpies perched on a slanting windowsill. Whisper scolded the visitors with a musical squawk while Glim bobbed its head, feathers ruffling in excitement. Maisie's chest warmed with relief, even if her limbs felt like they might collapse at any moment.

“Hello Mr. and Mrs. Magpie,” Maisie and Sela called out, for it was bad luck not to create magpies when you saw them.

She and Sela herded the curious siblings away from the cart, instructing them to leave the horse in peace for now. "Let me handle the crates first," Maisie said with a laugh, raising her voice to be heard over the clamor. "And mind that rooster. He's a menace."

A few siblings giggled at the sight of the caged birds, though one little one looked worried. "Are they dinner?" the child asked, voice quavering. Maisie gave a conspiratorial wink. "They might be dinner one day, or egg layers if they decide to behave." She tried to phrase it gently, but the child's eyes stayed wide.

Sela exhaled behind her, tossing a reassuring glance at them all. "We'll sort it. Everyone calm down." Then she took a careful step toward the door, motioning for Maisie to follow.

The old porch creaked beneath their combined weight, and Maisie caught a whiff of fresh bread drifting from the half-open door. The quiet delight of that scent flooded her senses, stirring an unexpected flush of gratitude. Noon had passed with only a stale bit of bread from Tissington's supplies, and her stomach rumbled at the thought of something warm from Mam's kitchen.

She turned to Sela, voice lowered so the siblings wouldn't overhear. "I really missed this," she said. "All of it. Even the noise."

A faint flicker of sadness crossed her sister's eyes, but Sela nodded. "Me too," she admitted.

Inside the house, the scent of cooked meat, herbs, and fresh yeast bread hit her full force, underlaid by the faint tang of the sea that never truly left the dwellings in Draklûn Bay. Children's voices overlapped in a stream of excitement. Glancing over her shoulder, she caught sight of Sela lingering on the porch, eyes half-lidded with lingering memories only she knew. Then Sela inhaled and followed Maisie in. The door banged shut behind them, sealing the sisters in the loving chaos of home at last.

Chapter

Four

Steam curled in delicate tendrils from the chipped wooden bowls of stew set across the long table. Evening shadows flickered on the walls of the Fairborne home, shaped by the lantern flame that battled the encroaching night. Maisie lowered herself onto the bench beside a cluster of chatty siblings who seemed more interested in elbowing one another than in keeping bread intact. Half a dozen small hands jostled over a single wedge of crusty loaf. Her skin still felt raw from the chilly winds on the ride home, and the memory of Tissington's chicken insult churned at the back of her mind.

Mam stood tall at the table's far end, ladle in hand. Though not physically imposing, her presence commanded respect. She wore her age in the faint lines across her proud face and the occasional silver thread in her hair, but she remained as efficient as ever, adept at barking instructions to a household of twelve children. Tonight, though, her eyes held a sharper edge, as if the disappointment of Tissington's paltry tribute weighed heavily on her.

"Hold still," Mam said, smacking the side of a wooden spoon against the table. One of the younger siblings jumped, letting go of the contested bread. Another pair of siblings tumbled sideways, their giggles momentarily hushed.

Next to Mam stood Da with his kind eyes offset by the streaks of worry on his brow. He balanced a smaller pot in his hands, ready to pour an herbal infusion into a teapot. Maisie recognized the familiar, soothing smell of dried lavender and thyme that her father always kept for nerves after hunts. As he poured steaming water over the herbs, he looked at the circle of children with quiet affection.

On the opposite side of the hearth, Granny Faelin planted herself on a stool, leaning on her wooden cane. She surveyed the scene with narrowed eyes. A half-smile crossed her wrinkled face when one of the meager chickens let out a disgruntled squawk from the corner, as though echoing her own indignation. Sela, standing behind Granny with an air of tense frustration, clenched her jaw every time the hen flapped its wings. Another crate near the door rattled. The rooster had spent much of the evening fussing.

"Tissington folk never would have tried that nonsense on a man," Granny Faelin muttered. Her voice had a low rasp, the echo of a once-towering force in monster-hunting. "Chickens as payment. Bah." She rapped her cane against the floorboards. "They should be ashamed."

Maisie caught Sela's gaze. A flicker of agreement passed between them. Sela's stance was rigid, arms folded across her chest, face still bruised from the earlier lake fight. Yet her scowl had deepened once they arrived home, as if each new frustration stoked a banked anger she did not dare unleash. Maisie inhaled slowly, willing calm into her own body.

Mam ladled stew into bowls as the children brought them to her. Sela and Maisie stood at the end of the line, and offered their own bowls when it was their turn. The savory scent of carrots and potatoes and herbs filled the house. The table erupted in random chatter again: siblings comparing bruises from chores, teasing each other about who got the biggest piece of bread. A small comfort flickered in Maisie's chest. Home might be loud and chaotic, but it was their chaos, and overshadowing it with gloom would help no one.

As they started eating, an unmistakable stench wafted through the windows. It was a pungent mix of ammonia and earthy rot, with a sharp, acrid edge that made the youngest Fairbornes gag. Maisie froze, her spoon suspended mid-air, a sinking feeling settling in her gut. Only the village tanner in Draklûn Bay had such an odious signature scent, a blend that heralded his arrival like a dark omen.

With a grimace and a whisper of dread, she muttered the name his name: "It’s Alistar Bramble. Quick! Close the shutters before he knows we’re home."

“Hello in the house!” Alistair called out as he peered in the window. “Ah, good, you’re all home. Might I have a word with the beautiful Miss Maisie?”

A collective groan rumbled through the room, the older adults exchanging weary looks. Da let out a resigned sigh, setting his teacup down with a soft clink. Despite the palpable reluctance, they all knew they couldn't avoid him now. As Da rose to answer it, Maisie caught his eye, her silent plea written in the slight shake of her head, a subtle please don't in the widening of her eyes. But Da only offered her a reassuring smile as he opened the door. 

Alistair’s was wider than he was tall and nearly had to turn sideways to make it through the door. The man's thinning hair was slicked in a vain attempt at grooming, and a triumphant glint flickered in his eyes as soon as he spotted Maisie. Half the siblings paused mid-chew, gawking at the odious man.

Bramble forced a grin that looked more like a grimace than a smile. "Ah, the entire Fairborne clan," he announced, gleefully rubbing his hands together as he looked at Maisie like she was steak.

He greeted Mam and Da. "Evelore. Brenton. I’m sure you’re happy to have your lovely daughters home after their perilous monster fighting journey." His voice dripped with false sugar. "I thought I might drop by. See how all of you were faring."

Even the youngest children, who normally ignored adult politics, looked around curiously as if they sensed the shift in atmosphere. Maisie's stomach knotted. She set her spoon down so carefully that it made no noise when it touched the table. Her heart thudded at the sight of Bramble's all-too-familiar smugness.

Da blinked once, trying to maintain the gentle manner he was known for. "Alistair," he greeted, voice polite but tinged with obvious strain. "We're in the middle of supper."

"I can see that." Bramble's words oozed condescension. He geared his gaze straight at Maisie, letting it linger far too long. "Just wanted to make sure my future wife wasn't starving, especially after that dangerous trip to Tissington. Heard you got cheated again. They paid in chickens, did they?" He smirked in a way that made Maisie's skin crawl.

Sela inhaled sharply, but Mam rested a hand on her forearm, cautioning her to hold her tongue. Granny Faelin opened her mouth, then snapped it shut, cane propped against her leg. The tension in the air was thick enough to press on every chest in the room.

Bramble advanced another step inside, letting the door swing wide enough that a gust of chill wind rustled Maisie's hair. "What, no kiss for me, Maisie?" His attempt at a charming smile twisted into something oily.

Maisie forced herself to stand, ignoring the blood roaring in her ears. "Good evening, Alistair" she said quietly. "We have a lot on our hands just now. Sela and I are exhausted after the journey, so I’m sure you’ll understand⁠—"

"My darling, I do understand," Bramble replied, his voice dipped into a seductive tone that made Maisie want to throw up. "That is exactly why you need a husband who can shoulder the burdens, so you don’t have to hunt monsters anymore? You need a man who can pay off your family’s debts. Someone to ensure you're not left begging for scraps.”

Affronted, Mam chimed in. “It is quite generous of you to be concerned for Maisie, but I assure you that we are not begging for scraps.”

“Of course you aren’t, Evelore,” he replied with a placating smile. “I simply meant that I am capable of providing for your lovely daughter. I’ve come to tell you of the inheritance I’ve received from a distant uncle who recently died. Now, there is no excuse for Maisie to continue rejecting me because of monster hunting. If she marries me, she’ll never have to work again.”

Sela glared at him. “The very timbre of his voice suggested he liked the sound of his own voice, and either didn’t care what others thought or was oblivious to their opinion. Maisie felt the urge to run to her room. Instead, she held her ground.

Above, the rafters creaked. Both magpies, Whisper and Glim, hopped forward, bright eyes fixed on the intruder. Whisper fluttered closer, landing near Bramble's slickly combed hair. His pungent garlic-and-onion breath seemed to set the birds on edge. Glim let out a bold caw, and Whisper followed, their cackling echo rising to fill the tense silence.

Bramble tried to bat them away with one meaty hand. "Magpies," he muttered irritably. "Why do you keep these pests."

Da's face darkened. "They are not pests. Whisper and Glim are quite resourceful. They carry messages for us, and deliver supplies to Sela and Maisie when they are off on a hunt." His tone, normally calm and kind even under pressure, hardened. Even her gentle father had his limits.

"Is that so?" Bramble gave an exaggerated shrug. "No matter. I'm not here to discuss your family's messy hobby of training wildlife. I've come to discuss my offer." He cleared his throat, stepping further into the room until the lanternlight revealed the sheen of sweat on his brow. "I am willing to take Maisie's hand in marriage. I will ensure your entire clan's debts are resolved. You will not want for coin again." He directed his next words to Mam and Da, though his gaze occasionally dropped back to Maisie with a possessive glint. "A good deal, is it not?"

At the mention of debts, Da set aside the teapot. Mam's knuckles whitened around the ladle, while several siblings stared up at the alarming shift in tone. The older ones exchanged glances, well aware of the financial strain they’d endured in recent months. Theirs was an uncertain future if they could not pay the final portion of the land's rent, or cover medical supplies for Da's physick practice.

Bramble exhaled in mocking patience. "I have the debt-lien. I bought it from the landsman last winter," he said, running a hand through his thinning hair. "A simple matter for me to call in that debt. Then you lose this home." His lips curled. "But we do not want that, do we?"

A stifled growl sounded in Sela's throat. She took half a step forward, sword belt shifting with her movement. Maisie saw the muscles along her sister's jaw tense as though she swallowed every angry word. She knew Sela's impulse: to hurl Bramble out the door. But violence would only make matters worse. When she caught sight of Da's gentle caution to Sela's, Maisie's heart twisted with guilt. She could not let this escalate into a brawl.

Bramble took one more step, ignoring the tension in the room. "I am not one of the monsters your daughter’s fight. I am but a man, patient and loving," he said, false humility dripping from every syllable. "I want Maisie as my bride. She is a good, healthy girl with enough spirit to bear my children and manage my household. I will protect her from all of life’s woes, and she will never need to hunt monsters again. All I need is—" and here his gaze latched onto Maisie's, unblinking, "—her agreement."

Maisie willed her pulse to slow. The stew in her stomach might as well have turned to iron. Phrases whirled in her head. The idea of being "kept" like something he could flaunt made her spine bristle. She forced a calm exhale. "I have never indicated that I would accept your suit," she managed. "I appreciate the help you think you offer, but⁠—"

"—she is not interested in you," Mam interjected at last, tone sharper than a blade. She lifted her chin. "We do not need your brand of generosity."

Bramble's face mottled crimson. "Evelore, I would watch my words if I were you."

Granny Faelin clicked her tongue in scorn. "She calls it as she sees it. You come in here like a hog on holiday, smelling of garlic and threats, expecting a warm welcome?"

The magpies must have understood the rising hostility because they plunged from the beam, wings flapping. Whisper swooped at Bramble's head, talons clawing for a strand of oily hair. Glim joined in, letting out a raucous cry that startled half the siblings. A couple of children squealed and tried to dive under the table.

Scowling, Bramble thrashed an arm upward. "Stop that," he barked. He swung open fingers frantically. "These birds are insane! Fairbornes, I said call them off!" His voice hit a higher pitch than usual, and the sight would have been comical if Maisie's pulse was not racing with dread.

Sela pressed her lips tight, but she shook her head as if it was not her duty to quiet the magpies. Mam settled for snapping her fingers. The birds, recognizing her subtle signal, only partially withdrew to the rafters. Their mocking cackles persisted. Bramble swatted again, missing. A feather drifted near his face.

Breathing heavily, he managed to straighten himself and glare at the entire table. "You are lucky," he snarled, face flushed and half-daring someone to challenge him. "I came here offering to free you from your endless debts. But apparently, kindness is wasted on you people."

A tension-laden pause gripped the house. Da rose from his chair, posture uncharacteristically stiff. "You will not come into my home," he said, voice quiet but grating with authority, "and insult your way into a marriage. It is unacceptable."

Bramble let out a humorless laugh. "Is that so? You seem to have forgotten I hold a paper that can ruin you, good sir. Unless your dear daughter sees reason, I can ensure that you lose this ramshackle place in a matter of days if I will it to happen." His eyes flicked to Maisie. "If you want to see your family sheltered, you will do the sensible thing."

Fury flashed in Mam's eyes. She set the stew ladle aside, and Maisie felt her own heart stutter. She waited for the inevitable explosion, but Da was the one who stepped forward. Quietly but firmly, he placed a hand on Bramble's shoulder, turning him toward the door. "We will not discuss this any further. Get out."

Bramble shrugged off Da's hand. "Consider my words, Maisie," he said, directing the words at her. "You might not realize the favor I am offering, but once that debt-lien takes effect, you will regret your hasty refusal." He turned and spit near the threshold, ignoring the collective gasp from a couple of siblings. "I will wait a little longer for your decision. I am, after all, a magnanimous man."

Sela bristled, her hand drifted to her sword hilt, but Mam’s gentle grip on her forearm steadied her again. Bramble glared once more, opened the door with a violent jerk, and lurched through it. The rooster, startled by his abrupt exit, let out a raucous crow that echoed in the yard. Then the door slammed so loudly the lantern flame wavered from the breeze it created.

“That could have gone so much worse,” Granny Faelin joked. She was always one to try breaking the tension with a witty line or two. This time, nobody laughed.

Maisie's gaze dropped to her stew, her heartbeat thundered in her ears. The threat of losing their home, forced marriage—his words circled in her thoughts until they blurred the edges of reality. She set down her spoon with a trembling sigh, aware of the way Sela watched her. The older sister's tension radiated across the room, but she stayed by the door, staring at the space Bramble had occupied only moments ago. The cluck of a hen broke the silence. Then the rooster crowed one last offended shriek.

No one moved. The gravity of Bramble's words loomed too heavily. Maisie made the mistake of looking at Da. His expression, though calm, was etched with heartbreak. The entire family seemed to hold its breath, waiting for some sign that there was a path forward. But in that instant, courage felt like a distant notion.

Bramble's final threat rang in Maisie's ears. He was not bluffing. If she refused him outright, he could, and would, invoke the debt-lien. Anxious eyes turned her way. She did want marriage someday—she truly did—but not with a cruel manipulator who smelled of cheap onion and crowed louder than that rooster.

Her heart squeezed painfully as she remembered the sweet daydreams she once harbored: a cozy house, children chasing round the yard, a man who might greet her with warmth instead of demands. How quickly that innocent vision had soured.

A single tear burned at the corner of her eye, but she willed it not to fall. They were strong. They always found a way. Yet for the first time, Maisie felt the weight of helplessness crowd her lungs. Night settled outside, but inside, no one stirred. The rooster rustled in its crate, the only movement in a silence that felt more dangerous than any monster's growl.

Still, Sela's hand remained on her sword. Mam's gaze promised retribution if Bramble crossed the threshold again. Granny Faelin's knuckles tightened until they turned white against the smooth surface of her cane. Each of them clung to quiet fury, uncertain how to save the future of their frayed, beloved home.

Chapter

Five

The dinner table at the Fairborne household was chaos wrapped in love. There were three adults, ten children, two magpies, and one enormous pot of venison stew. Spoons clinked against bowls. Elbows jostled for space. Mam liked to use family dinner time to test the younger Fairbornes and sharpen their magical skill by slipping lessons into the evening meal.

Mam stood up and clapped her hands. “All right, my darlings. Rune time.” She went to the basket in the corner, next to the hearth, and pulled out three writing slates and chalk to pass around the table.

Mam swept a bit of chalk across the slate, quick and sure, drawing a rune in one fluid motion. The lines were clean, confident, like the rune had always been there and she'd simply revealed it.

Maisie leaned into Sela, both of them tucked in at the middle of the table between . “Ten silver coins says she’s starting with Feor’s Flame again.”

“I’m not betting,” Sela muttered, eyeing Mam as she sketched on the slate. “It’s always Feor’s Flame.”

Feor’s Flame wasn’t the kind of rune that got glory songs written about it. No one ever shouted “Feor’s Flame!” before charging into battle, and it wouldn’t help you roast your enemies—unless you were hoping they’d die of mild comfort.

But if you were cold? Or your tea was cooling too fast? Or your stubborn goat had wandered off with the only flint in the village and you needed fire now? Feor’s Flame had your back.

It was a tidy little spiral of three loops, each one a whisper of motion, gentle and deliberate, like the flicker of a candle on a prayer night. At its heart sat a small triangle—point up, steady as a mountain. That triangle meant control. The whole rune hummed with the promise: this fire will warm, not destroy.

Mages loved it because it didn’t burn down their robes. Peasants loved it because it kept their stew from freezing solid in winter. Children loved it because it sparked into life with a satisfying little pop! when drawn just right.

But the rune wasn’t forgiving. Draw it too wide and it sputtered out like a snuffed match. Draw it too tight and you might find yourself with scorched eyebrows and a lesson learned. And gods help you if you reversed the triangle—Feor’s Flame didn’t like being told which way was up. That turned it into Feor’s Folly, and nobody wanted to explain to Mam why the house had caught fire. Again.

Most rune crafters still taught it first. Not because it was easy—but because you remembered it forever once you’d singed your fingers with it once.

So, was it heroic? No. But it made porridge edible, warmed beds in winter, and once, allegedly, kept an entire garrison from freezing during the Siege of Hollowmere because someone smart had etched it into the walls of the barracks.

No one ever sang a song about that, of course. But they should have.

Mam held up the slate like it was a sacred relic and tapped the chalk against it. “Now, a reminder. Runes aren’t just drawings, they have power. One mistake in how you draw them, or in the intention you set as you use it, and the result won’t be what you meant it to be.”

She handed the slate to little Lira first, five years old and painfully precise. Her tongue poked out of the corner of her mouth as she carefully drew a three-looped spiral intersected by a small triangle.

A small sea of hands rose again, and after some after a bit of a tussle with Brannick, eight-year-old Corwin got his turn. His tongue stuck out as he carefully drew something with a looping base and three branching lines like a crooked tree.

When he turned the slate around, half the kids leaned in with scrunched brows.

Mam gave them a beat to think, then offered, “Where have you seen this one drawn before bedtime?”

Little Lira’s hand shot up. “Da drew that on my pillow when I was scared of the whispers in the chimney!”

Mam nodded. “And what does it do?”

“It kept my bad dreams away,” Lira said firmly. “It’s a ward.”

“That’s right. It listens while you sleep, and keeps the dark quiet,” Mam said.

“Does it keep Glim quiet, too?” Brannick asked innocently.

Glim squawked from the rafters, “Try it and I’ll charm your shoes to squeal every time you lie, boy.”

Mam didn’t look up. “Don’t tempt her, Brannick. Right then, pass the slate along.”

One by one, each child took a turn, drawing a favorite rune and letting the others guess. Some got the answers right away; others needed Mam’s soft hints and gentle questions to steer them in the right direction.

Sela, watching all of it unfold with arms crossed and a rare soft expression on her face, leaned down toward the younger ones clustered near her. “You should remember these. Even the old ones Mam talks about. You never know when you'll need them.”

The slate traveled from hand to hand, each child drawing a rune they knew and explaining what it meant. Some were spot-on. Others needed gentle correction—Mam only winced once when someone tried to draw the rune for ‘healing’ and accidentally flipped it, nearly causing the stew pot to ripple with heat.

“Don’t draw upside down runes while dinner’s still on the table,” Mam warned, brushing chalk dust off the back of her hand. “Unless you want to the silverware to start jumping around.”

Mam grinned and let the laughter subside before she set the slate down and wiped it clean with a swipe of a cloth. “Now. What we’ve been learning are the New World runes. They’re neat, orderly, and only about two hundred years old. But,” she turned, eyes sharp as a hawk’s, “there are old world runes. The kind that were drawn before written language was invented. When people carved symbols into bark and bone instead of writing with ink and parchment. They’re rare. And powerful.”

“Do people still use ‘em?” Tansy asked, already reaching for the chalk again.

“Some of the witches who follow the ancient ways still use them,” Mam said. “But, just like language, runes have changed with time. So has the way magic listens to them. You get one stroke wrong and instead of summoning calm wind, you get a tornado in your pants.”

That earned some very loud snickering from both ends of the table.

Brannick, barely done swallowing a chunk of bread, piped up next. “So, the old runes still work in spells?”

“Oh, the old ways never die, that’s why you’re all learning them,” Mam said with a wink. She turned the slate toward Maisie and Sela. “Let’s see how well you two remember the old runes.”

Maisie rolled her eyes in mock pain. “Here we go.”

But she leaned forward as Mam sketched two symbols on her slate. One was a tight spiral of three loops. The other looked like a jagged row of peaks, angular and sharp, like teeth.

Maisie pointed to the spiral first. “This one’s from the Ridgefall set. Not written often anymore. It’s a kind of binding rune—not ropes or knots, but emotion. Ties heart to heart. That’s why some early wedding rings were carved with it.”

Mam wiped the slate clean again, slower this time. She didn’t say anything as she drew—just set the chalk to the board and began working in firm, angled strokes. The shape she made wasn’t like the others. It didn’t loop or spiral. It looked sharp. Old. A long, hooked line like a talon, with curling marks above it like smoke or breath.

The room quieted again, the way it always did when something unfamiliar hit the table.

Mam turned the slate around. “What do we think?”

A pause. Tansy chewed her lip. Brannick leaned so far forward his chin nearly hit his stew.

Then Sela said, calm and certain, “That’s from the Old World script. The Drakknir set.”

Mam nodded, slow. “Go on.”

“It’s dragon,” Sela said. “Not the name of one. Just the word itself. The idea of it. It used to be carved near caves or cliff entrances to warn travelers there might be one nearby.”

Maisie blinked. “They used to have to warn people about dragons?”

Mam chuckled. “When dragons flew overhead, you didn’t need a rune to know it. But for the ones that slept underground—or left signs they’d passed through—it was useful. Carve it into a stone near the entrance, and you’d know to tread carefully.”

Whisper let out a low whistle. “More polite than leaving claw marks, I suppose.”

Sela’s eyes hadn’t left the rune. “You showed me this one when I was small. Said I should learn to spot it even in bad light.”

“I did,” Mam said, her voice softer now. “Because some old things don’t stay buried.”

She wiped the slate again, though the chalk lines lingered a moment longer than they should’ve before vanishing.

Mam gave a sharp nod. “Well done.”

Brannick grinned. “Does this mean we get to carve runes tomorrow?”

“You get to practice,” Mam said. “On scrap wood. Not the walls, Tansy.”

Tansy tried to look innocent and failed spectacularly.

Sela glanced down the table at the eager, chalk-streaked faces. Her expression softened. “You lot pay attention to Mam. The old ways aren’t just dusty tricks. You never know when they’ll save your skin.”

Maisie leaned in and bumped her shoulder. “Said with just the right amount of doom. I’m proud.”

Firelight flickered over slate, laughter, and smudged fingers, and outside the window, a pair of sharp eyes blinked from the branch of the apple tree.

Whisper fluffed his feathers, muttering, “They’re doomed. All clever, and still doomed.”

Glim, from just above him, cackled. “At least they’ll be interesting.”

After dinner, Mam and Da ushered the youngest siblings from the table, supervising them as the washed up with the pitcher and wash basin. Maisie was perched on a low wooden stoo near the fireplace, her knees drawn close, struggling to calm the flutter of dread still churning in her belly. Around her, Mam, Da, Sela, and Granny Faelin remained, no one fully ready to retire.

Dah exhaled softly, pinching the bridge of his nose as if to ward off an oncoming headache. He glanced at the door that Bramble had slammed earlier. "We'll find a way out of this," he murmured. "We always do." Yet his tone was more weary than confident.

Mam, who washed up as Da dried the dishes, pressed her lips together. "Aye, we will," she said. "But for tonight, let's have a moment's peace. No more talk of that swine," she added in a voice that crackled with more exhaustion than anger.

Near the hearth, Granny Faelin tapped her cane on the floor. "Peace is fleeting these days," she muttered. "Folks like Bramble smell desperation as keenly as crows smell carrion."

A knock at the door broke the quiet that had settled over the room. Three firm raps—no urgency, but loud enough to turn heads.

Mam looked up from the pot, hand pausing mid-motion. Sela sat straighter. Granny Faelin’s eyes narrowed just a touch.

Da was already setting down the teapot. “That’ll be someone from the village,” he said, wiping his hands on a cloth. “At this hour, it’ll be a fever or a bad fall.”

Maisie stood too, her brow furrowing. It wasn’t the timing alone—it was the rhythm. Measured. Intentional. Not the way folks usually knocked when they were desperate for help. She glanced toward the stairs. The children were already up for the night. Good.

Mam met Da’s eyes. “Go on, then. But careful.”

He gave a small nod and moved to the door, fingers pausing on the bolt for half a breath before sliding it free.

The door swung open on a gust of cool night air, lantern light spilling onto the threshold and catching on deep blue cloaks—three figures, their hoods still drawn, mud clinging to the hems of their robes.

The tallest of them stepped forward slightly and drew back his hood. Middle-aged, lean, with pale hair and sharp, pale eyes. He gave a small, formal nod.

“Good evening,” he said, voice smooth but not unfriendly. “Apologies for the late hour. We come on the king’s behalf.”

Da hesitated. “The king sent you? Well. That’s a surprise. Not to be rude or anything, but can it wait until morning?”

No one from Draklûn Bay had ever seen the king. He didn’t go on progresses throughout the kingdom so his subjects could catch a glimpse of him. Rather, he was more fond of issuing edicts that required the town crier to loudly announce his will to everyone in the village. This was the first time His Majesty had sent any of his ranking courtiers to their podunk village. It was strange. And concerning.

“We’ve traveled far,” the man said. “Apologies matter’s urgent.”

Mam stepped forward then, eyes steely. “Who are you, exactly? And what business brings you to our home so late?”

The man inclined his head again. “We are mages in the service of King Rodmar. And we’ve come seeking your daughters.”

One of the other two mages lifted his hood, unveiling a youthful face marred by a single jagged scar near his temple. "I am Vaelric Fenmora. This is High Mage Eldrin Laedur," he nodded toward the man next to him, "he is Othros Calveris."

Sela still sat at the dining table, her fists closed. "And what does the king want with us?" Her tone lacked any trace of warmth. Maisie noted the tautness in Sela's shoulders, the way her jaw tensed as if bracing for a fight.

Eldrin, the one introduced as High Mage, allowed his gaze to drift over each Fairborne in turn. When his eyes landed on Granny Faelin, he paused, then landed on Mam. "We come seeking the renowned hunters with a reputation for killing the fiercest beasts in the land."

Granny Faelin snorted. "Plenty of monster hunters in the realm. Why single out my granddaughters?"

Vaelric angled sideways, revealing a glimpse of bright-haired Othros's expression. The third mage, Othros, remained silent but watchful, his eyes like chips of black glass. Eldrin gently spread his hands, an affected gesture of goodwill. "King Rodmar's court keeps meticulous records," he explained, "in no small part thanks to magic that helps us see, hear, and piece together what normal messengers cannot. And we have learned a great deal about all of you including the revelation of Niall Pentinal’s death seven years ago.” He turned to Sela. “The loss of a fiancé is more than just the loss of a person, isn’t it? You’ve mourned the life you should have had with him, the one you were cheated out of.”

Sela swallowed hard and stared daggers at him. “How do you know about Niall?”

He ignored the question, determined, it seemed, to follow his own line of questioning. “Mores the pity that even a celebrated hunter like you couldn’t save him. You were on your way home from Beddington, and he was killed by Bonecrushers who ambushed you near the River Wye, was he not?"

Mam's eyes narrowed. "Answer the question. How in the names of the old gods do you know about Niall?" she challenged. Her voice trembled, layers of anger and grief surging forth at the mention of Sela's lost love.

He inclined his head in polite sympathy. "I realize this is a painful topic, but the king has ears in many places including here in Draklûn Bay. We have kept track of the famous Fairborne family for several years now. We know about Evelore’s time as a hunter before she retired, and passed the reins to her daughters. And we know about your father's illustrious career as a battlefield physick during the War of the Three Realms.

Eldrin gave “We also know that Tissington's mayor paid you in poultry for ridding them of their Bonecrusher problem.”

Cold rage flashed across Sela's features. Maisie felt her own stomach twist, torn between horror and fascination at how these strangers rifled through their deepest pains as though they were flipping pages of some storybook.

Mam drew a shaky breath. "You have no right to pry into our lives like this," she accused, gripping the back of a chair for support.

Vaelric held her gaze with the calm arrogance of someone who believed the king’s will was beyond question and by extension, so was his. "We do not do so lightly," he answered. "But we live in extraordinary times, and extraordinary measures are required."

Across the room, Granny Faelin leaned forward on her cane, glare snapping with fury. "Your king meddles in things better left alone. What do you want from our family?"

Eldrin's gaze drifted to Maisie now, as though sensing her sudden dread. He gave a faint smile that didn't reach his eyes. "You, dear Maisie, stand at a crossroads. We are aware of the problem you face." He lifted an eyebrow. "A certain suitor whose demands weigh heavily on your shoulders."

The mention of Bramble made Maisie's cheeks flare hot. Her voice felt trapped in her throat. She hated that they could see her desperation so plainly—how she'd dreamed of escaping that coerced marriage through any means. Vile as it felt, a spark of hope flickered within her chest. If these mages had influence with the king, could they help?

Sela, eyes like twin shards of ice, stepped toward Maisie, protective. "Leave her alone," she hissed. "Stay out of all our private matters, you vultures."

Eldrin glided a half step back, raising his hands again in an almost theatrical show of peace. "We mean no offense, Miss Fairborne. But we have come to offer a proposition. The king needs skilled hunters for a task of utmost secrecy. Balrûth Dûm is rumored to hide ancient valuables that might secure your future beyond question. Bring them to King Rodmar, and your family's debts vanish."

Maisie's pulse lurched. Balrûth Dûm. She'd heard the name in half-whispered tales of hidden troves, cursed labyrinths, and monstrous guardians that devoured careless souls. She glanced anxiously at her father, whose brow furrowed. This was no ordinary job. The dread was almost overwhelming, and yet she thought of the old door splitting at the hinges if Bramble seized their home. Treasures buried in Balrûth Dûm? If it were real, it was an opportunity that might indeed fix everything.

Vaelric's voice gentled. "With the king's resources, you would gain more than coin. You would gain protection. Influence. Even certain…enchantments, if needed. If you wish your suitor to lose interest, Miss Maisie, that can be arranged with a few well-placed charms."

A shiver rippled up Maisie's back. The thought of ending Bramble's threat via magic enticed her then nauseated her. Something in that promise felt wrong, twisted. Free will was precious, not something to warp by conjuring it away. But fear wove through her thoughts, tempting her to consider it anyway.

Othros, silent till now, spoke. His voice was distant, almost hollow. "If you prefer a different solution, you need only say the word and it will be done. There are ways to eliminate an unwanted pest without magic. Your pernicious suiter could just…disappear into the earth. For good."

What? Were they seriously offering to get rid of Bramble through more nefarious means? Maisie's heart pounded, a drumbeat of disbelief and alarm. She couldn't quite wrap her mind around it. Weren't these the king's mages, supposedly bound by duty and honor? Yet here they were, offering something dark and irreversible with a casualness that sent a chill down her spine.

Her gaze flicked to Sela, who stood tense and silent, her eyes narrowed with a mix of suspicion and outrage. Maisie felt the same emotions churning within her, a turbulent sea of anger and fear. She clenched her fists, her nails pressing sharply into her palms.

She wanted to be free of the odious man, and she wanted to help pay the family’s debts, but not at the cost of the mages’ apparent offer to plant the man six feet under. Still, there had to be a way to get Bramble out of their lives for good, and not sell her soul to do it.

Eldrin shrugged casually, like it was just one of many negotiations he’d done on behalf of the king, and was used to suggesting all manner of horrible choices for anyone willing to accept their terms. “We can also cast enchantments on Alexander Melbyn, the vineyard master Miss Maisie seems to have her eye on. He could be hopelessly in love with her in only a few hours, if you like.”

Da looked at Maisie. “You have eyes for the vineyard master? When did that happen?”

Sela spoke before Maisie could say anything. "He’s just an option, right now, so Maisie doesn’t have to marry Bramble.” She turned to the mages. “We don't buy love. And we don’t hurt people to get what we want. You can stuff your offer back into whatever dark corner you crawled out of."

“Sela! Stop!” Maisie cried.

The last thing they needed was to anger the mages. Who knew how they’d strike back at them? They didn’t look like the type of people who took ‘no’ for an answer. If she could get her sister alone for just five minutes, they could come up with a counter offer. They needed the coin, and all of their problems would go away. “Let’s talk about this privately. I’m sure we can come up with another⁠—”

“Maisie, keep quiet,” Sela hissed. She was already too angry to consider negotiating another option after the offer of grossly misusing love magic, and the possible threat of murder.

Eldrin’s eyes narrowed. "Love most certainly can be bought, Miss Sela, and anyone who says differently doesn’t understand how the world works. And if we can remove obstacles and smooth the path for your sister toward the kind of love she wants, the kind of love she deserves, where is the harm in that?"

Da, who had remained quiet, finally forced himself between Sela and the mages. Anxiety pinched the corners of his eyes. "Tell the king we’re grateful for his…generous offer," he said, choosing his words carefully. "But it’s clear my daughters have no interest in the king’s quest."

“I do,” Maisie interrupted. She gave Sela a pleading look. “We just have to find terms we can all agree on.”

Eldrin smiled and opened both arms wide like he wanted to embrace Maisie, who instinctively took one step back. “Maisie Fairborne, you make sense. We are open to discussing other rewards for your service, if you wish.”

Sela bared her teeth in a silent warning, pain etched in every rigid line of her body. “Too late. We wouldn’t take your coin if the king offered it himself.”

Eldrin's gaze flicked around, reading the household's reaction. His eyes sparked, like a predator’s. "The king offers you whatever you want. I speak with his authority." His voice cut across the silence in the room with chilling certainty. "The king has a long memory for those who refuse his requests. You would be wise to accept this…generous offer."

The hair at Maisie's nape prickled. A threat lay behind those words, as unmistakable as a viper's hiss. The entire room felt charged, like a storm's tension ready to break. She looked at Sela's face; anger warred with protective instinct. Grim acceptance flickered in Mam's eyes. Maisie began to tremble, imagining what might happen if they said no.

Sela took several steps forward, brushing off Da's restraining hand on her arm. Through gritted teeth, she addressed the mages. "Get out of this house."

Eldrin inclined his head, his smirk made a mockery of courtesy. “If that is your wish.”

The three mages rose from the table and headed for the door, though Othros's dark stare lingered on Maisie a moment longer. She felt exposed, as if he saw right through her courage to the dread that lay beneath. Then he followed the others.

Eldrin paused a moment and, ignoring Sela, he said to Maisie, “Our journey takes on the northern road to the castle. If you change your mind, you will find us at the coach inn at Newbiggin. We will stay there two nights before continuing on.”

Da opened the front door for them. “We have heard enough. Time for you to go.”

With a last look at the Fairborne family, King Rodmar’s mages left, and Da closed the door firmly behind them.

Silence hung in the air like a dark shroud. No one moved. Sela's breath rasped, and Granny Faelin's cane tapped on the floor as she shifted, muttering curses. Mam turned to place the ladle down before her trembling fingers dropped it. Da pinched the bridge of his nose once more, so many unspoken worries carved into the taut lines of his face.

Outside, wind pressed against the shutters, rattling them. Every candle's flame danced erratically, seemingly disturbed by more than just drafts from the windows. Sela rubbed at her chest, as if physical pain lodged there.

Mam sank onto the long bench on one side of the table. She rested her elbows on her knees and put her head in her hands, inhaling and exhaling slowly. Da went to her, and laid a gentle hand on her back. Neither said a word. Granny Faelin glared at the door, knuckles white as she clutched her cane, while Sela stood silent and quivering with rage.

Maisie's heart hammered with conflicting emotions. Relief that the mages had left. Horror of what they offered. And pinned under it all, a spark of yearning that kept whispering, this quest could save you from Bramble forever. The knowledge of how easily her life could be manipulated by men stole her breath away. She glanced at Da as he kissed the top of Mam’s head and whispered something that made her smile. He was so strong. So loving and supportive. Why couldn’t all men be made like her Da?

“I’d rather be eaten alive by any monster in those bloody mountains than marry Alistair Bramble!” Maisie’s voice cracked hard on “marry,” and then she screamed with rage and despair poured out of her in one long, raw sound. She kicked a stool across the kitchen, sending it crashing into the wall, then collapsed to her knees, fists pounding the floor.

Sela blinked. “Oh for the love of…Maisie, pull yourself together.”

“You don’t understand!” Maisie sobbed, chest heaving. “You never understand! You’re always so calm and so cold and so ready to walk away from things before they hurt you!”

“What I understand,” Sela said, biting off every word, “You want to make a deal with mages who threaten to kill people and twist magic to control anyone who gets in their way. That’s not power, Maisie. That’s cruelty. They’re no better than Bramble.”

Da tried to step in, his voice calm and useless. “Girls. We’ll find another way. We’ll talk to Breck at the stables, maybe sell the mule⁠—”

“We will handle Bramble,” Mam said quickly, eyes darting between them. “We’ll scrape something together, work the debt off another way⁠—”

“It won’t work.” Maisie’s eyes were red and wild. “He will buy up out debt, and then we will owe him, and I will be the price. The mages said we could name our own terms. We don’t have to take their worst offer. They gave us the chance to bargain! We should take it.”

“Gods, listen to yourself,” Sela snapped. “That’s not a gift, that’s bait on a hook. You think just because they come on the king’s business, smile and offer us the world, they’re trustworthy? If we get mixed up with them, we will pay a heavier price than you being forced to marry Alistair Bramble.”

Maisie rose to her feet, hands shaking. “So, you’d let Bramble buy me like I’m livestock? Smile while he—he touches me with those damp little hands and kisses me with that foul mouth and—and⁠—”

Sela looked away. Just for a second. That was all Maisie needed. She dropped to her knees in front of her. “Please.” Her voice went small. “We’ve got to do this or my life is over.”

Sela took a deep breath, Sela took a deep breath, but it shuddered as it came out. Her shoulders were tense, fists clenched at her sides like she didn’t trust herself to move. Her jaw worked like she was chewing back words too sharp to speak aloud. She didn’t look at Maisie right away—couldn’t. Her gaze stayed fixed on the far wall, on nothing in particular, like if she focused hard enough, the floor wouldn’t be shaking under her feet.

When she finally looked down, her eyes were wet, though she didn’t blink. Didn’t dare. Her expression was tight, brittle around the edges, like a person trying to hold too many things in place—anger, fear, guilt. Love.

“I don’t want that for you,” she said, low and rough. “You think I’d ever choose him over you?” Her voice cracked, just slightly. “But the mages—what they are, what they do—it’s worse than anything Bramble could take. They don’t just make deals, Maisie. They own people.”

She knelt slowly, like her knees didn’t want to bend, like the weight of what Maisie was asking made her bones ache. One hand reached out, hovered mid-air, then dropped to her lap. “I’m trying to protect you. Even if you can’t see it.”

Maisie didn’t answer. Her hands were shaking. Sela reached for them, but Maisie flinched.

Sela flinched too, then looked down, jaw tightening. “You think I’m heartless. I’m not,” she said quietly. “I don’t get to fall apart like you do.”

“I can’t do it,” Maisie whispered. “I’ll die before I let him put a ring on my hand.”

Sela crouched down, reached for her sister’s arm, but Maisie flinched. “If you let this happen,” she said, eyes shining and fierce, “I will never forgive you. Never, Sela. Not even if the gods themselves demanded I do.”

She ran to her room and slammed the door. She wouldn’t come out the rest of the night, and didn’t care that her sister, whom she shared the room with, would have to sleep on a pallet next to the hearth.

In the wee hours of that restless night, Maisie knew only one thing for sure: the king's mages had brought her worst fear out into the open, and held it up to her like a mirror. They knew everything about her family, and how to use it to their advantage.

Their power wasn’t only from magic. It was the deliberate, manipulation of court politics. The kind that wore a courteous smile, spoke in velvet tones, and offered protection while reminding you there was a noose around your neck. They didn’t need spells to control people. They used secrets as pressure points, and wielded the king’s name with the precision of a blade. And they’d wield her and her sister like weapons, in the same way.

Maisie knew Sela was right. The king’s mages weren’t the kind of people you made clean, simple deals with—there would be a price either way. Whether they took the quest or walked away, something would be lost. Still, Maisie hoped she could change her sister’s mind, hoped she could make her see that the reward might be worth the danger.

Chapter

Six

Maisie woke with puffy eyes and a throat raw from crying herself to sleep. She swallowed a knot of anxiety and immediately felt the absence of her sister’s comforting warmth in the bed they shared. She had barred Sela from the bedroom in a moment of foolish pride, so she had spent the dark hours alone, drifting between fretful dreams and stifled sobs. It had been a relief to hear the bustle of the household stir, signaling the day’s start.

She pressed her palms to her damp cheeks, willing herself not to lose composure yet again. She needed clarity. Outside, the rooster was in uproar, crowing so frequently that she suspected it had taken personal offense at her anguish. Eventually, she forced herself off the lumpy mattress and toward the small washbasin by the window. A pitcher half-filled with water waited. She poured a modest amount into the basin and splashed her face, inhaling sharply as cold water droplets cascaded down her cheeks. It shocked her awake, though it did not diminish the heaviness behind her eyes.

Bracing her palms on the side table, she glanced at her reflection in the polished steel plate hung on the wall. They didn't have money for the newer mirrors made of glass which, she'd heard, were not much better than what they owned. Even in the blurr of her makeshift mirror, she could tell her eyes were puffy, and her cheeks blotched from crying. She raked her fingers through her hair, attempting to smooth it into something resembling order. Then she dressed hurriedly in a plain tunic and leggings. Enough time to fret about appearances once she no longer felt like a cornered hare about to be devoured by a fox.

Footsteps creaked in the hallway beyond her door. Children’s squeals rang out, cheerful and bright, followed by Mam’s admonishing tone. Her siblings were probably dawdling before breakfast again. Maisie took another steadying breath, then slipped into the hallway. She slipped down the short flight of stairs toward the great room, where the family gathered for breakfast. The scent of eggs and pottage filled the air. Still, Maisie’s stomach churned, her appetite nowhere to be found.

Mam was at the hearth, ladle in hand, while Da stacked the wooden plates and bowls nearby so she could serve breakfast., Granny Faelin sat at one end of the long table, leaning on her cane and grinning as her grandchildren jostled for space along the bench beside her. Sela sat in her usual spot, the middle of the second long bench, surrounded by the rest of their siblings. She was stiffer than usual and wore a guarded expression. The seat next to her was empty, left for Maisie. Heart pounding, Maisie crossed the room, ignoring the curious glances of her younger siblings and parents, and settled on the bench.

Mam served her a portion of eggs and a portion of pottage that smelled faintly of thyme. “Eat,” Mam said, though the word carried sympathy rather than sharpness.

Maisie stared at the food, blinking against fresh tears that threatened to spill. She wanted to apologize to Sela for shutting her out last night, but the words refused to form. Instead, she tried to murmur good morning, but the word got stuck in her throat.

Sela realized what she was trying to say and nodded, her eyes heavy with concern. “Morning.” 

A few moments later, Sela made an announcement. “I’ve been thinking on everything. About our Bramble problem and the…other threats.” Her expression tightened, and the entire room seemed to still, even the littlest siblings holding their spoons in midair. “We should accept the king's quest. If we refuse, we'll have more worries to deal with than the human embodiment of a mildew stain who thinks Maisie's refusal to marry him means 'try harder.' If this quest is what it takes to pay our debt and keep us safe, then...so be it.”

A flurry of reactions rippled through the group. Granny Faelin straightened her spine, the corners of her mouth hinting at approval. Mam’s ladle paused over the serving bowl. Da lowered a half-filled spoon. But Maisie could only inhale a shaky breath, eyes brimming with gratitude. She flung her arms around her sister's shoulders, nearly knocking them both off the bench.

“Thank the gods,” Maisie said, her voice breaking with relief. She kissed Sela's cheek over and over until her sister a faint squeak of protest slipped from Sela as she nearly toppled onto Mam’s pot behind them. Maisie drew back, tears glistening. She hated being this emotional in front of everyone, but the release felt necessary, like a storm finally clearing.

Sela let out a breath. “Easy,” she said wryly. “I’m doing this for you as much as for the rest of the family. I can't stand to see you so miserable.”

Sniffing, Maisie nodded, her chest fluttering with a nerves and fragile hope. “I promise you won’t regret it. We’ll get the coin, fix our debts, and then…” She drew in a breath. “We’ll figure out a way to deal with Bramble so he never bothers us again.”

“I suspect I’ll regret plenty,” Sela muttered, though her lips curved into a faint, tired smile. “But we need a plan.”

Maisie dabbed her eyes with her shirt sleeve, and realized the entire household stared at her as if waiting for her to collapse again. She tried to muster a brave front, fiddling with her spoon instead of eating. “We’ll need to leave, soon. The mages said they'd stay only two days in Newbiggin, in case we changed our mind. If we ride out by midday, we can catch them.”

“I’m going with you,” Da said firmly. “You two might be accomplished hunters, but I’m not sending you off on this journey without making sure you have everything you need, and you're protected as much as possible.”

Mam smiled at him, though she turned back to the hearth to stir the pottage. Granny Faelin’s grip on her cane tightened. She rarely opposed Da’s protective instincts, but that did not mean she liked the idea of him joining. Finally, Sela exhaled, meeting Da’s gaze. “If you come, who will look after Mam and the younger ones?”

“We’ll figure it out,” Da said. “Let’s pack first.”

For the next few hours, the house was pure chaos—which is to say, perfectly normal. The children darted around, eager to help, though their 'help' involved more chatter and laughter than anything truly useful. They packed light, just enough to survive the road, fight what needed fighting, and tend wounds when the fighting was done. Bedrolls, oilskin cloaks, and waterskins went into the bottom of their rucksacks, followed by trail rations carefully wrapped in cloth. Sela’s gear was lean and efficient: spare blades, whetstone, rope coiled tight, and a bundle of chalk and charcoal sticks she used to mark paths—or draw runes when the old magic called for it. Her sword sat at her hip, well-oiled and ready.

Maisie’s pack rattled faintly with glass and herb pouches. She carried her little leather healer’s kit, stocked with dried valerian, silverleaf, yarrow, and poultices wrapped in waxed linen. A balm pot nestled in a cloth bag, padded so it wouldn’t crack, and she slipped in her tiniest mortar and pestle at the last moment, muttering that she could crush anything with a stone if it came to it.

She paused before closing the flap and added the cloth-wrapped sweets their Da had given her—ginger candies made with honey and pepper. A small, carved wooden charm from one of the younger children dangled from a cord tied to her bag.

Sela had only one keepsake: Niall’s ring, strung on the leather cord around her neck. She touched it once before buckling the last strap on her pack. 

Mam’s eyes rested on Maisie. “Be safe. We will send Whisper and Glim along once we receive word you're on your way into the forest. They can bring supplies to you,” she said, tucking a stray lock of hair behind Maisie’s ear. “We taught you and Sela well. You are unstoppable.” She hesitated. 

Mam pulled Maisie into a fierce hug, arms strong despite the years. For a moment, Maisie let herself melt into it—into the warmth of home, of her mother’s steady heartbeat, of the familiar scent of sage and hearth smoke.

Mam’s voice dropped to a whisper against her ear. “You are my heart, Maisie-girl. I love you more than you’ll ever know.”

"I love you, too, Mam," Maisie said, throat tight, and clung to her mother just a second longer before pulling away.

Granny Faelin rasped out a warning from her stool. “Don’t trust those mages, Get everything in writing,” she said. “You keep your wits about you. Magic that toys with hearts is as dangerous as any monster’s jaws.”

"Don't worry, Gran," Sela replied. "We won't mess with magic that makes people fall in love." She shot a look at Maisie who promptly gave her a 'who, me?' look. "Those spells always turn out wrong."

A flurry of wings suddenly whooshed overhead drew everyone’s attention. Whisper and Glim, flew down from the rafters to alight on their perches. 

Whisper ruffled his feathers as he looked at Granny Faelin. “Says the woman who married a man with sky-blue eyes and a body that could make traffic stop in the square.”

Glim chimed in from atop the cupboard. “Mmhm. If she didn't use magic on him, it was at least mild enchantment. Poor Faelin never stood a chance.”

Granny Faelin huffed, smacking her cane on the floor. “It wasn’t magic, it was charm, and the two of us had plenty of it, unlike some feathery know-it-alls.”

Whisper bowed low, wings spread in mock apology. “We mean no offense, Glim and I only meant admiration for your impeccable taste.”

"Of course you did,' Granny smirked. "You were always watching us, weren't you? Silly buggers."

“Speaking of keeping watch over some one," Maisie said to Whisper and Glim, “Keep an eye on Alexander for me? And when you do a supply run, tell me if he’s pining for me yet.” 

Glim cawed, rolling her glittering eyes in mock exasperation. "Must we? He's such a boring man. Whatever do you see in him?"

Whisper snapped his beak. "Maybe you will meet someone on the road. Someone who sweeps you off your feet."

Sela overheard the conversation and gave Maisie a stern look. "That's not happening. We keep our head in the quest, right?"

"Right."

Once the girls' were packed, Da went to borrow horses from a neighbor down the road. It took another hour to secure permission and saddles, a favor Da claimed from saving that same neighbor’s son from a wasting sickness in the past. By midday, three well-fed and eager to run horses stood outside the Fairborne house. 

They said goodbye to everyone in the house and rode off toward Newbiggin, a small but lively settlement north along a winding road. By the time they saw the first thatched roofs in the distance, the sun had begun to set. Soon, the tavern came into view: a squat, timber-framed building with a moss-covered roof and crooked shutters. Its stone foundation was weathered by years of wind and rain. A hand-painted sign swung above the door, depicting a tankard frothing over, the faded lettering beneath it reading The Fox and Bellows. Smoke curled from the chimney, and the low thrum of voices drifted from within.

The courtyard bustled with activity. Horses were tethered to a rough-hewn rail, stable hands darting between them with pails and brushes. Travelers sat on overturned barrels or stone benches, eating from wooden bowls or polishing gear. Maisie dismounted and exchanged a glance with Sela, who looked just as wary. Da patted his horse’s flank, his eyes scanning the crowd before following them inside. They handed the horses' reins to the grooms who would care for them overnight, then went inside.

The tavern was hot and noisy, typical for roadside public houses on a busy road. The air filled with the scent of roasted meat, vegetables, and robust ale. The scents made Maisie’s mouth water, and she realized how hungry she was. Wood tables crowded the floor, every one of them packed with tired travelers eating and nursing mugs of something strong. The low ceiling and exposed beams made the space feel even more claustrophobic.

Near the back of the room, tucked into the shadows of a long table, Maisie spotted Vaelric Fenmora and Othros Calveris. The third, Eldrin Laedur, stepped in from an adjacent chamber just then, a rolled parchment in hand and a look on his face that suggested he had been waiting.

As the Fairbornes approached them, their eyes flicking over the newcomers. “Ah,” Eldrin said, sounding faintly pleased. “I see you have come to your senses.”

Sela planted her fists at her hips. “We want to make a deal, but on our terms,” she said without preamble. “We’ll do this blasted quest to find Balrûth Dûm, but here are our conditions. First, you pay enough coin in advance that our family can cover our debt.” Her tone sharpened. “Maisie and I cannot leave our family at the mercy of Alistair Bramble. He will do anything, while we're gone, to try to force my sister's hand in marriage.”

Eldrin’s expression was neutral, as if he'd been expecting a negotiation. “That is acceptable. Go on,” he said.

Maisie took a breath. “Second, we want you to convince Bramble that I am now in the king’s service and marrying him is impossible. If he has half a mind, he will not attempt further…proposals.”

Vaelric inclined his head. “We can arrange that,” he said, glancing at Othros. “What else?”

“No blood contract,” Sela stated. “Ink only. We do not want a magical bond that tethers us indefinitely to you or anybody else.”

For a moment, Maisie feared a rejection from Eldrin, but the mage favored them with a careful, unreadable smile. “As you wish,” he said, flicking his eyes toward the parchment. “It will take until tomorrow morning to revise it, and then we shall finalize everything.” 

Sela gave a curt nod, shoulders still tight with distrust. “We will read everything in that contract very carefully."

Eldrin’s eyes gleamed. “We would expect nothing less. We have already taken the liberty of paying for your food and lodgings for the night. The inn above the tavern is in high demand when there are many travelers on the road.”

"It was a risky assumption to make," Da replied, looking uneasy.

Vaelric chuckled. "We trusted you had more sense than to turn down such a profitable offer. Whether you find Balrûth Dûm or not, the crown will set y

Da looked uneasy as they left the mages and found a table near a window. Maisie’s stomach rumbled from hunger she was too anxious to satisfy. The tavern served them a meal—bread, gravy-laden meat, and a bit of boiled vegetables. They ate quietly, exchanging few words, the tension coiling like a silent rope around them.

At last, Da cleared his throat. “I am coming on this journey,” he said quietly but firmly, “as a healer. Perhaps these mages have potions, but I do not trust them with my daughters’ lives.”

Sela set down her spoon. “Da, we…we want you to be safe,” she began. “Mam and the younger ones need you. With tension so high, if anything happens to you out there⁠—”

“It would be a far worse blow to the family,” Maisie said, finishing Sela’s thought, her voice catching. “We can’t risk losing you, too.”

Da’s jaw set. “If you think I can watch you go into unknown territory, alone with magic-wielding strangers, you are mistaken.”

Maisie cast him a pleading look, her throat constricting. “Please. The whole reason we’re doing this is to protect our home. If the worst happens to you, there will be no one to keep Bramble or anyone else from turning us out anyway.”

He opened his mouth to protest, but Sela turned to him and gently laid a hand on his arm. “This is our best option,” she said softly. “We’re good at surviving out there. You and Mam are good at defending the family from within. Trust us.”

That final appeal made Da sag in his seat. He pressed the heel of his hand to his forehead, eyes closed. After a long pause, he exhaled. “All right,” he conceded reluctantly. “But only if you take Sir Edric with you. He is my friend, and I trust him to keep watch when I cannot.”

“Sir Edric Strum?” Maisie asked, recalling the older knight who had occasionally visited Da to share stories of their war days. She remembered him as gruff but good-hearted.

Da nodded, tightening his lips. “He served with me, saved my life more than once. If he also thinks the mages are trouble, he will see you safely out of it. The only way I will allow you to sign that contract in the morning is if Edric is part of your band.”

Sela’s eyebrow twitched in faint exasperation, though her tone remained calm. “Da, you cannot truly forbid us⁠—”

He gave her a sly sidelong look. “I cannot physically stop you, no. But I can certainly sabotage your contract or your supplies until the chance is lost. You must have realized that. So do this for me…for our family.”

Silence filled the space between them. Maisie glanced around, noticing that the closest table had gone quiet, eavesdropping. She gave them a quick glare, and they turned away in embarrassment. Eventually, Sela sighed. “Fine,” she said, “we’ll let him accompany us.”

“Good,” Da said, relaxing by a degree. He stared down at the chipped wooden tabletop. Then he flicked his gaze to Maisie, wearing a gentle, almost teasing half-smile that drew out his crow’s-feet. “Now that’s settled, you’d best sort out your gear and find a place to rest tonight. If I have to hear you call me Popsie once more, I might just chase you off before dawn.”

Maisie tried to smile, though her cheeks heated. “But Popsie,” she drawled in a playful tone, “I thought you adored that name.”

He snorted. “Off with you, girl. Go find your room so I can preserve my dignity.” He gave her a quick, affectionate smile, then waved them away.

Maisie felt a little lighter, and Sela looked more relaxed than she had in—what, days? No, months. Possibly since the last harvest festival where nothing caught fire. The king’s mages had agreed to their terms, which meant the family debts might actually get paid and Bramble could shove his creepy marriage threats where the sun didn’t shine. All in all, not bad. Just one teensy hitch: they still had to survive the quest. And with their luck? The road ahead was probably crawling with beasties, curses, and the kind of magical nonsense that came with a side of emotional damage. But, hey, at least the hens would be laying eggs back at home

Chapter

Seven

Maisie woke with a knot in her stomach that felt impossibly tight. It was still dark outside, with only a thin sliver of the setting moon casting a little light. Moments later, she heard the creak of Sela's cot as her sister got out of bed and began moving around the room. Maisie hadn't slept nearly enough, and she knew sleep would be a precious commodity on the trip. She swung her legs off the straw-filled cot and dressed quickly.

Her mind drifted to the journey to Dunvarrick Keep. She'd heard about it, and the duke whose family owned it, but she wasn't sure its reputed luxury would live up to expectations she'd built up in her mind.

"I wonder what Dunvarrick Keep will be like?" Maisie asked her sister.

"Old, drafty, freezing. Same as any other fortress we've ever been to."

"Except for the keep at Arundel Castle."

"True. That one was quite fancy."

They had stayed in one of the guest rooms in the keep at Arundel on a hunting trip; they'd contracted with the Earl of Arundel to eradicate a small pack of Firemanes, large lion-like creatures with flowing, ember-colored manes. Not only were they carnivorous, preferring to feast on small livestock, their breaths could ignite dry brush, often leading to deadly fires. A small percentage of the local woodland had been scorched by the beasts and, along with it, the homes of nearly a tenth of the nearby town. 

It had taken nearly two weeks to kill them all, so the earl gave them a chamber in the keep that was the most lavish room she'd ever seen. It was furnished with upholstered furniture, oak tables, a massive fireplace large enough for a grown man to stand in, and tapestries covering the walls. 

One tapestry was the most impressive of them all. It stretched across an entire wall, woven in gold and crimson threads. Its surface caught the light like dawn breaking through fog, and it depicted pilgrims ascending a steep, stony path toward The Steps of Aelora, one of the many sacred sites where devotees of the Valendorian gods affirmed their faith.

Some pilgrims were barefoot, some blindfolded, every one of them wore clothes worn and tattered from the hardship of the journey. One woman knelt on a step, bloodied but determined, clutching a charm that glowed faintly with magic. High above them, the goddess Aeloria had been stitched in soft blue and gold, arms open wide as if watching over them all. 

Maisie hoped the Duke of Dunvarrick kept a home that wasn't as dilapidated and cold as her sister feared.

Sela frowned. "I do hope they have nice, thick wool blankets. I doubt we'll have even a smidgeon of that luxury once we're on the road."

Two days ago, Alistair Bramble had been her greatest worry. Now, confronted by the prospect of a quest into the unfathomable maw of the Drakknir Mountains, Maisie couldn't help but weigh her options. For a brief, ironic moment, she considered whether a forced marriage to the repulsive Bramble might be preferable to facing the unknown horrors lurking ahead. In the end, she answered her own question: while the perils of the mountains were indeed intimidating, the thought of spending a lifetime with that odious, bloated brute was simply far worse.

Downstairs, the tavern still clung to the night's fumes, a mix of stale ale and woodsmoke. Da stood by the hearth, talking with the mages. Their cloaks, the color of a moonless night, seemed to absorb the dim light, magical trinkets glinting at their belts. They looked about as welcoming as a nest of vipers.

“You intend to sleep in every day? The quest will take a very long time indeed,” Eldrin said, his voice smooth as polished obsidian.

“The sun isn’t even up,” Sela snapped back. “And the quest will take as long as it takes.”

“May I see the revised contract before my daughters sign?” Da asked, cutting through the tension.

Vaelric produced the parchment. Da held it close to the firelight, reading through it carefully. Maisie and Sela peered over his shoulder, scanning the clauses. Da grunted. “The changes have been made.”

The sisters exchanged a nod. Sela stepped forward, quill in hand, and signed her name with a firm stroke. Maisie hesitated, a tremor of uncertainty running through her. *This is it,* she thought. *No going back.* She looked at Sela, seeking reassurance, then picked up the quill.

“Pay my Da,” Sela told the mages, her voice unwavering. “Then my sister will sign.”

Two of the mages bristled, but Eldrin simply raised an eyebrow, a flicker of amusement in his eyes. “Shrewd,” he remarked, reaching into a bag at his side. He pulled out a heavy pouch and tossed it to Da.

Da weighed it in his hand. “Feels…generous.” He nodded to Maisie.

Maisie signed, the weight of the quill heavy in her hand, the weight of the quest settling on her shoulders like a physical burden. The ink shimmered, a dark, indelible mark on the parchment, binding her to a path she hadn’t chosen, a path that led into the unknown heart of the Drakknir Mountains.

Vaelric proffered several rolled parchments to them. “These are your instructions for the quest. And a map to Dunvarrick. It should take you about a week to reach it.”

"We have a stop to make first," Da replied. "One of my oldest friends, a knight I served with in the war, will be accompanying the girls on their journey."

Eldrin's shoulders stiffened. "Is he trustworthy, this friend of yours?"

Da's eyes darkened. "Sir Edric Valestorm is a decorated war hero. I trust him with my life. More importantly, I trust him with theirs." He nodded toward his daughters. "That's all you need to know."

Maisie took the documents from Valeric, and tucked them into her leather bag, then slung it across her body so the bag's bulk rested against her hip. Eldrin’s gaze lingered, sharp as a hawk’s talon. “A magpie messenger has dispatched to the duke of your impending arrival. He will be ready to prepare you for the journey.”

Da cleared his throat. “What kind of preparation? The girls have their own supplies.”

“They need more than herbs and potions. The duke has an archive of ancient Valendorian texts,” Vaelric explained. “They include myths and legends about Balrûth Dûm, historical texts that may prove helpful. And he has recently acquired maps essential for navigating through the Drakknir Mountains.”

“We’ll be grateful for his help,” Sela said. "Remember your promise to inform Alistair Bramble his attentions toward my sister are no longer wise or welcome."

Maisie shot Sela a grateful look and her sister nodded in reply. Maisie turned to the mages. “We understand the obligations we must fulfill for the king” she said, forcing a polite tone. “We trust you will remember your obligations as well.”

Vaelric offered a perfunctory bow. "Fear not. We will see it done. Safe travels. We will expect reports along the way.” 

"You'll get reports as we are able to send them," Maisie agreed.

Once the mages had gone, Sela let out a slow breath. “Right let's get on the road. We're wasting time.”

The ride to Sir Edric’s was long and dusty. Wildflowers blazed along the roadside, but Maisie barely noticed. A sense of foreboding, heavy as a thundercloud, hung over her.

After a day’s travel, they reached the small village of Mecklin, population 25. Da pointed down a narrow track. “Edric’s place is just beyond those trees.”

Sir Edric's cottage was small and unassuming, with a thatched roof and a lovely garden in front that was filled with vegetables and fruit. A suit of armor, rusty and askew, perched on a pole in the middle of the garden like a scarecrow.

“I get the feeling he's not nostalgic for his days in the king's service,” Sela muttered.

Sorrowful shadows crossed Da's face. "None of us are, honey." 

The weight of the years he'd spent as a physick in the war had left their mark on him. His usually warm eyes shimmered with tears when he thought nobody was looking. It was how Maisie knew he might be thinking of the lives he couldn't save on the battlefield. And her heart broke for him.

Da knocked on the door and it took a few minutes for someone to answer. The door creaked open, revealing a burly man with a wild mane of gray hair and a knife in his hand. He looked ready to gut a trout. Then he saw Da.

“Brenton? Brenton Fairborne?”

Da grinned. “Edric, you old warthog. It has been a long time.”

Sir Edric lowered the knife, relief washing over his face as he ushered them inside. “Too long. Come in, come in."

Inside, the air was thick with the smell of freshly baked bread. The cottage was small and cozy, and none of the furniture matched. Shelves lined the walls, packed with books, trinkets, and curiosities that told tales of a life well-lived. 

By the fireplace, a well-loved armchair invited a guest to sit and enjoy its comfort despite its faded fabric. While the place exuded warmth and character, the dust and cobwebs suggested it wouldn't have minded a little tidying up.

"Introduce me to your traveling companions," Edric said to Da.

"They're my two oldest daughters," Da replied with a grin as he sat down at the table in the center of the room.

Edric stopped near a cupboard, one hand on the cabinet pull. He gaped at both girls for a moment before settling on Sela "This can't be the same bairn who was in nappies when I saw you last."

“That was me,” Sela said dryly. “I’ve mostly outgrown the temper tantrums and shitting myself.”

Maisie laughed. "There was that time we were fighting the Fellspiders. You actually did⁠—"  

Sela interrupted. "That's enough. Nobody wants to hear about that."

"I might," Edric replied. He looked at Maisie. "You're feisty. I like you."

“I'm Maisie," she introduced herself. "There's ten more just like me at home.”

Sir Edric raised an eyebrow. “Girl, I have a feeling there's nobody else on earth who is just like you.”

Da chuckled, shaking his head in agreement. "She's a force of nature, for sure." He glanced at Sela. "They both are. Their magical and hunting skills keep me on my toes. They've saved a lot of lives, and I couldn't be prouder."

“A dozen,” Maisie confirmed. “We could field our own army.”

“Spirits above,” Edric muttered. “You Fairbornes. Always breeding like…well, never mind. Sit, sit. I've got roast chicken, potatoes, and carrots on.”

He ladled out generous portions. Da took a sip, letting out a satisfied hum. “Best meal I’ve had for a while.”

Edric preened. “I’ve a knack for it. Prefer cooking and gardening to fighting, these days, truth be told. Even traveling, I can forage for herbs and root vegetables to make even the most humble meal taste like it came straight from the king’s table.”

“Da doesn't tell us much about your time in the war,” Sela observed. “Just that you were close.”

Edric shrugged. “One battle isn't much different than another. Only thing important to tell is how your Da saved my skin more times than I can count. Patched me up when others wouldn’t have bothered.” He looked at Da, gratitude in his eyes. “That war…it wasn’t pretty.”

Da nodded gravely. “There was no glory in it. That is certainly true”

Maisie watched as a quiet moment passed between Edric and Da, their eyes holding the shared understanding of men who had faced extraordinary and terrible things together. She wondered how she and Sela would carry the weight of their own battles as they grew older. 

Would they find the same camaraderie and strength Da and Edric had, or would the burden of their experiences be a heavier, more solitary thing? Would they be haunted by the things they'd done, and the people they couldn't save, as old memories played through their minds in the middle of lonely night? 

Maisie watched her sister for a moment and knew Sela already carried that burden for Niall, and it might never get lighter for her.

Da cleared his throat. “We need a favor, Edric.” He looked at his daughters. “A big one.”

Edric leaned back. “If you’re asking for coin, I’m afraid you’ll be disappointed.” He waved around his sparsely furnished cottage. “I live quite simply these days. Any other favor you ask, I will grant if I’m able.”

Da shook his head. “The girls have accepted a royal quest to find Balrûth Dûm. I have a family to protect at home so I cannot journey with them.”

Edric’s face hardened, and he seemed to get the gist of where Da was going pretty quickly. “I’m retired.”

Da’s voice was firm. “I know. But my girls accepted the quest and they need protection. There's nobody in the world I'd trust with them with than you.”

Edric sighed. “I have a quiet life here. Cooking, gardening, letting my armor rust. I’m not looking for trouble.”

Da’s voice was calm but insistent. “You swore a life-debt, Edric. You said if I ever needed you, to just ask." Da's voice quivered just a bit. "Well, I'm asking. Protect my daughters. Please."

There was a long, uncomfortable silence. Then Edric slumped in his chair. “Fine. Blast it all. I’ll go. But I’m warning you, these old bones ain’t what they used to be. And I’m not fighting anything unless I absolutely have to.”

Da smiled. “We’ll take what we can get.”

They finished the good, swapping stories, the past weaving its way through their words. Maisie felt the weight of the choices her father and Edric had made long ago, and how they bound them to paths they never knew they'd have to travel.

Edric insisted they stay the night with him instead of going to the local inn. He brought out blankets and pallets covered with goose down. “The hearth is warm enough. Unless you fancy sleeping in the haybarn with the animals.”

“Next to the hearth is fine,” Maisie assured him as they set up their beds.

Outside, the last of the light faded into black. The fire crackled in the grate, a small beacon against the encroaching darkness. Inside, the fire crackled in the grate, casting flickering shadows that danced across the walls. The gentle popping of the logs and the soft rustle of the flames filled the room, creating a sense of peace and safety.

“Remember when we were kids?” Sela asked, softly. “Listening to Mam plan her monster hunts by the fire when she thought we were asleep?”

“We wanted to be heroes. Just like her,” Maisie said.

“I already miss home,” Sela admitted. “The chaos, the kids, Mam's food. Granny Faelin’s stories. This is going to be hard.”

Maisie nodded. She missed the familiar clamor of her family, the warmth of the hearth, even the irritating predictability of Bramble’s visits. “Are we doing the right thing?” she whispered, the question nagging at her even though she'd been the one who wanted it the most.

“No going back now,” Sela said softly. “Get some sleep. You're going to need it.”

Maisie watched the firelight flicker on the walls. Despite the uncertainty ahead, she closed her eyes, letting the warmth of the fire and her sister's slow, rhythmic breathing lull her to sleep.

Chapter

Eight

Maisie hated goodbyes. They carried a quiet sadness that settled in her chest, even though deep down she knew that moving on was necessary. When the time came to part from those she loved, every second seemed to stretch out, filled with memories of laughter and shared moments that made leaving all the more painful.

She hadn't bid farewell to a house, she had saying goodbye to the people, and the safety, and warmth that every corner of her home represented. A part of her lingered in those familiar rooms in Draklûn Bay. The thought of the looming uncertainty beyond out in the wide world was daunting. It had been abated, a little, by having Da around. But, now, she and Sela would say goodbye to him, too, and it all felt so...final. In each lingering moment, every whispered word and every tender embrace spoke volumes about the struggle within her heart to let go.

Maisie recognized the weariness in Da's eyes as he came downstairs to Edric's kitchen. His shoulders were hunched, but he straightened as soon as he noticed her, forcing a soft smile.

“You’re up early.” His voice cracked just enough that her chest tightened.

“We have a long road to Dunvarrick Keep,” Maisie replied, patting the bench next to her. He sat, and closed his hand over hers as it rested on the table. She let her arm rest against his, seeking comfort in that small contact. "Sir Edric wants to set out soon so we make the most of daylight."

He nodded. “I know. Your mother’s an early bird, too.” Glancing at the low-burning lantern overhead, he forced another smile. “If she were here, she'd be double-checking your weapons and your herbs and potions stores."

"She double-checked her double-checking at least twice before we left."

"Yeah, well, that's what she does." Da smiled and kissed her hand. 

Soon enough, Sir Edric came downstairs, his footsteps echoing on the worn floorboards. Draped in his well-worn traveling cloak and carrying a pack secured by thick leather straps, he moved with steady urgency. Moments later, Sela reappeared from outside.

"Horses are saddled," she announced. she glanced at Sir Edric. "Even saddled yours."

"Thank you," he replied. "That was kind of you."

"We need to get moving. Go as far as we can before sunset. That's when the nocturnal beasties begin to stir." She glanced at Maise. "You ready?"

Maisie glanced at Da who was looking rather stoic. She wouldn't make his leaving harder by getting emotional. "I am."

They grabbed the packs of food Edric had assembled the night before. Hardtack, dried venison, raisins, figs, and dates. It was enough for sustenance while journeying to the next town, and would sustain them on the nights if they didn't reach a village and had to sleep rough.

Edric locked up his house, Da and Maisie stepped out into the cool morning air. The saddled horses waited quietly by the door, their steady breaths mingling with the dewy dawn. Da’s eyes, heavy with a thousand unspoken worries, met Maisie’s. He pulled her into a bear hug. His whiskers brushed her cheek, and the familiar scent of lavender salve clung to his clothes. Then, he hugged Sela.

“I want you to know,” he said, his voice shaking slightly, “that I’m proud of both of you.”

Maisie tried to reply but found no breath. She only nodded, throat tight. Sela mounted her horse.

Sir Edric cleared his throat. “I promise to watch over your daughters, Brenton. Been a few battles since I last stood beside your family, but I won’t fail them.” His tone was gruff, yet a deep sincerity underpinned each word.

Da’s eyes glistened. “Stay alive. Message when you can,” he managed to say before he left.

It took a good two miles for the weight in Maisie’s chest to start easing up, and she steadied herself by reminding herself the quest was really all about. Finding the rumored treasure that might be in a mythical cave wasn't the reason. Sure, discovering whether Balrûth Dûm was real or not would be thrilling, and the king would be pleased. But she was doing this for her family, and she knew Sela was doing it for her. 

Sela led the way that morning, riding her horse at a relaxed canter, clearly at ease with every smooth stride forward. Her posture was poised, her eyes scanning the road ahead for potential threats while Maisie kept her eyes on the the trees flanking them on both sides. This early in the morning, only a few fisherfolk or traders passed, occasionally tipping hats or asking for news from the nearest village. The sun climbed higher, warming the land and lessening the sting of the breeze off the sea to the west.

They paused for a midday meal by a gnarled cedar that offered bits of shade. Sir Edric handed out the venison, hardtack, and dried fruits. They ate in relative silence. Sela occasionally shot Maisie assessing looks, as though checking her sister’s state of mind. Maisie offered a thin smile. She might have felt uneasy, but she would keep her composure. 

By late afternoon, they veered inland, leaving the briny scents behind. Open fields replaced the rocky coastline, giving way to gentle hills. The route to Dunvarrick Keep was well-worn, a testament to the region’s commerce. Sir Edric explained that traders used it to bring grain and salted fish to the keep’s storehouses.

Nightfall found them in a low valley, its grasses frosted with dew. They made camp near a trickling stream. Sela set up a small fire pit, striking flint until sparks caught dry kindling. The crackle of flames brought a welcome sense of comfort. Maisie broke out her father’s herbal packets, inhaling the soothing scent of mint. Breathing in the fragrance calmed her swirling thoughts.

“Tomorrow, we’ll reach the foothills,” Edric said as he inspected his battered sword. “Another couple day’s travel after that should bring us to Dunvarrick’s gates.” He cast a sympathetic glance at Maisie. “We’ll see how the duke greets us.”

Maisie swallowed a lump of nerves. “I hope he’s kind. We've dealt with some assholes lately.” She remembered Tissington’s smug mayor all too well. She saw Sela’s nod of agreement.

They bedded down on bedrolls beneath a sky scattered with stars. Maisie pulled her cloak tight around her, and thought of home. Edric took the first watch, Sela took the second, Maisie would take the third. Despite her worries, exhaustion eventually won, and Maisie drifted off to sleep, comforted by the thought that someone was on guard.

They rose before dawn and pressed on. The days stretched out before them and the hours could be counted in two categories: in the saddle or sleeping. They had an occasional break from sleeping rough in three towns along the way, and the beds were usually of the lumpy and uncomfortable variety that made Maisie yearn for sleeping in the grass.

Their pace was steady but never relaxed, there were too many dangers, both human and animal, to watch for. They didn't meet trouble on the road to Dunvarrick, which was a mercy, but they were still in relatively civilized places. Well, relatively civilized.

By the last day, the scenery had shifted from open, grassy meadows dotted with trees to a rougher landscape of rockier terrain and wind-swept ridges that overlooked a forest below. By evening, the silhouette of Dunvarrick Keep crowned a distant rise, its ramparts etched against the sky.

“How I missed this sight,” Sir Edric murmured, sounding almost nostalgic. “Spent half my youth pulling guard duty here, back when Duke Aldric’s father ruled. Hard to believe time passes so swiftly.”

Maisie took in the grandeur from afar. The fortress loomed, all towering stone walls and sharp corner turrets. Streaks of amber light filtered through breaks in the clouds, illuminating patches of the highlands. As they approached, gusts swept across the open terrain, pulling at their cloaks. The strong wind carried an undercurrent of wildness, a testament to the keep’s rugged location.

By the time they stood at the main gate, it was dusk. Torchlight highlighted grim-faced guards in chainmail. Each held a pike upright, their posture rigid with discipline. One guard stepped forward, voice curt. “Hold in the name of King Rodmar. State your business.”

Sela raised her hand, catching the guard's attention. "I am Sela Fairborne, and this is my sister, Maisie. King Rodmar sent word to the Duke of Dunvarrick about our arrival."

"And your companion, there?" One of the guards pointed at Sir Edric.

"A friend of our father," Maisie answered. "He is accompanying us on our quest for the king."

“You may enter,” the guard said. “Wait by the door and someone will escort you to meet His Grace.”

The three passed beneath the portcullis and into the courtyard. Fires burned in tall braziers, casting wavering patterns on the fortress walls. 

They dismounted, and grooms quickly took the reins to lead the horses back to the stables.

A few minutes later, another man appeared, announcing he was one of the stewards who served the duke. He led them inside, through the narrow stone corridors, the sound of their footsteps echoing off timeworn walls. Flickering torches cast soft light on faded tapestries and heavy wooden doors, reminders of the hall’s long history. As they passed through an arched passage, the low murmur of conversation and clatter of servants at work grew louder. Finally, he opened a sturdy oaken door to reveal the Great Hall—a vast chamber with high, vaulted ceilings and long, polished tables set for a feast. At the far end, Duke Aldric sat with a calm authority, his presence commanding respect.

The ceiling soared high above them, carved rafters receding into shadow. At the far end, a row of tall windows admitted the last glimmer of daylight, framing a figure who stood by a long table. He wore a neat, fur-trimmed cloak over practical attire, and a short sword hung at his hip.

He turned, gaze sharp yet civil. “You must be Sir Edric and the famed Fairborne sisters.” His words carried the confidence of someone accustomed to command. “I am Aldric, Duke of Dunvarrick. Welcome to Dunvarrick Keep.”

Edric dipped his head. “Your Grace, it has been some time.”

The duke regarded Edric with a warm smile as they reached a quiet corner of the Great Hall. "Sir Edric, is that truly you? I remember you well from the days when you served my father. I was just a boy then, of course."

Edric inclined his head in respectful acknowledgment. "Your Grace, it is an honor to be remembered. The years I spent here, after the war,  were good ones.

The Duke's eyes shone with genuine fondness. "Your service then was exemplary, and it warms my heart to see you now, steadfast as ever. You are joining the Fairborne sisters on their quest?"

Edric managed a humble smile in reply, "Yes, Your Grace, I am. Their father and I are old friends."

"Then they will be served well." The duke nodded, letting his measuring gaze fall upon Sela and Maisie.

Maisie flushed slightly under the weight of his inspection. She sensed no hostility, only a watchful curiosity. “I received a magpie carrying word of your quest, though I expected you might join me here at Dunvarrick earlier than today.”

“It was a long journey, Your Grace,” Sela offered. "But we are here now."

“Indeed, you are, and you must be hungry.” He beckoned them closer, gesturing toward the table where a few servants arranged cups of sweet wine and platters of food. “You will share a meal with me, I hope. But first, I'm sure you would like to get settled into the bedchambers we have prepared.” A small smile touched his mouth. “This old keep bears many scars, but we do our best to extend hospitality.”

Though the keep clearly showed its age, it maintained a dignified presence. Faded tapestries lined the walls, each one a quiet reminder of the keep’s storied past, while high, arched ceilings conveyed a lasting strength. Long, sturdy oak tables filled the room, their surfaces polished smooth by generations yet still marked by the subtle scars of centuries of family life.

"I have accommodations for you in the East Tower," the duke said. "They are, of course, rather modest, but the beds are more comfortable than they look, and a fire should already be lit for you."

Sela, Maisie, and Edric followed the duke's steward and their rooms, Edric in one, Maisie and Sela, in the other were modest in decoration, but they were warm from the fires blazing brightly in the fireplace. The rooms featured simple cots and threadbare drapes, but each bed had a generous stack of thick wool blankets neatly folded on top which earned a grunt of approval from Sela.

It wasn't long before there was a rap on the door, a summons to the evening meal. His Grace presided over the meal, seated at the head of a substantial oak table. He motioned for the sisters and Sir Edric to take seats close by. The soft glow of of the torches and the chandelier overhead illuminated carved wooden platters piled with roasted vegetables, hearty bread, and a roast suckling pig. 

The duke launched into polite conversation, inquiring after their route. When Sir Edric mentioned the coastal roads, the duke offered a thoughtful nod and asked about the condition of Tiamant’s pass, half-wondering if travelers still faced trouble there. Edric responded plainly, revealing only the minimal details. Maisie kept quiet, focusing on the food. She forced herself not to gulp down her portion, mindful of courtesy.

Aldric’s attention then landed on Sela and Maisie. “You are famous within these walls, my dears. Tales of monsters slain by your hands, have reached even a remote outpost such as this. I admit my knowledge of your hunts is secondhand, but the king’s own mages sent word praising your recent successes.”

Sela stiffened, but managed a calm reply. “We do our jobs. People need monsters killed. We kill them.”

Aldric gave a small nod. “My keep has survived years of monstrous threats, and we have lost valiant knights have perished as we defended ourselves. And you have a perilous journey ahead of you." He let his words hang, as if inviting them to acknowledge the enormity of what lay ahead in the Drakknir Mountains. “This region... it can be merciless. The weather alone is obstacle enough, but the moors that border my land harbor abominations beyond comprehension. Have you heard the rumors?”

Maisie swallowed carefully. “We’ve heard enough to know it's filled with venomous snakes the size of tree branches.”

His mouth curved in a faint, approving smile that quickly turned to a scowl. “There's more than that out there, my girl. And sometimes, men themselves pose equal peril in these lands. Not all alliances hold steady when fortunes shift and people get greedy. That's why you need to take care on this journey.”

"We do that already, Your Grace," Sela answered. "We know how to defend ourselves."

"That is not exactly what I meant. If you talk about your quest with travelers along the way, they may follow you, thinking they might run off with any treasure you might find."

Sir Edric answered, “We are prepared for both monstrous foes and treachery, Your Grace. We appreciate any guidance you can offer.”

Aldric lifted his cup. “Guidance, I can spare. Soldiers, less so, for some are injured, others stationed farther out to my borders. But my archives are open to you. Historical texts, Valdorian legends, local records, whatever you find in the archives, you can use. Knowledge will aid you as much as any weapon you have.”

Maisie’s chest fluttered with relief. She glanced at Sela, who acknowledged the offer with a subtle tilt of her head. The meal wound to a close. Plates were cleared and replaced with a small dish of fruit preserves and baps for anyone who might still be hungry. 

The duke settled back into his chair and sipped his wine. “Know this: the Drakknir Mountains will devour the unprepared and the reckless. Many have come away scarred, if they return at all. Please do not underestimate the mountains. You will die if you do.”

Sela nodded, jaw tight. Maisie offered a quiet “We understand.”

Aldric exhaled, studying them with measured respect. “In that case, rest well. Tomorrow, you may find the archives more helpful than you imagine.” 

The duke rose from his seat, and Maisie, Sela, and Edric stood, and then bowed as he departed. As the trio left the hall, the duke's warning echoed in Maisie’s mind: don't trust anything or anyone with the secrets of this quest. 

In the corridor’s dimness, Maisie shot Sela a meaningful look, her voice low. “Think His Grace is an honest man? He seems nice. Helpful, anyway."

Sela shrugged. “Whether we can trust him or not, we need his help—and we need the keep’s archives if we hope to learn about the Balrûth Dûm and the journey along the way. This is bigger than just hacking away at Bonecrushers.”

Sela turned to Sir Edric who trailed behind him as they walked through the corridors. He was deep in his own thoughts. "What say you?" she asked. "Is the duke trustworthy?"

"I knew him when he was a boy, so I can't speak to the man." He opened the door to his bedchamber, but then turned back to Sela and Maisie. "One thing I will say is this: the Duke of Dunvarrick i served was an honorable man. So if the current duke has any of his father in him, that would be a good thing."

Before slipping into their chamber, Maisie paused at the threshold. Sela stopped too, and they shared a look that brimmed with the memory of countless hunts and close calls. 

"It'll be okay," Sela said, pulling her sister into a quick hug before releasing her. "We just have to stick together. Be careful."

By now, they both recognized that their success on the journey would hinge on as much on their knowledge and cleverness as it would their fighting skills.

Chapter

Nine

Maisie opened her eyes to a sliver of sunlight peeking around the edges of heavy drapes, and for a moment, she forgot she was not in the room she shared with Sela at Fairborne Cottage. The unfamiliar quiet of Dunvarrick Keep's stone corridors replaced the usual sounds of their boisterous siblings chattering and laughter. She rolled onto her back, heart fluttering at the realization that the keep's somber walls would be her surroundings for a while yet.

Sela was gone, likely asking about breakfast. Maisie luxuriated in the bed for a moment, stretching her arms and legs as she snuggled further into the goose down. Who knew how long it would be before she slept in a proper bed again? Her thoughts circled back to the myth of Balrûth Dûm.

There were so many legends about the cave it was hard to keep them all straight. The old stories said it had once been a great throne room, carved deep into the mountain’s heart—full of gold-veined stone and lit by dragon fire. Another said a king had been cursed for his greed and turned into a dragon, and his treasure was sealed away with him in the cave, hidden beneath layers of magic and darkness. Still other tales spoke of sorcerers who turned an entire village into dragons, only to seal them inside the cave when the creatures grew too wild to control. Its claimed their roars could still be heard echoing from deep within the mountain.

All of the stories agreed on one thing: there was treasure beyond belief in Balrûth Dûm.The hoard was said to hold more than just gold. There were said to be enchanted weapons, ancient relics brimming with magic from the time of dragons. Most legendary of all were were two crowns that could only be worn by a true Valendor king and queen. They were etched with runes so old no living mage could read them. It was said that if a pretender dared to wear one, the gold would sear their flesh the moment it touched their head.

Enough daydreaming, Maisie decided. She stretched rose from bed, and washed her face and neck in the wash basin next to the window. She slipped into her trousers, long-sleeved linen shirt, and laced leather vest quickly. She pulled on her boots, and plaited her hair, trying to appear as presentable as possible before her sister returned.

She had barely strapped her belt around her waist when Sela's arrived back at their room. She expression was all business, a tightness around her eyes that made Maisie swallow hard. Usually, Sela reserved that look for hunts or dire warnings, so Maisie braced herself.

"Edric just returned from the lower courtyard," Sela said in a low voice. "He said the duke wants to speak to us. Something about monstrous sightings in the southwestern fields."

Maisie nodded. "Should we prepare our gear?"

Sela hesitated, then exhaled. "We might as well, though I doubt we'll face anything immediate. The duke gave no order for a full extermination, only that he needs to talk." Her gaze flicked across Maisie's shoulder, as if scanning the corridor for stray ears. "We must save our energy for the journey into the mountains, so let's not get entangled in a big fight here."

The mention of the day's looming tasks sent a frisson of nerves through Maisie. She pulled on her fingerless gloves, tucking the pouches of herbs and salves into her belt. Sela's calm efficiency often comforted her, though she recognized her sister's shoulders were as tense as bowstrings. Without speaking further, the two made their way down the spiraling stairs.

They met Sir Edric at the foot of the steps. His battered breastplate bore fresh scuffs from travels and from the general wear of older hunts, and his salt-and-pepper hair looked more disheveled than usual. Yet his demeanor radiated the same stalwart readiness she had seen countless times. He gave them a quick nod of greeting.

"I suggest we hurry," he said in a gravelly tone. "When a duke summons, we do not dawdle." He paused, eyeing the sisters' gear with a faint approval. "And it appears you are dressed to ride at a moment's notice."

"We are," Maisie said, her voice soft with a polite edge. She still felt the pinch of having her life revolve around the demands of powerful men, but the courtesy was necessary.

They walked through the keep's corridors, light from the slit windows giving the stone an austere glow. Tattered banners hung above their heads, each embroidered with a crest or symbol of Dunvarrick's storied past. Maisie marveled at how one corridor opened into a small gallery showcasing weathered weapons on the walls. Her mind danced with fleeting curiosity about each sword's story, but her instincts pressed for caution. After all, this was no idle tour.

Arriving at Duke Aldric's private chambers, they were greeted by a single guard who inclined his head in acknowledgment. Once inside, the shift in atmosphere was immediate. Morning sun poured through tall, mullioned windows, illuminating worn tapestries that displayed heroic figures and battered heraldic beasts. The room's chill dampened under the warm beams of light, creating a fragile sense of comfort.

Duke Aldric stood near an expansive oak table piled with parchments. He was a tall, lean man whose silver hair brushed over a lined brow, and his gaze fixed on them with respectful gravity. Aldric offered a short, formal bow to the trio, then beckoned them closer with a simple gesture.

"I appreciate your swift arrival," the duke said. His voice carried the slight rasp of a man who likely spent too many nights pacing battlements. "Your presence here is timely. There have been unsettling reports from the southwestern fields." He touched one parchment, sliding it aside so they could see the rough map. "These border my lands and the marshy low ground. It has been our miserable reality of late that we leave offerings—livestock, mostly—at the perimeter to appease whatever lurks there."

Maisie's eyes flicked toward Sela. She saw the same flash of disapproval in her sister's expression. Sela did not hide her tension. "You feed them rather than confront them?" she asked. "This keeps them from attacking your people?"

Aldric's composure wavered, though only for an instant. "Yes. A monster siege five winters ago nearly broke Dunvarrick. We lost half our garrison in a single night. Our walls still bear the scars." His gaze lingered on a tapestry near the chamber's entrance, depicting a fierce battle between armed guards and shadowy shapes. "We had to negotiate with the creatures, if one can use that word. Regular sacrifices of goats or sheep at strict intervals. Each time, the monsters broke the seals we left on the fence line but did not advance to the keep. Over time, their presence became less frequent, yet none of my scouts can confirm these beings are truly gone."

With a grim nod, Sela reached out to study the map, her jaw tight. The southwestern fields looked spread out, dotted with messy sketches of farmland and rolling marsh. "If you are requesting that we drive away whatever monsters there may be," she said, "remember we have a larger quest. Delays may prove costly to us."

Sir Edric cleared his throat. "Precisely. We cannot linger long, Your Grace." His voice remained polite. "However, if you deem this urgent, we could spare one day for a thorough sweep, enough to discourage any renewed threat."

Maisie watched a parade of emotions traverse Aldric's face—hope, resignation, perhaps desperation. "A half measure is all I can request," he admitted. "But it might give my people peace of mind. My men are spread thin."

The duke's vulnerability weighed on Maisie's heart, recalling the times her own family's farm struggled under threats. She took a small step forward. "If we find evidence of immediate danger, we will fight," she said. "We can at least confirm if the threat remains."

Aldric inclined his head in gratitude, then ran his fingertips along a different scroll. "I will show you a record of sightings." He unrolled the parchment, revealing hastily inked notes. "Some speak of shapes dragging livestock away at night, leaving behind no footprints or blood. Others claim to hear low growls echoing through the fog. My garrison tried regular patrols but encountered little. The fear is that we risk a far more violent return if we ignore the signs."

His next words turned cautious. "Balrûth Dûm is rumored to stir dangerous echoes throughout the region. If you awaken something there, it could resonate here. I do not presume to know how curses or old magic ripple across these lands, but I have seen enough to suspect that we remain entwined."

Sir Edric reached over, touching the map as though to calm the duke's unsteady nerves. "We understand. Balrûth Dûm might still hold secrets that endanger every living soul, but that is precisely why we hunt for it. If we see anything ominous there, we will inform you, though time may not permit a drawn-out campaign."

Aldric straightened, clearly aware he risked sounding too needy. Yet a spark of gratitude lingered in his eyes. "You have my thanks. I will see to it that my horses are readied for your scouting ride across the southwestern boundary. Should you need assistance, I can spare two or three men, but I fear we do not have a full garrison at your disposal."

Sela lifted her chin, the warmth in her eyes reserved for people whose plight she found sincere. "We will do our best, Your Grace." She turned to Maisie and Sir Edric. "We had better waste no time."

They departed soon after, receiving a small satchel of supplies from William, one of the duke’s stewards. As they walked along the keep's inner courtyard, a few morning laborers paused their tasks to cast curious glances. Maisie's nerves fluttered. Each step carried her closer to a potential confrontation with something unknown.

Outside the keep's main gate, they found three sturdy horses waiting. Grooms hurriedly checked cinches and bridles. The sun had climbed higher, blazing over the fortress walls and casting bright swaths of light across the stony ground. Sela mounted the horse provided her without a word, while Sir Edric grimaced slightly at the strain in his knees as he hoisted himself into the saddle. Maisie mounted the bay mare she’d been given, and patted the horse's neck affectionately. She inhaled the mix of hay and leather as she settled in the saddle. She loved that smell.

They rode out in single file. The southwestern fields spread before them like an endless quilt of tall grass and patches of watery ground. Distant farmland looked eerily empty, with no shepherds or farmers in sight. Only scattered scarecrows dotted the horizon, arms outstretched in silent hopelessness. The stillness pressed around them.

"Duke Aldric said we would see a perimeter," Maisie called, glancing at the half-finished fence running along the edge. She spotted crude wooden posts hammered into the muddy soil. Ribbons of cloth were tied to them, likely to ward off certain creatures or signal territory lines. "I wonder if his men left offerings here recently."

"They did," Sir Edric replied, halting near a trough half-filled with stagnant water. "I see signs that goats were tethered. But the rope is cut. No hoof tracks lead away."

Sela's gaze flicked across the marsh. "That means something took them swiftly." She squinted as a faint breeze stirred the grass. The wind carried the faint tang of rot. "We need to ride through these fields in a wide arc. If we see no footprints or blood, any monsters we encounter might be more specters than flesh."

For the next hour, they wove through uneven clumps of reeds and tall grass, encountering only the faintest rustle of frogs or waterfowl startled by their presence. Each time they paused, Maisie's senses stretched, half-expecting to see a hulking shape or glowing eyes. Yet no monstrous form manifested.

The murky ground tugged at their horses' hooves as they crossed a slow moving creek about four or five feet deep. The morning light glinted off the water, catching on pale green threads of algae that drifted on the surface, curling and uncurling with the current like lazy ribbons. Maisie tried to push away the idea that something might lurk beneath the water, waiting to strike at her ankles or the horses’ bellies.

They reached the outer boundary of Aldric's map. Sunlight reflected off a cluster of standing stones arranged in a loose ring on a small rise. The stones were worn, covered in moss, and possibly older than the keep itself. Maisie felt a prickle at the back of her neck, as if the air carried more than just the tang of old marsh. She exchanged a glance with Sela, who frowned slightly. Sir Edric drew up beside them.

"Feel that?" Maisie whispered. "Like something’s watching us."

Sir Edric froze, his gaze locked on the spot. "Arm yourselves," he murmured. He swung his horse around to meet the threat and drew his sword.

Maisie's breath quickened. She steadied her horse then reached for her dagger. Sela turned her mount in a slow circle to scan the surrounding area in case there was threat from behind them. The group went silent, listening. No creature roared or revealed itself.

A prickling tension hovered, an unspoken threat in the stillness. The grass ahead stirred, slow and deliberate, as if something large was weaving its way through. Edric’s hand went to the hilt of his sword. Sela had already drawn hers. Maisie held her breath, the air suddenly thick with the kind of silence that only came before trouble. Whatever it was, it was big, and it was coming straight toward them.

Sela opened her mouth, but before she could speak, the tall grass parted—and a cow ambled into view. All three of them exhaled at once. Just a cow. Thank the stars.

They rode for another two-hours, wandering through the fields just before the marshes began. They had to be careful not to wander into the bogs. They could bring a horse and rider down if they were deep enough. Sela led the way, reins in one hand, the other resting lightly on her sword hilt. Edric followed just behind, his eyes sweeping the tree line with the practiced caution of an old soldier.

Maisie’s mare snorted softly, ears twitching with every gust of wind. From what she could see, the cow’s appearance was an anomaly; they were the only moving things around. They spotted several piles of old bones in one strip of pasture on the North side of the field. From the looks of things, they were the remains of cows and sheep, not monsters. But they were bleached by the sun so they weren’t new bones.

No monsters had sprung up to attack them. Clouds skated across the sky, and it was . Eventually, Sela called a halt to the patrol, and they headed back to the keep.

Chapter

Ten

Maisie, Sela, and Edric had scarcely crossed the keep’s courtyard when a man in deep blue velvet, the duke’s livery, approached them. “Ladies Fairborne. Sir Edric,” he called, bowing with precise formality. “His Grace requests your presence. He awaits your report in his chambers.”

William, the duke’s steward stood tall despite the wind that flapped the edges of his cloak. Maisie exchanged a glance with Sela before sliding from her saddle. Edric dismounted with a soft clink of mail, and the three handed off their reins to waiting stable hands.

When they had all dismounted, and the grooms from the stable took the horses, William turned on his heel and led them through the main doors of the keep. The warmth inside was immediate, a welcome balm after the cold morning. William guided them through the corridors to the duke’s outer chamber.

It was not a place for rest, but for governance and welcoming guests. A long oaken table dominated the center of the room, strewn with scrolls, wax seals, and a map of Valendor weighed down by iron figurines. Tall-backed chairs ringed the hearth, where a fire crackled steadily, casting shifting light on the tapestries that hung on the walls. Shields bearing the sigils of House Aldric decorated the walls, and the scent of beeswax polish and ash hung in the air.

The duke stood near the fire, arms crossed, a flicker of tension in his brow and an expectant look shadowing his face. "I am eager to hear your report," the duke said. "What did you find?"

"A cow," Sela replied.

There was a beat of silence. The duke blinked. “A cow?”

Sela nodded. “Doesn’t mean there isn’t anything else out there. But that’s what we found.”

For a moment, Duke Aldric just stared at her—then barked out a sharp laugh, as if something in him had finally unclenched. He dragged a hand down his face and let out a long, weary sigh. “That’s quite a relief. You’d be amazed how many sleepless nights I’ve had, only for the threat to be a bloody cow.”

Sela tilted her head, considering the statement. Maisie knew her sister didn’t suffer fools gladly, and this nobleman seemed far too quick to laugh off potential danger. "Doesn’t mean there isn’t anything out there that might mean you harm. Just that it didn’t show itself today.”

He inclined his head, his face reddened with embarrassment. "Yes. Of course. Still, you did me a favor by patrolling my land. I thank you for it. Truly.”

William reappeared at the chamber door and, with a bow, said, “My lord, the noonday meal will be served shortly.”

The duke straightened, brushing a hand down the front of his deep green velvet doublet, its cuffs and collar edged in gold thread. The fit was exacting, the kind chosen by a man who expected to be obeyed the moment he entered a room.

“Good,” he said, gesturing toward the door. “Ladies. Sir Edric. Come. We can speak more over food.”

He offered them a dry smile and led the way, William falling in beside them as they left the chamber and made their way toward the Great Hall. As they entered the Great Hall, the duke’s sharp blue eyes shifted toward the far end of the room. “Ah, good. They’re here,” he said. “Come. I have people you must meet.”

The duke led them to the head of the long table, where the warmth from the hearth mingled with the quiet clatter of servants laying out dishes along the trestles. Two men stood nearby, talking in low voices beside a bench piled with travel-worn satchels.

The taller one caught her eye first. Lean and long-limbed, he moved with the quiet, coiled grace of someone was used to watching for danger, or being it. Tousled dark hair to his collar, shadowing a handsome face with a strong jaw, and a mouth that looked like it had forgotten how to smile. A scar, thin and pale, slashed diagonally across one cheek, so faint it disappeared when he turned from the firelight.

But it was his eyes that stopped her. Storm-colored. Cold, unreadable. Still, for one ridiculous second, Maisie couldn’t remember what her name, and she was certain of one thing—trouble never looked so well put together.

The second man was broad-shouldered, with a close-cropped head of dark hair and a stillness that felt more foreboding than calm. He definitely did not make Maisie forget her name.

Sela’s eyes narrowed slightly, her posture shifting into something sharper. Maisie recognized the change. It was how her sister watched for signs of danger in the woods—careful, quiet, and ready. Sir Edric stood beside her, silent and steady, and looking a bit confused.

“Fairborne sisters,” the duke said, his voice carrying easily through the hall, “and Sir Edric, of course. May I present Sir Garran Thorne and Sir Castian Valcrosse. They arrived this morning bearing a decree for you from the His Majesty, The King.”

Sir Garran gave a slight nod. “It is an honor to meet the renowned Fairborne sisters. Your skills as monster hunters are infamous at court.”

Maisie saw Sela’s expression darken, the way it always did when she was nervous or worried. Edric’s mouth was a hard line, his hand brushing the hilt of his sword, not out of threat, but instinct. None of them liked surprises that began with the arrival of a royal edict.

The skin between Sela’s brows crinkled in concern. “What message does the king send?”

Castian’s gaze drifted over her, not lewd or lingering, but thorough, like he was memorizing every detail of her. From her dusty boots, up the line of her leather trousers to the braid slipping loose over her shoulder. When his eyes finally met hers, there was a flash, quick, almost imperceptible, as his teeth caught his lower lip. Not a smirk. Not quite. Just tension, checked and swallowed.

Maisie’s breath stilled. She offered a small, uncertain smile. He didn’t return it. But something shifted in his brow, the faintest crease, as if the effort not to react cost him more than he liked. Then he looked away, jaw tight, eyes fixed somewhere safely past her shoulder. And Maisie already knew she was going to have a problem with that one. Whether it was a good problem or a bad one, well…time would have to tell on that one.

“Right. What does the decree say?” Sela asked folding her arms over her chest. Her voice was even, but there was a steel thread running through it. Maisie heard it clear as day. They’d been dragged into enough royal plans already. If this was another, Sela wasn’t going to walk into it blind.

Sir Garran slid a parchment from a leather tube strapped at his side. He extended it cautiously. "We are to protect you on the journey to Balrûth Dûm," he replied. "His Majesty commands that we see the quest through, and that the interests of the kingdom are served."

Sela's lips thinned. "Let me see that," she said, beckoning. Garran placed the rolled parchment in her outstretched hand. He reached into his belt pouch, and handed her a signet ring, the etchings on which matched the seal on the missive. “It is the king’s seal.”

Sela examined it. The king’s signet ring was heavy and ornate, forged from deep gold veined faintly with red, as if the metal itself remembered fire. Sure enough, its face bore the royal emblem of Valendor: a crowned dragon coiled around a sword, the blade piercing downward through a ring of seven stars. The creature’s wings flared wide, framing the sword like a shield, and its tail looped beneath the hilt in a perfect, unbroken circle—an ancient symbol of unity and eternal rule.

Sela was silent a moment longer. Her upper lip twitched as she handed the parchment back. "Well, damn," she said, handing the ring back. She turned to Maisie. “Guess we can’t say no to the king, can we?”

“No…my lady,” Sir Garran replied with a smirk and the same tone as if he’d called her sweeting or pet or dove. Or any number of diminutives that were in fashion at court. His eyes dared Sela to challenge him “Unless you are particularly foolish.”

“Don’t call me that,” Sela said, flatly. “I’m nobody’s lady.”

Castian finally spoke, his voice was deeper than Maisie expected. It reverberated through her with the deep resonance of a drum beat. "We are here to help," he said. "The dangers we will face from the wilds and from creatures that will hunt us are great. We do, however, intend to see the quest through, no matter the perils. The king commands it."

Maisie was struck by his confidence. He did not posture or puff his chest like other knights who had come through Draklûn Bay, strutting like peacocks. He simply stood, broad shoulders squared, carrying the quiet weight of someone accustomed to doing what was expected of him.

Sela's eyes flicked between the two knights. Then she nodded once to Duke Aldric, half an acknowledgment that she recognized their presence as relevant. "If the king wants more eyes on us. Fine. But make no mistake. We do not need protection. If anything, you might find we are the ones protecting you."

Duke Aldric cleared his throat. "Royal politics aside," he said gently, "this partnership might aid you on the journey. Wendwood Forest and the mountains will surely be treacherous, and having additional companions to share the load would be most beneficial for you." He folded his arms, regarding each person in turn. "Mutual cooperation can save your lives if you can find common ground."

Maisie glanced at Sela, noting the faint lines of worry around her sister's eyes. She understood well the anger that simmered below Sela's restrained expression. Whatever awaited them in the mountains, whether it was Balrûth Dûm or something more dangerous, their quest would not be easy once they left Dunvarrick.

“Well,” Maisie said, voice tentative but warm. “Since you’re here to help, then… welcome. We’ll try not to scare you off with our country manners. Only three of my siblings bite, and none of them are here.”

Garran gave a soft chuckle, the kind that suggested he might actually have a sense of humor under his serious exterior. Castian didn’t laugh. His gaze slid to her, slow and assessing. One brow rose—barely. Not quite a scowl, not quite amused. More like he was trying to decide whether she was joking or simply unstable. Then he crossed his arms, the movement smooth but heavy with you can’t possibly be serious.

He said nothing. But his eyes lingered a moment longer than necessary before he looked away. Maisie bit back a grin. If she’d annoyed him, that was fine. If she’d confused him? Even better.

Sir Edric took a step forward, arms folded. "Your blades are welcome, sirs. If we truly are to make it safely through the Drakknir Mountains, we shall need all the help we can get,” he said, " The Shadowfang Wolves and Wraith Beasts are the least of the troubles we’ll face, and they’re trouble enough." A sigh slipped through his lips. "We can't afford deadweight."

"We will not be a burden," Castian answered. "I swear on my vow as a knight that we will do our part. No matter what happens."

His eyes briefly locked with Maisie's, and again, she felt that peculiar warmth like a spark to a flame. She did not fully understand the flutter it birthed in her chest, only that it was more than mild curiosity.

The duke clasped his palms behind his back, and rocked back and forth on his heels for a moment. "Then we shall feast now, and you can plan your journey. It will take a few days to gather the the provisions you’ll need since you have more companions on your journey. Meanwhile, you all may consider Dunvarrick Keep your home until you go on your way."

Sela inclined her head stiffly. "Thank you, Your Grace."

Maisie cleared her throat. "It might be wise if we all sat down and shared what we know. The Drakknir Mountains are not kind territory."

Sela's guarded gaze faltered slightly, replaced by the practical acceptance that planning together was logical. "Indeed. And the more we coordinate, the less likely we fall prey to predators of any kind."

Garran inclined his head. "We have some knowledge of the land from Dunvarrick to Wendwood Forest, but we’ve not journeyed into the mountains. I propose we get maps from the archives. We may find information we need there."

Sir Edric nodded toward Maisie and Sela. "Ahead of you on that one. The girls have plans to visit the archives."

Chapter

Eleven

Maisie sat next to Sela, acutely aware of her sister's tension. Torchlight flickered against the high stone walls, casting wavery shadows across the long table, which had been arranged with platters of roasted meat, loaves of coarse bread, and tall jugs of dark wine. Servants in simple linen tunics moved quietly about, refilling cups and shooting wary glances at the newcomers.

Despite the growing hardships in the land, the duke’s feast table gave no hint of frugality. It stretched nearly the length of the great hall, draped in deep crimson cloth and set with polished pewter chargers and goblets of hammered silver. Wax tapers in iron candelabras cast golden light over the bounty, illuminating a spread that could have fed twice the company.

At the center stood a roast peacock, resplendent in its iridescent plumage, re-dressed after cooking and perched upright in a mockery of life. Its beak was gilded, its tail feathers fanned dramatically behind it, the meat beneath basted in spiced wine and saffron. Nearby, a venison haunch, glistening with a glaze of honey and cloves, rested beside a trencher of rabbit stew, thick with leeks, barley, and wild herbs.

Stuffed game hens, their skin crisp and golden, were nestled among clusters of spiced apples and roasted chestnuts. A large eel pie, shaped like a twisting serpent, sat near the end of the table—its pastry dyed green with parsley and set with currant “eyes.” Small custard tarts of cheese and egg, known as daryols, were scattered between platters of salted fish and trenchers of meat and dark rye bread studded with caraway seeds.

There were bowls o pickled walnuts, dried plums, and candied ginger, while small silver dishes offered mustard seed relish and horseradish cream to accompany the meats. Pitchers of spiced hippocras and sweet mead were passed freely, though the servants poured carefully—too carefully, Maisie noted, for a house truly without worry.

It was a feast meant to impress, to reassure, to declare that Dunvarrick Keep still stood strong despite the poverty outside its walls. But Maisie saw the effort behind it in the way the steward’s eyes tracked how much was taken, the thinness of the cheese rounds, the smaller than usual casks of wine. Still, in that moment, under flickering candlelight and surrounded by scents of cinnamon and roasted meat, it felt like celebration.

A tall, lanky young man, wearing brightly patched trousers, burst into the Great Hall. He carried two goblets precariously balanced in the palms of his hands. He rushed toward the duke’s table, stumbled over the corner of a woven rug, and performed a wild half roll across the nearest sconce and somehow never dropped a goblet.

"Many pardons, Cousin Aldric!" The man proclaimed in a stage voice. "Tobin Merryweather at your service, world's soon-to-be-most-famous bard. I am here to lighten your hearts in these dire times."

The duke gave him a weary glance, his mouth set in a thin, impatient line. "Tobin. You are late."

The young man bowed, then smiled. "An unfortunate detour involving a misplaced lyre string kept me from your company, my lord, but fear not, I have come armed with entertainment." He bounded toward the table, scanning around for a spare seat. Finally, he perched on a wobbly stool at the end of the duke’s table.

Maisie exchanged a startled glance with Sela. The tension in her sister's eyes softened just a little at the sight of Tobin's flamboyant arrival. Sir Edric let out a low grunt of amusement, though he disguised it with a quick swig of wine. As if drawn by a sense of mischief, Tobin began juggling three goblets, chuckling aloud at the focus it took to keep them from crashing onto the floor.

One corner of Garran's mouth twitched into what might almost be a smile, but he carefully schooled his expression into neutral territory. Castian, seated nearer the middle, watched with guarded curiosity. Maisie took a slow breath, letting the mania of Tobin's entrance distract her from her building worries. Sela, on the other hand, rolled her eyes at Tobin's display and murmured a quiet jab about him being likely to topple the entire table.

Tobin, oblivious or uncaring, launched into an extempore monologue about past monster battles. He claimed he had once encountered a werecat in Tissington, though as he pressed on, the details became so outlandish that Maisie deduced he had probably woven in tales from overheard rumors.

"And so," he proclaimed, "that ferocious fiend hissed at me, yet I bowed, brandished my trusty pipe, and lulled it to sleep with a song beautiful enough to soothe a rampaging ogre."

Tobin drew a slender wooden pipe from the pouch attached to his belt and played a lovely little tune. The pale ash wood of the instrument had darkened at the mouthpiece from countless hours pressed to eager lips, and faint carvings spiraled down its length. The finger holes were neatly bored, edges darkened, and the end was slightly flared, giving it a rustic charm. It fit easily in Tobin’s hands, as though it had always belonged there.

Sela pursed her lips. "A lullaby for a werecat," she muttered to Maisie. "He must have a death wish.

Maisie stifled a laugh. She could see how Tobin's dramatic flair relieved the gathering's earlier silence. Even Aldric's stony features relaxed, if only slightly, while he observed his cousin's antics.

Eventually, Tobin tried to toss one of the goblets to Garran. Perhaps he intended for Garran to catch it with the grace of a trained knight. Instead, Garran jerked his arm aside, and the goblet rattled across his plate. Wine splashed, leaving purplish stains on the tablecloth. Castian lifted his own goblet quickly and downed a swift gulp, then pushed his chair back.

"I believe a brief moment of air would do me well," Castian said quietly. Garran stood too, carefully stepping around the mess. Both knights offered formal nods to Duke Aldric, who waved them away with a sigh, and they retreated through an arched door near the hall's columns.

Maisie's gaze lingered on Castian's departing form as he disappeared behind the heavy door. She felt a flicker of disappointment, wanting to speak with him about the anxieties building in her chest. The presence of two new knights—and the knowledge that King Rodmar's eyes seemed to follow them everywhere—felt like an invisible weight pressing down on their quest.

With the knights gone, Tobin's next attempt at humor landed squarely on Duke Aldric's nerves. The duke raised both palms to forestall more nonsense. "Yes, Tobin, I appreciate your talents. Now kindly direct them elsewhere for the next moment. My guests must eat."

Tobin arched a brow and lowered his juggling arms. "Cousin, I am wounded by your lack of applause."

Wordless, Aldric turned away. He beckoned for a servant to pour more wine into Edric's half-empty cup. Maisie repressed a smile at the exaggerated disappointment on Tobin's face. Regardless of how annoyed Aldric might sound, Maisie detected genuine fondness in the way he tolerated the fool’s clumsy theatrics. She supposed there must be a depth of familial obligation at play.

When the final course arrived, slices of thin, soft cheese and fruit preserves, Sela touched Maisie's arm and spoke quietly. "We should decide soon whether we start reviewing the keep's archives tonight or wait until tomorrow. We do not have time to waste."

Sela’s comments drew Tobin's attention. He leaned across Garran's vacated seat to peer at them. "Did I hear you mention the archives? I know that labyrinth of old papers and dusty volumes like the back of my own hand." He wiggled his fingers as if proving a point. "Well, in fairness, I might not know it as thoroughly as Master Vennick, the archivist, but I do rummage there often enough when I compose new songs. Looking for inspiration, you know."

Sela frowned. "Would we be wasting our time? "

Tobin put a hand over his heart. "I assure you, dear lady, There is much information that could prove useful for your quest. Legends, myths, ancient histories, maps of all sorts. You’ll find them all there. I can take you to the archives, if you wish."

Maisie chimed in, “Why don’t we divide and conquer? After dinner, you can start making plans for the journey with Sir Garran and Sir Castian. And I can go to the archives.”

“It’s not the worst idea in the world,” Sela admitted. “Might help us get on the road faster. And it’s not like you’ll get lost in this place even if the corridors are winding, and a bit confusing at times.”

“It’s settled then,” Maisie replied. “I’ll go read the books and make notes of anything that might help us. You make travel plans with the boys.”

“Just make sure you don’t read too late.”

“Hey, it’s me, remember?”

“That’s what I’m afraid of. I mean it, Maisie. Don’t stay in the archives all night.”

When the meal ended, the duke excused himself to attend. The final scraping of plates echoed in the great hall. Servants bustled to clear away leftovers, and the low hum of conversation tapered off. Tobin hopped to his feet, jiggling with barely contained energy, and declared himself ready to discover hidden legends.

Sela hesitated only a moment before striding toward the two knights. She spoke in a low voice, motioning subtly with one hand as if marking a direction or plan. Sir Garran leaned in, listening with the quiet focus of a man used to orders delivered without fanfare. Castian, on the other hand, stood with arms crossed, his expression unreadable, though his eyes tracked Sela’s every word. Maisie watched her sister gesture once more, decisive and sure, before the three turned and slipped down a corridor separate from her own.

Tobin took a lantern from one of the tables and handed Maisie another one. She followed him down a corridor and two flights of stone stairs, headed toward the archives. He had a spring in his step and a glint in his eye like this was all a grand adventure.

The heavy wooden door stood half open, revealing a vast chamber lined with tall, uneven shelves. Tomes and scrolls perched in precarious towers, scroll racks sagging under their weight. A draft greeted them, cool and thick with the scent of old paper and dust. Maisie inhaled and immediately regretted it, covering a soft cough. Tobin hopped ahead, spun neatly on his heel, and offered her a dramatic bow. “Welcome to the knowledge of Dunvarrick Keep. Shall we rummage?”

Maisie bit back a smile. “Only if you promise not to knock anything over.”

Torches held in brackets along the walls blazed brightly, providing enough light to read by if a person sat at one of the nearby tables. Maisie wondered if Master Vennick would appear to scold them for prowling about at this hour, but the place was silent except for the whisper of their footsteps.

Tobin led her through leaning stacks of books and sagging shelves filled with heavy tomes, and boxes until he stopped beside a desk that looked as old as the keep itself. Behind it sat a man hunched over a thick ledger, quill scratching with slow, deliberate strokes. His robes were ink-stained, his spectacles slightly askew, and his silver beard forked at the end like he’d once tried to tame it and given up halfway through.

“Master Vennick,” Tobin announced with a flourish, “allow me to present the radiant Maisie Fairborne, monster hunter and, for tonight, a seeker of knowledge to which you hold the keys.”

Vennick didn’t look up immediately. He finished writing, set the quill aside, and only then glanced up with eyes sharp as flint behind his smudged glasses. He blinked at Maisie and narrowed his eyes. Suspicion seemed to be a reflex for him.

“Go on, then. What do ye want?” He enunciated each word, making it obvious he didn’t appreciate being interrupted."

Master Vennick looked like the kind of man whose presence made rooms feel colder. His face was all hard lines and sharp edges—high cheekbones, a blade-straight nose, and a mouth that rarely hinted at anything warmer than disapproval. Hee had deep-set gray eyes, clear and unflinching, and seemed watched Maisie with the quiet intensity of someone always three steps ahead of everybody else. His skin was weathered, not from sun or age, but from years of seeing more than he said.

He wore layered robes of slate and storm-blue, tailored so precisely they barely shifted when he moved. Silver thread edged the cuffs and collar—subtle, not flashy—marking him as someone important to those who knew what to look for. Nothing about his appearance was careless. Even his boots, though scuffed from travel, were polished at the toes, as if to remind the world that discipline started at the ground up. Maisie wondered if a glance from Vennick could stop an argument or silence a fool faster than a blade.

Maisie glanced at Tobin, wide-eyed, as she bit her lower lip and arched one at him. They’d only known each other for a few hours but she sensed a kindred spirit in the bard-in-training, who seemed to understand. Tobin didn’t say a word. He just tilted his head, one brow arched, eyes alight with mischief. That crooked grin of his made a slow appearance—pure invitation, pure trouble. It was the kind of look that said “go on then” without needing the words. Maisie smiled. She had already decided she would charm the master of the archives.

“Master Vennick,” she said, leaning on his desk with a smile that was equal parts sunshine and trouble, “I must say, you have the most impressive glower I’ve seen all week. And I’ve battled Bonecrushers, and won, so that’s saying something.”

There was the briefest twitch at the corner of his mouth, so faint she might’ve been imagined.

“I know we’re strangers, but I can tell you’re the kind of man who enjoys a good story,” Maisie said, her tone light, eyes sparkling with the kind of mischief that usually got her into trouble—or out of it. “And lucky for you, I happen to be an excellent storyteller. Dramatic pauses, unnecessary flourishes, possibly even sound effects if the mood strikes.”

She clasped her hands behind her back and rocked slightly on her heels. “I’d offer a tale about heroism and ancient curses, but since we’re living that part, perhaps you'd prefer something with a talking goose and an unfortunate misunderstanding involving a cursed chamber pot?”

For a moment, Master Vennick stared at her, unmoved. Maisie waited, undeterred. Then—just barely—his brow lifted. “You’re not nearly as funny as you think you are.”

Maisie grinned. “That’s where you’re wrong, Master Vennick. I’m exactly as funny as I think I am. I’m also right that you enjoy a good story, especially if the story turns out to be true and is tied to. Because, if you didn’t, you wouldn’t be a master archivist surrounded by what is very likely every myth and legend in Valendor.”

“You’re not wrong,” Vennick replied in a curious tone. “Get on with it girl.”

“Right, then,” Maisie said. “The king wants my sister and me to find out if Balrûth Dûm really exists, so if you help me find books or scrolls on Valendor myths and legends, I promise to write our quest for your archives and then, whether the place is real or not, you’ll have an exclusive tale penned by the most famous monster hunters in the kingdom.”

Behind her, Tobin leaned in and muttered, “You’re tooting your own horn a bit with that, aren’t you?”

Maisie didn’t miss a beat. “Quiet, you. I’ve got him right where I want him,” she replied over her shoulder in a stage whisper before turning back to the archives master with a sweet smile.

That got his attention. His eyes narrowed, but not unkindly. “The king is sending folks chasing after old legends, is he? Sounds quite mad to me.” He adjusted the crooked spectacles on his nose with an ink-stained finger. “Must be running out of real problems to solve.”

Maisie tried not to laugh but couldn’t quite help the smile tugging at her mouth. “Maybe it’s not the quest that’s mad. Maybe it’s the world that forgot why the journey matters.”

After a pause, Vennick grew serious. “You’ll also need texts about travel through Wendwood Forest and the Draaknir Mountains. You’ll want charts on The Great River, too, because it lies between the forest and the mountains, and you will need to navigate it. It’s an arduous journey you’re undertaking.” He rose with surprising speed for a man of his years, shuffling toward a nearby cabinet already bristling with scrolls. “Wait here.”

Maisie exhaled, glancing at Tobin with a small, grateful smile as Vennick began pulling items from the shelves. Within minutes, Vennick had brought dozens of books, scrolls, and yellowed maps to the nearest table. Maisie sat down and by the time the archivist was done, two more tables nearby were cleared by passing stewards and quickly filled with even more materials. Charts, ink-penned diagrams, and bundled folios joined the growing sprawl, until the archive looked less like a quiet study and more like the staging ground for a scholar’s war.

Maisie gulped, and stared, wide-eyed, at Vennick. “This is…a lot.”

Vennick laughed. “My dear, this is only a tiny portion of the archives on Valendorian myths and legends. the cartography section needs an update, I admit. Some of these maps have not be updated for a generation or more.”

Hours slipped by as Maisie and Tobin read. One book after another, her fingers moved over fragile pages and ink that had long since faded to brown. She and Tobin fell into a rhythm—passing scrolls between them, trading discoveries, sometimes reading aloud when a passage struck something important. Maps were unfurled, their corners weighted with ink pots and discarded gloves. The flickering lantern cast long shadows across the table, and dust rose in thin clouds each time a cover was lifted.

“Listen to this one,” Maisie said, gently easing the cracked binding open wider. She cleared her throat and read aloud.

“In the age when crowns were heavy with fear, and kingdoms teetered on the edge of ruin, the King of Valendor turned to his sorcerers, seeking power to swell his ranks and silence his foes.

And the sorcerers, wise in name but wicked in deed, gave not sword nor shield—but fire.

They took a village, loyal and unarmed, and twisted its people with spells older than law.

Flesh turned to scale. Voice to roar. And from innocence, dragons were born.

The king himself, proud and unknowing, was the first to fall⁠—

his form reshaped by flame, his crown melted into ash.

But the dragons would not serve.

Wild of heart and searing of breath, they turned upon the land they were meant to guard.

Villages burned. The sky wept ash. And hundreds of the king’s own perished beneath wing and flame.

Then, in shame and secrecy, the sorcerers cast one final spell.

Deep in the bones of the mountains, they carved a prison of stone and sorrow.

There, bound in runes and magic darker than night,

they sealed the cursed ones away⁠—

king and kin alike⁠—

within the black halls of Balrûth Dûm.”

She looked up slowly. “If we find this cave, and there is a whole village of dragons in there…” Maisie paused, then added with a perfectly straight face, “I’m going to need a bigger sword. And possibly a fireproof cloak. And maybe a very convincing excuse to turn around and go home.”

Tobin didn’t miss a beat. “Excellent. I’ll start composing our heroic ballad now—The Glorious Retreat of the Slightly Singed Adventurers.” He struck a dramatic pose, hand to chest. “We shall be legends. Smoky, terrified legends.”

Maisie turned back to the book, her fingers trailing along a few illegible lines blurred with age. The rest of the page had faded or torn, like the parchment itself wanted to forget what happened next. “So much information has been lost,” she said.

Vennick clucked his tongue. "I told you many records are in disrepair. The keep has not had many manuscript conservators in residence to restore these documents since the current duke’s father died. Unless they’re protected, documents decay faster than they can be saved."

Maisie turned a page. Her lantern's glow caught an illustration of a jagged mountain ridge. Beneath, a cramped caption hinted at monstrous guardians. The words trailed off where the parchment had been torn. Disappointment churned in her stomach. "

Tobin lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "We can keep searching tomorrow. I’m sure the duke will grant you permission to search further to learn what you need for the journey."

Maisie nodded, though her mood hovered between excitement and dread. "We need to be careful. King Rodmar's involvement suggests more angles than Aldric might understand." She touched the page's torn edge. Balrûth Dûm. The name felt larger than any one keep or quest. She thought of the knights from the capital, of necromancers who might lurk behind their polite facade. Tension threaded through her veins, reminding her that the more they discovered, the deeper the danger might run.

Pointing at a scribbled margin note, Tobin chimed in, "We’re looking at more than five hundred years of hidden curses, dark magic, and ancient vows." He traced the faint lettering. "I do love a good vow, though cursed vows are much less fun."

Maisie tried to concentrate on the excitement threading through Tobin's tone. She forced a small smile, aware that beneath his jokes, he too recognized the seriousness of the quest she’d been given. If there were real life dragons somewhere in those mountains, the entire party faced perils beyond the ordinary monsters they’d faced at home.

"Then I will ask for more time in the archives," she said softly, stroking the battered cover of the book. "We might uncover something more. And if we do not, we will at least have these bits to guide us." She turned to Vennick. “The maps are particularly helpful.”

“Remember these maps are old, and the land changes. The earth shifts, rivers alter course, paths disappear, forests reclaim what man has built if its abandoned long enough.” Vennick placed a hand on Maisie’s shoulder in a comforting gesture. “But I am happy to have you in the archives as long as you have need of them.” His eyes twinkled. “As long as I get my epic story.”

“An epic story you shall have, Master Vennick,” Maisie closed the book she was reading with gentle reverence, a puff of dust curling into the warm glow of the lantern. “We’ll come back tomorrow and research more.

Tobin, already reaching for another shelf, struck a mock-heroic pose. “We shall craft an epic out of stray lines and half-lost records. Or at the very least, survive by the skin of our notes.”

Maisie grinned despite herself. She still felt the weight of the journey ahead—King Rodmar’s decree, the knights from the capital, the rumors coiling through these pages—but for now, a flicker of purpose lit her thoughts. She was eager to return to her room, to tell Sela what they’d found and hear what plans her sister had made with Sir Castian and Sir Garran. Answers were coming, piece by piece. And maybe, if they were lucky, the words on these pages would help them decide whether Balrûth Dûm was only legend—or a hidden vault of power that could change the fate of the realm.

Chapter

Twelve

Maisie rose early, dressed in the dark as Sela still slept and made her way to the Great Hall. The halls were dim, lit only by a few low-burning sconces, and the scent of damp stone lingered in the air. She made her way to the Great Hall, where a few servants were beginning to stir, setting out trenchers and stoking the hearth.

Tobin was already there, perched on the edge of a long bench near the fire, fiddling with a rolled-up scrap of parchment and humming under his breath. He looked up as she entered and offered a bright smile, clearly wide awake and already full of ideas.

They greeted each other with quiet nods and made their way together to the sideboard, where a sleepy steward had begun laying out the morning fare. Maisie took two soft yeast rolls and a few slices of cold, spiced beef, wrapping them in a cloth napkin while Tobin selected an apple and a handful of dried plums. They didn’t linger.

Side by side, they made their way through the inner corridors of Dunvarrick Keep, their footsteps soft against the stone. The air grew cooler as they descended, and by the time they reached the door to the archive wing, the warmth of the fire behind them had faded to memory.

Master Vennick was already inside, hunched over a table with a stack of scrolls. He looked up as they entered, his expression as weary as ever, though Maisie thought she saw the barest flicker of approval in his eyes.

“You’re early,” he said. “It’s rare to find someone who shows up on time and intends to be useful.”

Maisie smiled, setting her wrapped bundle on the edge of a nearby table. “No sense in wasting time. There’s a lot to read.”

Vennick gave a soft grunt. “I’ve set aside a few volumes and three scrolls that mention the northern ridges of Drakknir. This one includes references to illusion wards that bar entry to, though the translation is not easy to read unless you speak the old Valendor tongue.”

He gestured toward a small stack near the corner, marked with strips of cloth and a few penciled notes. The room smelled of parchment and aged leather, with a hint of ink and something faintly herbal, like pressed flowers tucked between forgotten pages. Vennick brought more books and documents to the wooden tables that stretched across the reading area. Above them, vaulting arches supported the ceiling.

"In this lot," he said, "you'll find older accounts of monster sightings, genealogies, production ledgers, and a few scattered bestiaries. Try not to damage anything. These volumes are fragile."

He led them to a far corner where the shelves rose higher than Maisie could easily reach. Rows of thick spines, worn by time and questionable preservation, lined the shelves in uneven groupings. In some spots, parchment scrolls poked out at odd angles, their tassels or binding cords hanging limp. 

Maisie felt a surge of excitement as she brushed her fingertips over the battered edges. Perhaps somewhere in those tomes lay the piece of evidence they needed.

“These should hold some records of expeditions headed into the mountains,” Master Vennick explained. “Plenty have notes in the margins about the quests but do not believe everything you read. Folklore bleeds into fact when it comes to Balrûth Dûm. If these volumes don’t suffice, there are older texts deeper in the archives. But be mindful, some are quite fragile.”

Master Vennick left them to return with more texts. In his absence, Maisie forced herself to focus. The promise of fresh leads drove her curiosity. She traced her fingertip down each line, reading references to the Drakknir Mountains and cryptic notes about the quests. 

She reached for the next book, a slimmer volume titled “The Cursed King and His Queen.” Her heart gave a funny little lurch. She ran her fingers over the worn cover, then opened the cracked spine.

As she skimmed lost-lore references, she felt the echo of old nights by the hearth, Mam’s voice weaving images of slumbering dragons entombed in stone. It had once been a comfort to her, a little piece of magic amid the daily grind of fighting monsters. The notion that love could endure, even when it might be corrupted by curses, had sparked her imagination.

Tobin tapped her arm. “You’re smiling.”

“Am I?” She shook herself. “I guess it's because my mother used to tell me this story.”

He perked up. “Any mention of the Drakknir Mountains in your mother’s version?”

“The Drakknir Mountains are supposedly where a lost king sleeps. She never named him outright. I didn’t realize it might be connected to Balrûth Dûm. Maybe we’re on the right track.”

A faint scuff of boots on the stone floor caught Maisie’s attention. She didn’t look up right away, but she felt the shift in the air—like something solid and storm-dark had entered the room. When she did glance up, her pulse fluttered, traitorous and immediate. Castian Valcrosse stood a few paces inside the archive, his eyes sweeping the space with that quiet, deliberate intensity he carried like a second sword.

He wore a fitted black tunic, the fabric clung in all the wrong-right places. It showed off his broad shoulders, narrow waist, long legs wrapped in dark wool hose. A dagger hung at his hip, sheathed in a dark leather scabbard and secured to his belt with a braided strap. It rested against his left thigh, angled just enough for a quick draw—practical, precise, like everything else about him.

Her gaze followed the line of it before drifting, entirely by accident, thank you very much, a fraction lower and to the right.

Oh, my.

She looked away so fast she nearly gave herself whiplash. Stars above, Maisie, really? Of all the possible things to study in that moment, her eyes had to go to there? She cleared her throat and pretended to be deeply, unshakably fascinated by a smudged ink blot on the corner of the page. Focus. She was in the archives to find stories about mythical dragons and treasure. Not… other things with dangerously sexy bone structure, and the outline of a massive bulge beneath his tunic.

"Good morning," Castian said to Master Vennick, pointedly ignoring Maisie. "I’m compiling a supply list before our group departs. The duke asked me if I would also review the keep’s general supplies. Food rations, equipment, anything that’s missing or running low.” He held up the ledger in his hand. “I was told you could help?"

Master Vennick nodded brusquely, and pointed to the left. "Yes. Inventory ledgers are over there. Third book case on the left. Middle shelf.”

Maisie hid a smile behind her knuckles, noticing how Vennick always sounded vaguely exasperated no matter whom he addressed. Castian, for his part, responded with a polite bow, then moved toward the shelves, no comment offered. Tobin gave Maisie a pointed glance, as if silently saying, Don’t flirt. Focus. Swallowing her own flutter of nerves, Maisie turned back to her work.

Vennick and Tobin returned shortly, and Tobin announced that dinner would be ready soon. 

He put down a fresh pile of old diaries and turned to Maisie expectantly. “I’m not missing a hot meal,” he said cheerfully. “Any chance you want to come along?”

Maisie almost nodded automatically, her stomach growling at the thought of roasted anything. But the slender book in her hands beckoned. She looked at Tobin and Master Vennick with a hesitant smile. “I’d like to stay a bit longer. I'm not done reading yet.

Master Vennick agreed,  “I’ll be back here after I’ve eaten to check on you,” he said, voice kindly. “Try not to wander too far. The deeper archives can be confounding.”

She nodded. “Thank you, Master Vennick. I promise not to get lost.” She turned her gaze toward Castian. “You’re heading to dinner?”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “I think I'll stay, too. I'd rather finish with these ledgers tonight. The sooner I do, the sooner the duke has the figures he needs."

Tobin’s brows arched dramatically. “Can you two handle each other’s presence without me? Actually, never mind. I have faith you’ll survive.”

Castian glowered. Maisie elbowed Tobin again, and the jester cackled before strolling for the doorway. Vennick bowed politely, then followed the jester, closing the door behind him.

Maisie took a deep breath and refocused on “The Cursed King and His Queen,” reading softly out loud. She read a few paragraphs about an ill-fated pair who, lured by prophecy, ventured into a hollowed mountain. She found herself unconsciously raising her voice again, reciting the lines about how the king’s once-human cries echoed in an endless labyrinth, fate twisting him into a beast. 

She didn't notice Castian was a bit annoyed until he sighed, exasperated. “Must you read out loud?”

She clamped her hand over her mouth, heat flushed her cheeks. “I’m sorry. It’s just…some of this is too fascinating to keep inside my head.”

He stood, closing his ledger and shoving it in his bag.  “No harm done. I'm finished with my work. Would you like a hand with yours, or should I stay out of your hair?”

She peered up at him from her seat, noticing the slight crinkle of humor at the corner of his eyes. “That's awfully nice of you to offer. Master Vennick said there might be more volumes on Balrûth Dûm in the deeper archives. If you’re up for it, I’d like to see if we can find them tonight.”

His expression turned sober. “Sure. Helping me feel a little better than leaving you here all alone.”

She arched a brow at him. “I’m a grown monster hunter, Sir Castian. I can handle being alone in a massive library.”

“I know,” he said quickly. “But if I can help you finish your research faster, I'd be happy to help."

"Happy?" she teased. "You sure it's not against the Grumpy Knight Code, if there is such a thing."

He made a scoffing noise, deep in his throat. "I won't tell if you won't."

She smiled, pleased he was offering an excuse to remain close. Grabbing her lantern, she led the way into a narrower corridor lined with tall shelves jammed from floor to ceiling with mismatched tomes. Castian held his own lamp aloft, illuminating the shelves higher than she could reach. They moved carefully, mindful that some volumes looked dangerously old and might disintegrate at a careless touch.

Maisie scanned the spines for anything referencing Balrûth Dûm or Drakknir expeditions. She finally spotted a series of thin ledgers labeled with cryptic initials. Curiosity piqued, she slid out one that read “B-Dûm Inventory A-2” in neat but faded lettering. She opened it, heart skipping when she saw references to four crates designated for “B-Dûm.”

Castian hovered at her shoulder, peering over. The entry mentioned the crates withheld from standard distribution, set aside under direct order of someone whose name was smeared beyond recognition. They exchanged a glance.

“This matches the references we saw earlier,” Maisie said. “It’s definitely about Balrûth Dûm.”

He exhaled slowly. “So these expeditions stretch back centuries. More than one Duke of Dunvarrick was involved, apparently.”

They flipped pages, scanning more decades of notes, all referencing shipments that never returned. Most ended with the supplies simply disappearing among the Drakknir passes. People had sought that place for a very long time, and she was beginning to wonder what became of those who had taken up the quest.

After took the ledger, and a few other intriguing volumes, and went back to the reading room. They gathered their things and when Sir Castian tried to open the door, it refused to budge. He frowned, rattling it, then giving it another firm yank.

“It's locked,” he said in disbelief. He pounded on the door. “Tobin? Master Vennick?”

Silence answered. A tiny spike of panic jumped inside Maisie’s chest. She hammered her fist on the door, raising her voice, calling out to anyone who might be near. No response came from the far side. Eventually, she pressed her ear to the door, trying to detect footsteps or voices. Nothing. 

Castian sighed. “It looks like we’ve been locked in for the night.”

Her shoulders sagged. “That’s absurd. Why would they lock it? Perhaps they assumed we’d already gone to dinner.”

“No sense shouting all night. These walls are thick, and I don't think Master Vennick is the type to work all night so he might not come back.” He set his lantern on the nearest table, scanning the chamber. Aside from the door to the deeper archives, which they had just left, there seemed no alternate exit. “We’ll wait for Master Vennick to realize we’re missing. He did say he’d check on us.”

Maisie slumped onto a nearby chair. “At least we have plenty to read.”

The overhead lanterns flickered. The day’s warmth was gone, replaced by a creeping chill that seemed to seep through the stone floors. She felt her cheeks cool as she realized they might indeed spend an entire night here.

“There aren’t many good sleeping arrangements,” Castian observed, his voice practical but tinged with reluctant humor.

She glanced around the room. The only seats available were a handful of wooden chairs and several upholstered stools near the hearth. Hardly ideal for proper rest. She forced an optimistic shrug. “If I can chase monsters through muddy marshland, I can handle sleeping in a few chairs for a night.”

Castian dragged two chairs nearer the hearth. There wasn’t much firewood, but he piled the few logs he found into the grate and struck a spark with flint. A gentle flame soon licked along the wood, casting a dim glow. As the slight warmth spread, he vanished around a shelf and returned carrying a single wool blanket that must have been tucked among some old linens.

“Here.” He handed it to her calmly, gaze sliding away once she accepted. Then he dropped into his own chair and pulled his cloak tighter for minimal warmth.

She sat across from him, using a second chair as a footrest. The blanket smelled faintly of dust and old library air. Nevertheless, she draped it over her legs, grateful for even that much comfort. She tested the softness, letting out a muttered thanks.

They settled in silence, facing the guttering fire. She thought of the ledgers, the references to B-Dûm, and that repeated question—why so many expeditions, none returning with conclusive proof. Each discovery only spurred more unanswered questions.

Eventually, Castian shifted, crossing his arms. “This is inconvenient,” he said, voice low. “But at least we found clues about Balrûth Dûm before the door locked.”

She nodded. “It’s progress. I can’t wait to show Sela. She’ll want to know every detail.” Even as she spoke, she realized Sela was probably at dinner or already in her own quarters, unaware that Maisie was locked in the archives. “Hopefully, someone will notice we're gone and come get us out of here.”

He gave a wry huff. “Hopefully, but don't.”

Maisie tried to get comfortable in the chair but couldn't so she sat up straight, with her legs stretched out in front of her in the second chair.  “I haven't known very many knights,” she said. “Is it everything it’s cracked up to be? All jousts, glory, and declarations of courtly love?”

Castian let out a sharp, surprised laugh. “Gods, no.” He shook his head, still grinning. “It’s mostly balancing accounts, dealing with petty disputes over sheep, escorting minor nobles who think they’re more important than they are, and trying to stop squires from setting the stables on fire. Again.”

Maisie laughed with him, the sound echoing lightly off the stone walls. “Sounds thrilling.”

“It’s mostly mud and boredom,” he said, still amused. 

Maisie tilted her head and asked softly, “What about the battles?”

The humor drained from his face. He looked away, jaw tightening slightly. “Battles aren’t what you think, either” he said after a moment. “They’re not noble, and they’re certainly not glorious. They’re loud. Brutal. Messy. When you remember the ones who should’ve made it out but didn’t...it rips your heart out” His voice had dropped low, the words were clipped and quiet.

Maisie nodded, her smile fading. “People think monster hunting is all coin and songs. But it's not. It's hard work. Bloody. Lonely. And you never stop counting the people you couldn’t save.”

He looked at her then, really looked, and something in his expression softened. No smirk, no wry comment, no grumpiness, just a quiet recognition. “Seems we’ve got more in common than I thought.”

The crackle of the fire filled the quiet, its warm glow casting flickering patterns across the stone walls. Maisie watched the flames dance, her mind drifting over the unspoken understanding that lingered in the air—a connection forged in the silent acknowledgment of loss and perseverance.

Castian leaned back in his chair, his gaze fixed on the hearth, each flicker of light mirrored in the depths of his storm-gray eyes. Despite the heaviness of their conversation, there was a sense of relief in the quiet—a reprieve from the need to fill the space with words that couldn't quite capture the complexity of what they both carried.

Castian exhaled loudly, then pulled his cloak tighter around himself. “Goodnight, Maisie,” he said quietly.

She looked across at him, noticing how serious he looked even while trying to relax. His arms were still folded, as if bracing for an unexpected threat. The flicker of the fire played across the lines of weariness on his face.

“Goodnight, Castian,” she murmured. Then she let her eyes drift shut.

She wished she could quiet her churning thoughts, but her mind kept looping to everything she had read, to all the possibilities swirling around Balrûth Dûm. And she found her thoughts drifting to Castian, the man sitting a few feet away. Even if they were stuck in a library, sealed for the night, she couldn’t deny a tiny thrill at the feel of his presence. It was absurd to grow warm over a simple seat by the fire. Yet here she was, half-drifting, half-sure she wouldn’t sleep.

Maisie peered across the flickering embers, seeing Castian with his chin lowered toward his chest. Perhaps he was dozing. She tucked her feet closer, adjusting the blanket around her as much as she could.

She closed her eyes again and tried to breathe steadily. Tomorrow would bring more challenges, but at least she had found something of value in the books, and she was eager to show Sela, gather the others, and see what it all meant for their quest. But for now, there was nothing else to do but sleep.

Chapter

Thirteen

Maisie stirred to the soft pressure of someone gently nudging her foot. She blinked away a thin film of sleep that clung to her eyes. Castian stood near her makeshift bed, one hand braced against the table stacked with dusty tomes. He tilted his head when she lifted hers.

“Morning,” he said. “You were asleep so deeply that I thought a little nudge would be kinder than shouting at you."

Maisie realized her feet still rested on a second chair. Her body was bent at awkward angles, her neck protesting with a sharp twinge as she straightened. She had tried to catch a few hours of rest in these cold archives, but every time she drifted off, the hard chair reminded her that bookshelves did not welcome weary travelers. When she yawned, Castian offered a faint, weary smile.

“How long was I out?” she asked, rubbing the back of her neck.

“Long enough for the fire to burn down,” he answered quietly. He moved to the small hearth on the far side of the room, its embers nearly cooled. He stirred them with care and added fresh kindling until a few flames licked the air.

An unexpected wave of tenderness swept over her at the sight of his patient watchfulness. “Thank you.” She forced her feet to the floor and winced at the pins and needles that prickled all the way up her legs. She paced gingerly across the archive’s stone floor to work the stiffness out of her muscles. “Have you slept at all?”

“Some,” Castian replied. He rested one knee on the hearth’s ledge, coaxing small flames from the embers. “I dozed by the desk. Not my best night’s rest, but at least we stayed warm enough.” 

Maisie’s lips quirked up in a smile. “That would have been a tragedy for Master Vennick’s scrolls.” She eyed the dusty shelves lining the room. “He might have chased you all the way to the Drakknir Mountains for that offense.”

Before Castian replied, a clatter of keys rattled in the door lock. Then the door eased open. Master Vennick stepped inside, his expression caught between curiosity and annoyance. Sela and Tobin followed him through the door

“Ah, so you are here,” Vennick said, thinly veiled annoyance in his voice. He walked over to his desk. As he put the books he carried on his desk, he glanced at the chairs clustered around the hearth. "I see you made yourselves as comfortable as possible."

"Your chairs are comfortable enough, Master Vennick," Castian replied with a slight bow. "Apologies for any inconvenience."

"No inconvenience to me," he answered. "I did return to check on you last night. I called out, but when I didn't hear an answer, I locked the door."

"We were back there." Maisie pointed in the direction of the deeper archives. "I guess we didn't hear you."

Vennick cracked a brief smile. "I guess not."

Sela folded her arms and glared at Maisie. “Good morning, sister,” she said, her voice laced with exasperation. “When I fell asleep last night, i assumed a grown woman could find her way back to her room. You do realize I woke up and found your bed empty.”

Maisie rubbed her hands over her face. She fought the flush that threatened her cheeks, conscious that Castian was within earshot. “I am sorry if you worried⁠—”

Sela arched one eyebrow at her. "Not worried. You're the one who had to sleep in those chairs all night." She gave Castian a look up and down, then looked at her sister. "I trust you didn't have any problems last night?"

"No problems at all," Maisie replied with a look that said 'shut up right now.' The last thing she wanted was to be embarassed in front of Castian.

Tobin’s grin flickered as he took in the scene. “You two are quite the dedicated researchers, aren't you?” he asked. “Any new revelations from the dusty scrolls about dragons and ancient curses?”

Maisie nodded. “We did find quite a lot of promising information." She glanced at Master Vennick. “I would like to borrow some, if it's okay with you. I'd love a change of scenery." She gestured around her. Getting stuck in the archives again wasn't something she was keen to repeat.

Vennick narrowed his eyes at her. “You can borrow a few, so long as you take good care. Leave them in your chamber when you finish. I will send a steward to collect them.”

Maisie reached for one of the books on the table just as Castian did, their fingers brushing over the worn leather binding. The contact was brief, but it sent a flicker of heat up her arm. She looked up and found him already watching her, his gaze steady, unreadable. For a breath, neither of them moved.

Then his eyes dropped, lingering on her lips for just a second too long. He bit his lower lip, almost absently, before turning away without a word.

She cleared her throat and focused on the task at hand, packing the more books into her bag with care. The pages were brittle, their edges rough with age, and she handled them like glass. Once the bag was full, she slung it over her shoulder and gathered the remaining volumes, two thick tomes and a few rolled maps that wouldn’t fit. Beside her, Castian picked up the last of the books, his movements quieter now, more deliberately careful about getting too close to her.

Master Vennick waved them off with a huff. “I need to reorganize after last night’s fiasco. Off with you.” He turned back toward the archives, muttering about missing index cards and worthless locks.

Once he disappeared, Sela looked them up and down. “Now that we have rescued you, can we please eat? I am starving.” A grimace twisted her lips. “You both look like you need food more than you need more reading.”

Maisie’s stomach growled in agreement. It had been hours since dinner. “Yes, please.”

They carried the borrowed books to Maisie and Sela’s room. She left them on a small table by the window. Castian dutifully handed over any scrolls he still held, then stepped aside as if uncertain where he should stand.

They made their way downstairs. The kitchen staff offered them bowls of warm porridge and freshly baked bread. Maisie’s mouth watered at the smell, and she hastily snatched two small baps from the offered plate. They settled in a quiet corner of the Great Hall to devour their meal.

Maisie tore off a piece of bread and ate it. “Sister,” she said between bites. “We discovered references to legends about illusions along the Drakknir passes, but also a few promising leads on hidden mountain paths. And we found these maps.”

She tugged the rolled parchments from her satchel, setting them on the table. Sela wiped porridge from her spoon and leaned closer. Castian sat quietly, but his gaze flicked over the outlines of forest terrain and winding rivers.

Sela tapped one map that illustrated Wendwood Forest. “I see. You have all the maps through the Drakknir range, plus the Great River route.” She said, looking impressed. “Well done, you.”

Maisie smiled and flipped open a second map with a flourish. Home, Draklûn Bay was on the South coast of Valendor. Tissington, where they’d slain the Bonecrushers in exchange for poultry and mead, lay East of the bay, but about ten miles inland from the coast. Newbiggin, Sir Edric’s house, and Dunvarrick Keep were Northwest.

That was where the familiarity ended. Everything north-east of Dunvarrick was unknown territory: the Wendwood Forest, The Great River, and the Drakknir Mountains which stretched the length of the Northwest border of Valendor with the neighboring kingdom of Sindall.

The foothills of the Drakknir Mountains were annotated showing potential passes into the mountain, including the Sunless Pass which sounded like anything but delightful. A line of notes scrawled along the edges warned about travelers who were led astray in the forest for days or weeks by fae folk whom they displeased. It all sounded rather…terrifying.

“We can toss it out if you think fairytales won’t help us,” Maisie said, trying not to reread the notes about people the fae had led on less than merry chases through the woods.

“Well, that's something,” Sela admitted grudgingly. She leaned closer, scanning the details. “This will be quite useful.”

Sir Garran and Sir Edric arrived, talking as they walked together through the Great Hall. Sir Garran inclined his head politely, nodding at Sela and Maisie “Good morning. The duke has asked us to update everyone on the journey preparations.”

Sela moved to one side of the bench where she sat so Garran and Edric could sit “Go on,” she said. “We are eager to hear.”

Garran surveyed Maisie’s scattered maps. “Good. You have maps. Are they recent ones?"

Maisie shrugged and smiled. "Guess we'll find out, won't we. This will be a proper adventure."

Garran gave her a deadpan look and said, dryly, "Yes, just what I've always wanted. A proper adventure where I can't trust the maps to point us in the right direction."

Seeing Maisie winding up with a sharp retort, Edric said, "His Grace will provide horses for the route to Wendwood Forest. Once we reach the last town, we'll leave the horses there for the duke's stewards to pick up."

Sela frowned in confusion. "Why can't we take the horses into Wendwood?"

"The fae folk are known to be hostile if travelers through their forest offend them in anyway," Castian said. "Best to leave the horses in the last town where we stay.”

“We've never been to Wendwood, but we know the stories,” Maisie replied, remembering the stories about travelers lost in loops of repeated paths when the fae decided to play their tricks. “Avoiding that kind of trouble is a good idea. Looks like we'll be traveling on foot through the forest.”

"We'd have to give them up once we're in the mountains anyway," Edric added. "Some of those passes are difficult for horses."

“What else has the duke arranged for us?” Sela asked

“Basic supplies,” Garran said, ticking each point off on his fingertips. “Rations to last until we reach the Great River, deer jerky, hardtack, things like that. There are small towns along the river if we need to resupply. The duke has also fresh bedrolls, and a small stock of healing salves for injuries. It is not a vast store, but it is what we can carry without overburdening ourselves.”

Edric nodded. "Good. We can hunt deer and forage for root vegetables and berries in the mountains where we can."

Tobin wandered in from one of the side corridors. He strolled across the Great Hall with his usual flamboyance, hands clasped behind his back. Duke Aldric followed behind him at a more measured pace, studying the group with cautious interest. As soon as Tobin reached the table, he inhaled in a theatrical manner and exhaled a loud sigh of relief.

“You are all ready for you grand quest, I see,” Tobin said brightly. “I propose you take me with you.”

Sela gaped at him, eyes wide, but Tobin held up one hand in a showy gesture. “I know, I know. You will say I cannot fight. Fair enough. But a jester, or a bard-in-training, can be an invaluable asset on a treacherous path. Imagine the songs I will write about your exploits, your victories. Imagine how I will boost your morale when you feel lost, the comedic relief I can provide when things get tough.”

Sela’s eyes narrowed. “I'm imagining having to rescue you from the jaws of a Dreadboar or a pack of Shadowfang Wolves. We do not need comedic relief. We need skill with a blade. Your jokes are bad but they can't be used as weapons.”

Castian and Garran exchanged glances, both appearing uneasy at the suggestion. “It is a dangerous road,” Garran offered. “We're sure to encounter more hostile elements than audiences to entertain.”

Tobin nodded toward Duke Aldric. “The duke can vouch for my resilience. Did I not amuse the keep even when monstrous threats loomed beyond these walls?”

The duke nodded, though it seemed clear he was suppressing a small wince and a fair amount of sarcasm. “Yes, Tobin has indeed persisted through many trials. I do believe he might be of service on your journey.” He laced his fingers behind his back. “My cousin is quite set on accompanying you, and I have granted him my blessing.”

Sela shot to her feet in fiery protest. “My lord, forgive me, but we cannot babysit someone who can barely walk through a corridor without knocking over half tables and vases. Wendwood is not a jesting matter.”

Tobin put both hands over his heart in mock offense. “You underestimate my talents. Perhaps I lack skill with a sword, but I know folksongs that might appease certain fae or lighten the gloom. I can catalog your journey. Trust me, we will each have a role to play.”

Maisie smirked at her sister. "I did promise Master Vennick we would chronicle our journey for him in exchange for his help researching in the archives."

Sela glared at her. "When did you promise that?"

"The first day in the archives." Maisie shrugged. "If we let Tobin come, he could do the story more justice than I can."

"This is madness," Sela wiped one hand over her face and shot a pleading look at Castian.

He pursed his lips before glancing at the duke who did not seem in the mood to withdraw his blessing. In fact, His Grace seemed rather pleased with the arrangement. “It does seem dangerous for a non-combatant,” Castian offered, voice cautious.

Garran replied, “Tobin, curiosity is admirable, but you must understand the risk. We are not traveling for entertainment; this is a dangerous journey. We will certainly encounter monsters and dangerous elements. Are you sure you'd rather not stay here in the comfort of your uncle's fortress?”

Tobin’s grin did not waver. “I am not afraid, in fact, I'm excited to go. And I will treat this quest with the utmost seriousness. I view myself as an official recorder of your journeys. A bard’s perspective might prove invaluable. And I have considerable knowledge of the Balrûth Dûm quests that have preceeded you.” He pointed at the duke. "My uncle can attest to the numerous songs and stories I have written over the years about the place." 

Maisie’s gaze flicked between Sela and Tobin. Tobin had proven helpful more than once in the library. Perhaps his knowledge could assist them. She cleared her throat. “He has spent time in the archives. Maybe…maybe it would not be so awful to have him along.”

Sela sighed in disbelief at Maisie. “He's going to be constantly underfoot.”

Maisie shrugged. “If he becomes impossible, we can always threaten to leave him behind.”

Tobin clutched his chest again. “You see, that is the spirit. Optimism tempered by the threat of abandonment. I will be on my best behavior.”

The duke nodded in final agreement. “Then it is settled. Tobin will accompany you. He has written many fine tales and songs about Balrûth Dûm. I think his knowlege will be quite helpful.” His eyes flashed with a subtle relief, as though he had just rid himself of a troublesome obligation. “Consider it a final courtesy to me as your host.”

Tobin straightened his posture and gave the group a sweeping bow. "I promise none of you will regret a thing."

Sela glare could have wilted a rose. "I'm regretting it already."

Garran silently rested his elbows on the table, and put his head in his hands for a moment before looking up and smiling politely at the duke. Castian pinched the bridge of his nose like he was fighting a headache. None of them looked enthusiastic about the new addition.

Tobin, on the other hand, looked as though he'd won a prize. He faced Maisie, and bowed low to her with a flourish of hands. She bowed her head in return, then stifled a laugh when she glanced at Castian. He lifted an eyebrow in a silent question. She offered him a small shrug that said, might as look on the bright side.

Maisie took another bite of porridge, letting herself savor the meal before the realities of packing and preparing for their departure the next morning took over. The group had grown by one, and though Sela and the knights clearly had reservations, Maisie suspected life would only get more entertaining with Tobin’s antics along for the ride.

Chapter

Fourteen

The next morning, Maisie rose early, and went for walk in the silent courtyard of Dunvarrick Keep. A metallic taste of morning dew hung in the back of her throat. High above, mist curled over the ramparts, showing no hint yet of the sun. She tightened the straps on her leather bracers, trying not to replay the worry in Sela's voice from the night before: "We've got a long road. You need to be ready."

She could not decide if the pounding in her chest came from pondering the unknowns they would face in Wendwood Forest, or from her own restless thoughts about her family. Even though the king’s mages had paid Da, she still didn’t trust that everything would be well.

When she glanced across the courtyard, she spotted Sela, Garran, and Sir Edric examining their supplies, which were laid out in Dunvarrick Keep’s courtyard. Tobin lingered a few steps away, tapping an uneven rhythm on his thigh as if it might ease the tension. Castian stood apart from them, adjusting the buckles of his sword belt—spine straight, shoulders set. His presence drew Maisie's gaze, and a faint warmth rose in her cheeks. She quickly looked away, cursing her own distracted heart for summoning that memory of his half-smile whenever she let her mind wander too long.

A stable hand emerged from the far side of the courtyard, jogging toward them, breath pumping like bellows. Maisie's hopes rose momentarily at the thought of horses, but the stable hand only shook his head as he reached Garran. "My lord knights," the young man said, winded, "the duke's patrol left at midnight. They took every mount we had left." A flicker of apology crossed his face. "We tried to keep at least a couple for you, but the patrol leader insisted. Said the roads beyond the Highlands needed them more urgently."

Sela exhaled in frustration. The lines around her eyes deepened as she gave a curt nod of thanks to the stable hand. "So that leaves us on foot," she muttered. Her gaze flicked to the gear stacked on the bench. "We'll have to manage." Though her tone was steady, Maisie could see the frustration that brewed beneath it.

Sir Edric let out a tired laugh, though the sound carried little humor. "At least we know our legs will not buckle from disuse. Come along, then. Time to see how much of this equipment we truly need."

Tobin carried two burlap sacks through the courtyard, to Castian who quickly loaded them onto Tobin’s horse. They would each carry some provisions so they would distribute the weight equally. Whatever they took on the horses, they’d have to carry later, so they were traveling as light as they could.

Nervous energy danced beneath Maisie’s skin like lightning trapped in bone. She drew in a slow breath, held it, and braced herself because fear didn’t matter much on the road ahead. What mattered was moving forward even when you were scared to death. She turned to her sister. "Ready?"

Her sister gave a single nod. Then Maisie watched Castian as he climbed into his saddle. Goodness, he cut a formidable figure in the morning light. Shadows rested beneath his eyes, though, and she wondered if he had slept poorly. Perhaps he was as uneasy about Wendwood as the rest of them, or perhaps it was something else that kept him awake. Her pulse quickened with the memory of how she had seen a momentary softness behind his guarded expression when he talked about being in battle.

Maisie mounted her horse and tried to shake off thoughts of war and, more importantly, the inconvenient thoughts about how Sir Castian made her feel. she refocused on the immediate task of getting on the journey. They would need to first survive Wendwood. Then survive the beasts that might stalk them, and whatever else the forest decided to throw their way. Not to mention, surviving the journey down the Great River, and find the mythical cave, Balrûth Dûm. After all that was done, maybe she could indulge the feelings that sparked whenever Castian looked at her.

They departed the courtyard under the watchful gaze of a few tower guards. The keep's heavy gate swung open with a creak, revealing the rolling expanse of the Highlands spread in hazy profiles. The sun had begun its climb, gilding the grass with tentative light. Maisie lifted her chin, welcoming the crisp air into her lungs.

Their progress through the highlands started smoothly enough. The terrain sloped gently, scattered with boulders and short grasses that waved in a breeze. Tobin chattered, voice bright in the fresh air, though he occasionally stumbled on an uneven patch of ground.

Garran took the lead, scanning the horizon for any sign of roving patrols or wandering beasts, while Edric walked alongside Sela, offering a comment every so often about the weight of the packs or how the last time he marched on foot for more than a day, his ankles refused to forgive him for a full week. Sela responded with clipped remarks, eyes always roving, always searching the surroundings. Maisie recognized that posture. It was a vigilant stance Sela adopted anytime a journey carried unknown risk. The same stance that reflected her older sister's vow to never lose anyone to a monster attack again, if she could help it.

Maisie set her pace beside Castian. She stole a glance at him, noticing the muscle in his jaw clench as he surveyed the land. "You seem deep in thought," she said softly.

He did not look her way. "I was thinking how quickly everything changes. Yesterday, we had the comfort of walls around us; now, we on a journey we don’t know how, or where, it will end." Then he released a long breath in what might have been a subdued attempt at easing tension. "But I prefer the open air to being locked inside anyway. It’s good to be on the road."

A flicker of a smile touched Maisie's lips. She remembered all too vividly the night they got locked in the archives. "I feel the same," she agreed, turning her eyes onward. "No door can get locked on us today. The forest might hold some surprises for us, though."

His expression shifted, a deep quiet in those storm-gray eyes. "Let’s hope it doens’t."

Their path slanted downward toward denser woodlands. After an hour or so of riding, the ground underfoot changed from springy grass to a darker, moss-laden soil. The air filled with the scent of damp leaves and rotting bark. Overarching branches swallowed the sunlight as they rode through a long grove a trees, casting scattered patterns across the group. Sela called for a short halt underneath a spindly oak. Edric rolled a kink out of his shoulder, while Garran sipped from a water skin kept at his side.

"Good to rest for a bit," Edric stated, glancing around. "I do not fancy twisting an ankle on these roots if we rush."

As they traveled deeper into the trees, the canopy thickened overhead, branches interweaving like a living tapestry. Sunbeams grew scarce, scattered in emerald fragments that shimmered on the mossy rocks. Gnarled roots thrust out from the forest floor, tangling around their ankles if they did not tread carefully. Every so often, a small creature scurried around in the undergrowth, invisible except for the rustling leaves covering it.

Maisie's skin prickled with a cold . No breeze reached this deep, and the air felt oddly still, as if the forest held its breath in watchful silence. She tried to focus on the sturdy shape of Garran ahead, the steady march of Sela's boots, Tobin's occasional mutter about the gloom. It grounded her—or tried to. That was until she spotted a faint glow drifting between the trunks.

A flicker of pale green light danced at the edge of her vision, then vanished behind a twisted trunk. She blinked, uncertain if her eyes played tricks. But then it appeared again, joined by a second orb, this time tinged lavender. They wavered like small lanterns floating on an unseen current.

Tobin let out a startled squeak behind her. "D-did you see that?" He pivoted, nearly tangling his feet on an outcropping of roots.

Maisie felt curiosity stir, a strange tug urging her to step off the path for a closer look. The floating lights bobbed like beckoning stars in the gloom, mesmerizing. She took half a step to follow them when a firm hand curled around her elbow. She glanced back to find Castian giving her a hard look. The unspoken command in his eyes said everything: do not go.

Flushing, she realized she had indeed started drifting away from the narrow path. Her cheeks warmed with embarrassment, both at the scolding in his gaze and the sudden realization that she had nearly wandered off. She attempted to speak, a quiet apology half-forming on her lips, but the orbs danced again, lure weaving deeper.

"Stay on the path," Garran ordered from ahead. His tone was flat, but an edge of tension clung to the words. "Wendwood illusions. They will snare anyone foolish enough to chase them. Tales say the lights guide travelers in circles for eternity if you are not careful."

Maisie nodded, stepping carefully back in line. She felt Castian's hand on her elbow, as though he doubted she would resist a second glance. She offered the knight a shaky smile to reassure him, though her heart still hammered in her chest.

"I am fine," she whispered, more for her own benefit than his.

He hesitated, then released her, the warmth of his touch fading as quickly as it had come. A subtle frustration gleamed in his eyes, as though he resented the forest for preying on their awareness. Or perhaps he resented himself for caring so deeply. She could not be sure which weighed heavier on him.

They pressed forward, and Tobin's earlier jokes about "noble knights stumbling through leaves" vanished into tight-lipped silence. Every few minutes, another glow flickered between the twisted branches—sometimes soft pink, other times a cold blue that made Maisie's skin crawl. She clutched the strap of her pack to keep her thoughts anchored.

Up ahead, Sela glanced at Garran, their shared look heavy with concern. Maisie could practically sense her sister's anxiety spiking. Sela rarely showed fear in words, but the rigid set of her shoulders told Maisie that each dancing light proved the forest's illusions were all too real.

When they stopped again for a brief rest, Sela's jaw worked as though she wanted to voice a warning. Instead, she only turned to Edric. "Does it seem darker than it should for this hour?" Her voice sounded tightly controlled.

Edric grunted. "Yes. Could be just the thickness of the canopy."

Swiping a trickle of sweat from her brow, Maisie studied the dappled gloom. The day felt prematurely old, as if evening pressed in hours early. "I hate this," she said softly, rubbing her arms. "The air is too still. I keep expecting something to jump out."

Tobin tried to adopt a careless grin. "We shall meet it with flamboyance if it does. We are not novices."

Garran exhaled, mindful of Tobin's forced bravado. "Just keep your eyes forward," he said softly, scanning the surrounding trunks. "Wendwood illusions feed on curiosity. They prey on complacency."

Castian, who had been silent for a while, finally murmured, "We should not linger here. Every minute we wait is another chance for illusions to… escalate." His gaze flickered toward Maisie, but he did not elaborate. She caught the gravity in his voice, felt the brush of confidence he tried to lend her. Her heart tightened.

They resumed their trek. Her thighs burned from stepping over thick roots, and a dull ache built beneath her pack's straps. Every so often, they would pause for Tobin to untangle himself after stumbling, or for Garran to double-check they had not lost the faint path winding through the moss. The deeper they ventured, the more the forest seemed to close around them.

At one point, a quiet rustle in a nearby patch of ferns made them all freeze. Sela signaled for quiet by touching two fingers to her lips. Edric hefted his sword, scanning the undergrowth. Maisie gripped her own blade, breath caught in her throat. She could feel Castian shifting closer—a presence like a silent vow of protection. For a moment, no one moved. Then the ferns parted to reveal a startled doe, bounding away with a graceful leap. The group exhaled collectively, tension easing a fraction.

Still, the forest kept them on edge. The illusions refused to relent, swimming at the corner of Maisie's vision. Her muscles grew tight from resisting the faint compulsion to drift off the path. She caught Sela's gaze once, saw an unspoken question: how much farther? No one truly knew. The Duke's maps showed only approximate routes, and Wendwood had a reputation for twisting roads into labyrinths of brambles and half-seen illusions.

When the sun overhead had likely traveled far beyond midday, judging by the hunger pangs building in Maisie's stomach, the path coiled around a large, ancient oak. On the other side, the undergrowth thickened, lit only by scattered shards of greenish light. The sense of boundary they had felt earlier gave way to deeper gloom. Every trunk bristled with clinging moss, every rock was cloaked in lichen. The temperature dropped, enough that Maisie rubbed her arms for warmth.

Tobin stopped humming his half-song. Wind no longer stirred the leaves overhead; they were locked in stillness, breathing in an air that felt somehow older than anything they had known. A sense of crossing an invisible threshold sent a chill through Maisie's bones. She peered ahead at Garran's silhouette as he guided them to keep left around a fallen log. Sela moved with careful, deliberate steps, scanning every shadow.

Castian, behind Maisie, remained close, as if ready to snatch her arm if she veered again. She found a measure of comfort in that protective aura, however complicated her feelings were. The ghostly lights glimmered once more at the fringes of the path. Maisie forced herself not to look. Heart beating fast, she focused instead on the dark line of Garran's cloak and the scuff of Sela's boots. She felt Castian's presence right behind her, and Edric's careful footfalls off to one side. Tobin kept his mouth pressed tight. Nothing had attacked them yet, but the illusions tugged at their vision with unwavering persistence.

They dropped into a shallow ravine where gnarled trunks formed a canopy so tangled that the sky became a vague memory overhead. In the half-light, the trees themselves seemed to shift, as though repositioning to guide them deeper. Maisie's nerves thrummed, her breath tight with anticipation. She resisted the urge to ask if anyone else felt that pull. The forest felt sentient, watching them and waiting.

Step by step, they descended further. The illusions flickered at the edge of sight, as if dancing in silent invitation. Garran pressed forward, and Sela gestured for Tobin to remain firmly in the center—no straying. Edric muttered something about maintaining formation. Castian tapped Maisie's shoulder gently, a reassurance that he was there if she faltered. She nodded once, though the dryness in her throat said she might be more frightened than she let on.

Then the ground leveled out, the ravine's edges climbing at either side. The entire forest into a corridor of living shadows. Maisie's heart pounded in her ears, but she forced her steps to remain steady. Each motion felt like a step from the realm of men into a place far older and far less forgiving. The illusions waited to pounce if she so much as blinked incorrectly. She swallowed hard and kept moving.

The gloom thickened, as they moved deeper into Wendwood Forest. swallowing the last of the day's light. And with every step, Maisie swore she could hear the forest breathing, a slow, patient acceptance of intruders that might never find their way free again.

Chapter

Fifteen

Maisie squinted through the afternoon's thinning light, eyes stinging from the countless times she had blinked against swirling bits of pollen blown by the forest breeze. Each passing hour in Wendwood chipped away at her sense of safety, but for the moment, this clearing offered a slight illusion of security. They could see a good bit around them, so it wasn’t likely they’d be surprised by predators.

The trees stood in a loose circle around them, their roots curving into a natural boundary around a patch of soft moss in the middle. Above them, a spindly network of branches boasted clusters of small wooden charms that clicked and rattled in the breeze. They were also some of carved bone, and tiny shells, and strips of colored thread that lent an odd beauty to the collection.

As Maisie looked around, she noticed other fairy shrines among the trees. They were sacred spaces where people left tokens as offerings or signs of respect to the fairies. There were delicate hoops of twisted willow hung from the lower branches, their woven centers threaded with feathers and beads among more bits of colored thread.

Tiny bells chimed now and then, their faint music mingling with the rustle of leaves overhead. Ribbons trailed from the branches, their ends brushing the mossy ground, and small flat stones were stacked in careful piles around the base of some of the trees. The displays were beautiful, but Maisie knew better than to mess with any of them. The fae took their gifts and offerings quite seriously.

Her shoulders ached from toting gear all day. She slid her pack onto the moss, sighing as she felt the weight slip away. Everyone else stumbled into the clearing soon after: Garran Thorne, posture rigid from prolonged vigilance; Tobin Merryweather, vigorously brushing leaves from his patchwork attire; Castian, face set with quiet tension that never seemed to leave him. Sela arrived last, eyes narrowed as if expecting an ambush at any turn.

"Here?" Tobin asked between breaths. He gestured around at the ring of gnarled trunks and the flutter of hanging talismans. "It seems… not entirely cursed."

Maisie let out a dry huff that almost sounded like a laugh. "Not entirely is as high a praise as we get in this forest," she pointed out. The illusions that had danced at the edges of her vision all day now hovered more timidly, as if warded off by those carefully placed charms overhead. She listened for that unearthly chiming sound each carved piece made, uncertain whether it was the wind or something more magical.

Sela leveled a thoughtful stare at the gently swaying trinkets. "Whoever placed these might be trying to keep the illusions at bay," she observed quietly. "We should be careful." She jabbed her sword into the mossy ground to keep it upright as she surveyed the perimeter.

Sir Edric trudged in last, his salt-and-pepper hair damp with sweat. He murmured something unintelligible and sank onto a fallen log. One of his boots clunked awkwardly against a protruding root, and he grimaced. "I need a moment to breathe," he said, exhaling slowly.

"We all do," Maisie said, rubbing the base of her neck. Her heart still thrummed fast from the day's trek. At least the illusions had not overwhelmed her again—she had no desire to stumble off the path chasing flickering orbs that vanished the instant she looked at them straight on. This clearing, while undeniably strange, felt like a pocket of calm. She hoped the fae or whatever laid these protections might allow them a short rest.

Garran nodded, scanning the edge of the trees. "I'll gather some tinder for a small fire," he announced. "But we cannot burn anything large enough to draw attention. That includes the attention of any unseen watchers."

Edric waved a hand dismissively. "Do as you will." His voice carried an uncharacteristic sharpness, as if fatigue weighted every word. Then he rose and shuffled beyond the circle of watchers, heading to the other side of the clearing. Maisie pursed her lips. She had an instinct to follow him, worried he might be more exhausted than he let on. But Sela caught her eye and shook her head, as if to say let him be for now.

Tobin tracked Edric's retreat with an anxious expression. "I'll help Garran, if that's all right," he offered. His voice came out softer than usual, still laced with an eagerness to please. Garran merely nodded and strode off, leading Tobin to the tree line in search of dead branches.

That left Maisie, Castian, and Sela near the center of the clearing. The wooden charms clinked softly overhead, a sound that set Maisie oddly at ease. Her breath slowed, and her shoulders loosened. Part of her wanted to sink fully onto the moss and sleep, but she knew better than to let her guard slip in Wendwood.

Castian cleared his throat. "I'll circle the perimeter," he said. Though he addressed both sisters, his eyes rested on Maisie. "Just to be sure nothing lurks nearby." He touched the pommel of his sword before stepping toward the northern edge, boots crunching faint twigs underfoot.

As Maisie moved to crouch by her pack, Sela gently touched her arm. "Watch him," Sela murmured, low enough that only Maisie could hear. "The illusions might not be done with us."

Maisie's pulse picked up. She glanced after Castian's retreating form. "I trust him not to stray," she answered, voice just as quiet. "But yes, I will keep an eye out." She tried not to dwell on the unease swirling in the pit of her stomach whenever Wendwood's illusions came to mind.

Sela accepted that with a nod. Then she bent to examine an area thick with moss, possibly deciding where best to set up bedrolls if they stayed the night. With that, Maisie pulled her cloak closer, scanning the clearing in search of Edric. He had slipped farther off than she realized, disappearing behind a crooked tree trunk. She caught the faint shuffle of his boots. It sounded like he was pacing.

She rose to check on him. Her limbs felt heavier than usual, though she suspected that was just the exhaustion from trekking through uneven forest paths. The tall canopy diffused the sunlight, leaving the clearing in dappled shade. Even so, warmth clung to the air, a reminder that they had not yet reached the deeper mountains.

She found Edric near a patch of ferns, wiping a hand across his brow. He lifted his gaze guiltily when he noticed her. "I needed a quiet moment," he muttered. "Sorry for snapping earlier."

"Nothing to apologize for," Maisie replied. Her voice brimmed with the concern she felt. "This forest would drive anyone to the brink. Are you all right?"

He sighed. "Yes, just tired. My years of chasing monsters when in my prime…well, they're behind me now." His eyes lingered on the intricately carved bone charms swaying mere steps away. Several hung from a low-hanging branch stretched across the ferns. "These are more than simple trinkets, you know," he said quietly. "I have half a mind to try repairing a few before sundown if they're at all damaged. But perhaps they're best left alone."

Maisie glanced at the cluster that dangled overhead. She noticed one charm shaped like a slender fish, or maybe a stylized lizard, with runes carved along its spine. There was a faint hum, too soft to be wind. "I doubt the forest wants us tampering with them," she replied, dropping her voice. "They might protect us from illusions, or from something else." She thought about the wild rumor that the fae took offense at intruders who meddled in their wards.

Edric nodded, then made as if to step around the protruding root beneath the branch but, in his weariness, his foot slipped. He stumbled forward with more force than either of them expected, colliding headlong with the cluster of faerie charms.

Maisie inhaled sharply as fragile strips of willow bark tore, and fragments of painted beads and carved bones went flying. Edric’s boot caught the edge of the small cairn before he even saw it. The stack of flat stones toppled with a soft clatter, the carefully balanced layers slipping apart and scattering across the mossy ground. A few smaller stones bounced and rolled into the undergrowth, and the faint scrape of stone on stone broke the quiet like a whispered gasp. What had once stood as a neat, weathered marker now lay in a loose, uneven heap, as though the forest itself had drawn in a sharp breath at the disturbance.

They all held their breath. Sela jerked upright from where she had been kneeling with their gear, her expression flaring with alarm. Castian spun around at the clearing's edge, eyes narrowing in instant caution. Maisie's heart hammered; she heard the furious clatter of wooden pieces hitting the ground.

Time slowed. Edric let out a low groan of despair, posture sagging. "No, no… that was clumsy of me," he muttered, voice thick with regret. "I didn't mean⁠—"

Before he could finish, darkness swept across the clearing. It felt like a curtain dropped over the fading daylight, swallowing everything in a sudden gloom. A roar of wind thundered through the branches, monstrous in its abruptness. It whipped the leaves and the scraps of broken charms into a swirling chaos. Tobin's startled yelp carried from the far side of the clearing, followed by the thud of him stumbling.

Maisie instinctively threw up an arm to shield her face from swirling debris. She cried out as a sharp gust shoved her backward. Her boots dug into the moss, nearly toppling her. Through the rushing wind, she heard Castian cursing under his breath, trying to keep his footing. A tangle of dried leaves smacked her shoulder, scattering around her eyes and mouth.

Sela managed to brace herself behind a thick tree trunk, arms raised in a protective stance. Garran's voice cut through the gale, shouting something indecipherable. The temperature plummeted; Maisie felt it like ice piercing her lungs. Her every breath shuddered. Her hair whipped around her face, half-blinding her.

Then, as quickly as it had begun, the wind died away. The clearing went so quiet Maisie's own heartbeat drummed in her ears. The abrupt shift left her disoriented. She coughed and blinked, brushing her hair from her eyes. Faint motes of dust drifted in a beam of newly returned sunlight.

"We're all right," she rasped. She had no idea if her words were for herself or for anyone listening. Her gaze landed on Edric, who crouched near the splintered remains of the charms, eyes wide with shock.

Tobin, sprawled on his side a few paces away, groaned and pushed himself upright. A smear of dirt streaked his cheek, and his bright leggings clung to a tangle of sticks. Garran extended a hand, hauling Tobin to his feet. Castian, kneeling at the clearing's perimeter, rose with a tense scowl. His sword had been half-drawn, as if he expected an attacker to burst from the shadows.

Sela marched over, her jaw set. "What in the three realms was that?" Her glare fell first on the broken remnants of the fae charms, then swept over Edric. The older knight winced under her scrutiny.

"It was an accident," he said, voice trembling with remorse. He lifted a split piece of carved wood in one hand, revealing how finely etched the runes had been before they were fractured. "I stumbled… foolish of me to wander off."

Maisie knelt beside him, pressing a soft hand to his shoulder. "It's all right," she said, though her own heart still pounded in her chest. The pricking sensation across her skin told her the fairies would be outraged by the destruction of these charms.

Garran stepped forward, exchanging a worried glance with Castian. "Winds like that do not spring from nowhere," he muttered. "The fae are angry." Fallen leaves settled around his boots.

"We could try to fix them," Sela began, nodding at the broken bits. Her expression flickered through annoyance, caution, and reluctant concern for Edric's state. "We might pick them up and see if we can restore them. Or maybe leave an offering."

Edric shook his head and met her gaze as he rose, eyes reddened. "It is too late," he responded quietly. "Even if we gather every piece, we'd have to carve and bless them again. That could take hours, and nightfall is coming fast. We do not know how to appease these forest wards properly. We might make matters worse."

Castian exhaled, his gaze darting from the ground to the canopy. He looked on the verge of suggesting they attempt it anyhow, but something in his tight posture said he agreed with Edric's assessment. The forest had proven fickle with illusions, punishing intruders who meddled in its ways.

Tobin, still brushing dust from his clothing, edged closer. "So we leave them broken?" He sounded oddly subdued. "Won't that invite…outbursts? Our camp might not be safe now."

A faint sense of unease coiled around Maisie's chest. Her instincts told her that the forest's encounter with them was only beginning. The air felt thick as syrup, as though the woodland waited to see if they would make more mistakes. She let her fingers curl around Edric's arm gently, helping him regain solid footing. "What else are we to do?" Maisie asked. "It’s too late to journey on from here. Traveling through the wood at night would be more dangerous than staying. We wouldn’t be able to see very far ahead of us, even with torches."

Sela inhaled through her nose, then exhaled. "Agreed. We should depart at first light." She stepped back, glancing at Garran. "We’ll set our night watches and then, move on in the morning." Her tone carried a clipped certainty, as if giving orders on a battlefield. Garran inclined his head, posture tense and ready. Though neither said it aloud, Maisie suspected both felt the forest's anger closing in.

Castian moved to stand closer to Maisie. She felt the warmth of his presence, already starkly different from the chill that lingered in the air. "I will take the first watch," he said simply. "Though, I doubt any of us will sleep soundly."

She nodded, hugging herself. Her mind flicked to all the monstrous illusions they had evaded: lights in the darkness, vines coiling in the gloom, the quiet sense that Wendwood itself observed every step. Breaking these charms might have unlocked an even harsher side of the forest's magic.

Still, there was no reversing what happened. She glanced at Edric, who stood pale-faced near the wreckage. She recognized the guilt in his eyes. He had always been so careful to keep them safe, yet today, he was the one whose small misstep threatened them all. Maisie caught his hand in hers, giving it a gentle squeeze. "Accidents happen," she whispered, hoping it would soothe him at least a little. "We will manage."

He tried to muster a small reply, but only a pained nod came. Tobin, looking uncertain, reached for one of the unbroken charms on a higher branch. Sela shot him a sharp, quelling look, and he promptly pulled his hand back as if it had been scorched. No one else moved to touch any of the decorations left intact.

A few minutes passed in near silence while they cleared away bits of debris that might snag underfoot. Garran set about arranging tinder for a small fire near the edge of the clearing. Tobin fidgeted as he pulled off a piece of bark to use as a makeshift fan for the embers. Castian stationed himself at the opposite side, sword within easy reach, scanning the perimeter. His watchful stillness reminded Maisie of a cat poised to spring if danger emerged.

Those broken charms lay scattered on the moss, a graveyard of splintered runes that had once warded travelers or perhaps blocked illusions from slipping in. Each shift of the breeze triggered an uneasy echo through the canopy: the rattle of surviving trinkets that felt more ominous than protective now.

When Garran produced a spark with flint and steel, a small flame licked at the tinder. Smoke coiled upward, carrying the scent of burnt pine needles. Maisie joined Sela in blowing softly to encourage the spark. Gradually, enough warmth glowed to soothe their immediate chill, though none seemed eager to relax around it.

Edric still stood a half step away, looking smaller than usual. "Again, I'm sorry," he rasped. "I only wanted a moment away, but I⁠—"

Sela approached, tension softening around her eyes. "It's done," she stated, voice tempered by acceptance. "We cannot turn back time. Just… rest, Edric. We need you at full strength tomorrow."

He swallowed and met her stern gaze, then nodded. Maisie saw a flicker of gratitude in the older knight's eyes. The group formed a subdued circle around the flickering fire, none quite sure how to break the oppressive silence that settled over them.

A gust of wind brushed past, far gentler than the furious gale from before, and the clearing's canopy rustled in a low murmur. Maisie stared at the fractured remnants of one charm, shaped like a small lizard, half-buried in the moss near her feet. She could not shake the feeling that the forest watched them.

She shivered and pulled her cloak tighter. Across the fire, Castian met her eyes. She read a resolve in his gaze that he would do whatever it took to keep them safe, illusions or not. In response, she forced a reassuring nod, even though her heart thundered with worry. They would survive this, she told herself, but Wendwood was not finished testing them.

Nobody spoke of repairing the charms again. The wind's chill had made its point. They settled in for the night, short though it might be. Garran and Tobin managed enough collected wood to keep a modest flame, but no one expected to drift into a comfortable slumber. Every tree in that clearing seemed to lean closer, as if eavesdropping.

Sela stood first watch. Edric, chastened by the accident, volunteered for second, determined to prove his reliability. Castian would follow, while Maisie planned to take a shift near dawn. Tobin, still rattled by being thrown off his feet, muttered about nightmares and illusions hovering in the darkness.

Night came on with jarring swiftness. The meager firelight revealed only the circle of their immediate space. Beyond that, the forest was an inky void punctuated by the occasional rustle of leaves. Maisie tried to rest on her bedroll, head pillowed by her pack, but she kept her eyes partially open, scanning the gloom with a growing unease.

She heard the hollow clink of a single charm that still hung overhead, swaying as though invisible hands pushed it. In that moment, she thought she saw a faint glimmer of pale green at the corner of her eye, an orb drifting through the trees. Then it vanished, leaving curiosity and dread in its wake.

She curled her fingers into the material of her cloak and swallowed. They would endure. They always did. Yet something told her that, come morning, Wendwood's illusions might greet them with fresh malice, emboldened by the shattered wards. She closed her eyes anyway, listening to the rhythmic crackle of the fire and the unsteady sigh of wind through the treetops. If she could just steal a little rest, she might muster enough strength for what lay ahead.

The fae did not lash out that night, but with every movement of those dangling charms, and faint sounds they made, Maisie felt a silent warning. And like so many dangers in Wendwood, the fae would likely wait until the moment the humans least expected to strike.

Chapter

Sixteen

The next day, the group was up at dawn. After a quick meal of venison jerky, dried berries and nuts, they set off through Wendwood. Garran had gone a little further ahead of them to a break in the trees where he could see the sky. He came back to tell them which direction was east and if they kept the sun ahead of them, they’d likely stay on track at least until noon. As they walked, Sela confirmed their progress heading in the right direction when they reached spots that were sunnier, and the moss seemed to grow on only one side of the trees, the north facing sides.

They moved into denser parts of the wood, and streaks of sunlight were harder to find. Each of them had a torch tucked into leather loops on their rucksacks, and when Sela mentioned it might be time to light them, the forest around them changed.

Small orbs of colored lights appeared. First it was only a few, then there were hundreds, then thousands. They floated through the air like fireflies, their light was bright and bold in shades of blue, green, red, and gold. They hovered above them, and danced among the trees, twisting around the trunks as they cast a brilliant light that lit the forest as if it were draped in starlight.

Sela’s exhaled a shaky breath. “Fae folk, you reckon?” she asked, slowing her pace to watch the lights weaving around her.

It would have been breathtakingly magical if it weren’t also a little bit terrifying. The group exchanged anxious glances as the lights continued to buzz around them. Tobin looked like he might pass out.

“Do you think they are angry because of Edric destroyed the their shrine?” he asked. “Maybe we should go back to fix it?”

“I think the fae would be more upset if we touched their shrine,” Garran replied. “Best not to meddle with things we’re not meant to touch.”

Tobin grimaced. “We should try to make amends, though, should we not? Sorry!” he said to the lights as they raced around him. “We meant no disrespect. It was an accident.” He turned to Edric. “Go on, then. Your turn.”

Edric shifted uncomfortably, casting a backward glance at the spot where he’d stumbled through the shrine, knocking down two of the hanging charms.

Tobin gave him a pointed look, eyebrows lifted. “Well? Don’t you have something to say to them? You’re the one who has done it.”

Edric let out a quiet sigh. “Fine. I’m sorry about the… shrine,” he muttered, eyes flicking toward the cluster of fairy lights dancing around his head. “Didn’t mean to disturb anything.”

Tobin crossed his arms, shaking his head. “That simply will not do. You should probably get down on one knee, you know. Show some sincerity.”

Edric turned, a skeptical frown creasing his brow. “Get down on a knee? You’re serious?”

“Very serious,” Tobin said brightly, nodding. “You are apologizing to the fair folk. We want them to forgive us, don’t we?”

Edric hesitated, looking between the others. Maisie hid a small smile, Sela raised an eyebrow, and even Castian’s mouth twitched at the corners.

With a grumble, Edric finally huffed, “Fine, fine.” He lowered himself onto one knee, glancing skyward as if appealing for patience, and faced the trees.

“My apologies, fair folk,” he said, voice a little rough but sincere. “Didn’t mean to trample your… things. It won’t happen again.”

Tobin beamed and gave him an approving slap on the back as Edric climbed to his feet. “See? That wasn’t so hard!”

Edric shot him a look. “If I wake up with my boots tied together, you’re to blame.”

“Somehow, I think any punishment they dole out will be worse than pranking you,” Sela said.”

They continued on, the fairy lights leading them, following them still twirling all around them. Maisie walked a little faster, eyes wide as the lights rippled along the forest floor. A trail of flickering color stretched out before them. There was no need to reach for the torches to light their way. They could see everything around them for half a mile or more. The lights led the way, flowing over fallen logs, and circling in low dips in the ground.

Sela veered slightly away from the lighted trail, pointing in the direction she thought they should take. But as soon as she moved off course, the lights moved in front of her, blocking her path as they moved into a blinding curtain of color that was painful to look at. The air shimmered with a faint, electric buzz of magic.

Castian shaded his face with his hand and let out a rough breath. “Looks like the fae want us on the path they’ve chosen.”

Maisie turned slowly, watching as the wall of light curved behind them, nudging them gently but firmly toward another way. “They could be protecting us from something,” she said softly, glancing at Sela.

“After we broke their shrine? No, I think they’re leading us on a merry chase through the woods,” Sela replied, seeming a little put out by the inconvenience.” Sela tried to move in another direction, away from the fairy path, but was stopped again from going very far. “Okay, guess we follow the fae.”

For nearly an hour they walked, the lights guiding them through the darkening woods. The path narrowed between towering walls of moss-covered stone, the rock faces twisted and jagged as though the earth itself had split open long ago. Thick carpets of green draped every surface, softening the hard edges but giving the place an eerie, ancient feel. Above, slender trees stretched skyward, their trunks cloaked in the same lush moss, branches forming a tangled canopy that filtered the light into a gentle, dappled glow. Leaves rustled faintly overhead, the only sound in the in this deep, green passage. The trail wound around in a meandering line, and they followed it through stone walls that rose high into the sky, and it felt as if the forest itself had carved a hidden corridor just for their passage.

They emerged into another part of the forest where they climbed over fallen trees and up stone steps carved into the rock. At the top of the stairs, they waded through thick vegetation before finding a clear path through the trees. Then, just ahead of them, the lights gathered, bunching together in a slow, circling pattern that pulsed brighter and then formed a shape that looked like an arrow, pointing to a bend in the path.

They followed that for a time, and as they emerged from yet another stand of trees there was a small clearing, and when The ruin rose from the trees like a memory. The arched doorway was cracked at the top but standing, and vines spilled down it from high atop the wall. A partial roof, heavy with centuries of overgrowth, sheltered two of the corners. The stone-framed windows were still finely carved despite all the years that had passed.

Though the glass was long gone, the openings held a quiet beauty as slender stone mullions divided each window into sections where the glass used to be. The fae lights skittered across the stone, dancing around the windows. It made the place glow like something holy.

Sela gave a short nod. “Looks like we camp here for the night.”

No one argued. As the last fairy lights drifted away into the trees, the group moved inside the ruin, grateful for the chance to rest, even as unease curled tight in their bellies.

Inside the chapel, the air was cool and still, touched with the faint smell of damp stone and earth. Moss and lichen spread along the cracked walls, and vines slipped through broken gaps, curling over what was left of the old stone pillars. It smelled of moss and dirt.

The floor was uneven, scattered with chunks of fallen rock, but the partial roof above was just enough cover to keep the worst of the weather out if they stayed in one, large corner. Shafts of fading light streamed through the arched windows, painting pale streaks across the worn, dirt-covered stone floor.

"Not much left of this old chapel," Sir Edric said. He deposited his rucksack against one wall, then rolled his shoulder, wincing enough to suggest his muscles ached. "Shelter is shelter, I suppose."

Tobin, normally quick to crack a joke, simply gaped at the ruin. "There’s a bit of a roof, at least. If we all sleep in that corner over there, we should stay dry if it rains." Then bowed with to Sela with a great flourish, as if awarding her the final say. She snorted, but nodded once.

"This place must have been beautiful once," Maisie said softly, placing a hand against a cracked pillar. The stone felt cold beneath her palm. She listened a moment, wondering if ancient prayers still floated in the air.

Sela surveyed the room, her expression locked in the vigilant mask she wore when expecting trouble. "That walls might keep the wind out, but any rain will still get in" she observed, gesturing to an area with partial ceiling support. The floor in the corner, under the partial room, was a perfect place to build a fire.

Castian went outside and came back with an armful of wood. He pulled a small xe from his rucksack and splintered some of it into kindling. Kneeling, he set the kindling in a small heap, and stacked the thicker branches around it. From his belt pouch, he pulled a piece of flint and a steel striker. Sparks jumped into the kindling. He bent close, blowing a steady breath, and the glow flared to life, the fire crackling softly as the flames caught, casting a warm light through the cold, empty chapel.

"We'll have to keep watch," Garan said. "You know how Wendwood can be. Strange things lurk everywhere."

Maisie nodded, then removed her pack and set it down next to Tobin’s. Her shoulders still felt tense with each breath. She sat down by the fire and was soon joined by the rest of the weary group.

Castian came to sit beside her. "Tired?" he asked. "It has been a long day."

"I’m fine," she said, too quickly.

He hesitated, as if wanting to press the matter, then sighed. "All right. But let me know if you need anything."

She nodded, grateful but trying not to show how his gentleness always made her heartbeat skip. She scooted forward, closer to the small blaze, and stared at the dancing flames. The only sound was the crackling wood of the fire. The chapel’s arches overhead, half consumed by creeping greenery, cast gloom in every corner. A trickle of water dripped from somewhere, echoing faintly. The hair along Maisie's neck stood on end. Something about this quiet felt too thick, too charged with an unseen presence.

She glanced at Sela, who busied herself with a dull blade in need of sharpening. Sela's expression gave nothing away, but Maisie suspected her sister felt the same creeping unease. The forest had taught them to be wary. Garran and Edric, too, seemed to hold themselves at the ready, as though expecting a threat to spring from behind every shattered column.

Tobin, predictably, started humming louder in an effort to banish the gloom. "Lords and ladies, gather near," he sang in a wavering key, "for a tale of glory, forged in fear⁠—"

His improvised line came to an abrupt stop. "Oh," he breathed. His eyes fixed on something in the darkness behind the remnants of a tall archway. Maisie stiffened.

"Is anyone there?" Tobin asked, half to himself. He took a single step forward, raising a hand as if greeting a phantom. But no figure appeared. The darkness remained empty.

Maisie let out the breath she'd been holding. "Tobin," she said, keeping her voice low. "You're seeing those lights again."

He pressed a hand to his chest, giving a nervous laugh. "Right. Fairy lights. I suppose so. Not strange at all is it?”

A few heartbeats later, the silence returned, deeper than before. Even the gentle crackle of flames seemed muted, as if the ruin swallowed sound. Maisie thought she heard a faint rustle at the edges of the chapel’s far side, but she couldn't pinpoint its source. She rubbed her arms, wishing for a warmer cloak.

The group settled into an awkward arrangement around the fire, each gaze flicking warily to corners where plants had pushed up through cracks in the stone floor. Tobin stood near Garran, who gripped his torch with a white-knuckle hold. Sela faced the entrance to keep watch, while Edric and Castian crouched by the altar. Maisie tried to distract herself by analyzing faint carvings in the floor, possibly the remains of a tile mosaic depicting robed figures. What devotions had these walls once witnessed?

In the corner of her vision, something moved. Her heart skipped. She tilted her head slightly, expecting to see a mouse or creeping spider. Instead, she spotted a vine. Thrashing gently in the gloom, it seemed to stretch across a cracked wall. Her first thought was that the wind had stirred it.

But she felt no breeze. She watched the vine shift again, inching downward as though crawling toward the floor. The faint light from the fire just managed to illuminate it. Then she realized it wasn't a single vine but many, coiling like serpents, endowed with a slow but deliberate life.

A muffled sound escaped her throat. She was about to call a warning when the vines surged forward along the cracked wall, creeping like living tentacles. Tobin let out a high-pitched exclamation at the same moment. The group sprang up in alarm.

"They're moving," Sela hissed, snatching her sword with reflexive speed.

The vines slithered closer, thin lengths studded with tiny, gleaming spines, twisting along the cold stone. They scraped and hissed as they moved, the sound raising the hair on Maisie’s neck. When they first sheltered in the old chapel ruin, the place had seemed still, almost dead. Now it was alive—and hungry.

“Watch your feet!” Castian shouted, voice sharp. His sword flashed as he hacked through a vine curling toward Tobin. The cut end recoiled, thrashing wildly, flinging drops of sticky green sap across the floor.

Maisie stumbled backward as something cold and slick wrapped around her ankle. The pull came fast, sharp, yanking her off her feet and sending her sprawling hard onto the stone. Pain shot through her palms as they scraped against the floor. Her heart raced. She felt the sting as spines drove through her trouser leg, needling deep into her calf. The hot burn of it surged with every heartbeat, and though she couldn’t see the wounds, the sharp, coppery scent of her own blood filled the air.

“Sela—!” Maisie gasped, struggling to kick free.

Sela was already there, blade slicing downward. The vine at Maisie’s leg parted with a wet snap, curling back like a severed snake. “Get up!” Sela barked, yanking Maisie roughly to her feet.

All around, the ruin erupted into chaos.

Tobin let out a high, panicked yelp as a vine latched onto his rucksack, trying to drag it sideways. “Let me go!” he wailed, scrambling after it.

Garran darted toward the vine attacking Tobin, torch in hand, the flames searing through the vines with a sharp hiss. The air filled with the bitter smell of burnt greenery, smoke curling upward as the tendrils blackened and recoiled.

Edric raised his shield, driving back a cluster of vines that lashed toward his side. The clang of metal against stone rang through the ruin, but the vines only pulled back for a second before lunging again.

“On your left!” Castian barked, springing toward Garran, blade arcing as he chopped two vines curling around the knight’s leg. The severed pieces slapped wetly against the ground, twitching like they were still alive.

A thick tangle of vines surged toward Sela, rattling as the spines scraped along the stone. She met them head-on, slashing in sharp, brutal strokes. Shredded bits of vine and sap splattered across the floor, the sharp smell burning Maisie’s nose.

Maisie’s breath came fast and uneven. She stumbled, caught herself, and felt the deep pulse of pain in her calf. Her vision blurred for a moment, and she bit down hard, forcing herself to focus. A vine darted toward her face, and she flung a broken stone at it, the sharp edge hitting with a solid crack. It recoiled, buying her a few precious seconds.

“We need to get out of here!” Maisie cried.

Sela spun toward her, sweat glistening at her hairline. “Grab what you can—we’re running for it!” She swung her blade, cutting another vine that shot toward Garran’s torch arm.

The group moved fast but messy, snatching up packs and weapons. Edric cursed as a vine tore a pouch from his belt, dragging it across the floor and out of reach. Tobin half-sobbed as his bedroll disappeared under a mass of spiny creepers, stumbling after Garran with wide, terrified eyes.

“Maisie, go!” Castian shouted, his sword flashing as he knocked back a vine lunging for her. She pushed forward, every step a stab of pain up her leg, but she didn’t stop. She couldn’t.

They fell into a ragged retreat, Castian keeping pace near Maisie, Edric shielding Tobin, and Garran at the front, torch held high and sweeping side to side. Sela brought up the rear, cutting a brutal path through anything that came too close.

The entrance was blocked by a swirling knot of vines and debris. Sela barreled through first, hacking at the tangle while Garran swung the torch in tight, dangerous arcs. The vines hissed and flinched back from the flame just long enough.

With a final desperate push, they burst out into the cold night air.

They staggered into the trees beyond the ruin, hearts thudding, lungs burning. The thick canopy overhead swallowed the moonlight, leaving only patches of silver and the flicker of Garran’s torch to guide them. Behind them, Maisie heard the sharp hiss and rustle of vines curling at the ruined doorway—but they didn’t follow. They lingered, twitching, as if held back by some unseen line.

Maisie stumbled, catching herself on a low branch, her chest tight from fear and exhaustion. Her leg ached fiercely now, every step sending jolts of pain up her body.

“Keep going,” Sela called, voice rough and breathless. She tightened her grip on her sword, eyes hard as they swept over the dark undergrowth.

No one argued. They pressed on, the forest pressing close around them, the stink of sap and smoke still clinging to their skin, hearts hammering in their chests.

When they had put enough distance between themselves and the ruin, Garran paused. He clutched the flickering torch, chest heaving. Tobin sank against the trunk of a large oak, dropping the few salvaged items. Edric stooped to catch his breath, shield resting against his leg. Castian turned to Maisie and hovered a hand near her elbow, concern rippling in his gaze.

Maisie's calf throbbed, and her lungs burned from the sudden sprint. She parted her lips to speak, but her words stuck. She remembered how helpless she'd felt, pinned by grasping vines. Her voice trembled when she finally managed a whisper. "Is everyone all right?"

"Bruised, but alive," said Edric, swallowing hard. His expression carried a mix of relief and worry.

"We left some equipment behind," Garran murmured, glancing at Tobin's half-ruined pack. "But at least we got away."

Maisie studied the blood on her trouser leg and clenched her jaw against the sting. She wanted nothing more than to curl up and sob with relief, but their ordeal wasn't finished. Night still stretched across Wendwood, and illusions lurked in the half-light. Instead, she nodded stiffly, letting Castian's nearness support her. The vine scuffle had left her exhausted, but she forced a steady breath, forcibly calming her heartbeat.

Sela touched the cuts on Maisie's calf, her own expression grim. "Let's find some place out of reach—somewhere we can at least catch our breath." Then she turned to Edric and Garran. "We move or we risk something else creeping upon us."

No one argued. Their small band pressed deeper into the forest. The pale light filtering through twisted branches offered them just enough outline to avoid stumbling over roots. Each step reminded Maisie that she was alive. The chill in the air bit at her skin, but she welcomed its clarity. She tried to block out the memory of those snapping vines as they trudged on, blood pounding in her ears.

Only when those ruins were far behind them and the quiet of Wendwood enveloped them again did Maisie slow down. She felt Castian's hand graze her shoulder, as though silently checking if she could still walk. She nodded to him and forced a small attempt at a smile, though it wavered in the dim light.

"We'll be fine," she told herself more than anyone else, choking on the taste of fear.

The group pressed on through the gloom, hearts pounding, until the night swallowed the towering shape of the ruin behind them. They did not look back. The vines would remain, glistening and hungry in the darkness, but they had escaped, bruised and shaken, yet alive.

Under the canopy's stifling shadows, they stumbled over thick roots, venturing away from the cursed place. Though the forest's illusions still threatened to lead them astray, nothing emerged from the undergrowth to chase them further. They pressed on, determined to find a safer nook among the trees. Despite aches, cuts, and lost supplies, they had survived the attacking vines’ feral grip.

Chapter

Seventeen

Maisie pressed a trembling hand to her side as she stumbled down a narrow game trail, heart pounding from the frantic dash that had carried them away from the vine-choked chapel. Her calf throbbed, each step reminding her of the thorny whips that seized her earlier. The taste of fear still clung to her tongue like bitter ash. Ahead, Sela moved with determined quickness, peering through the half-light under the twisting branches. Nobody spoke much; their ragged breathing said enough.

A thin layer of mist clung to the mossy ground as the group pressed farther into Wendwood's depths. Drifting orbs of light seemed to dance at the edges of Maisie's vision, but she blinked them away, half-certain they were nothing more than the forest's illusions. If any real threat lurked, they had no stamina left to face it. She heard Tobin whimper behind her, followed by Garran's stern whisper commanding him to focus on his footing. The steady scuff of Sir Edric's boots trailed them at the rear, and Edric grumbled about having such bad luck.

Abandoning all attempts at stealth, they forged onward with the single-minded goal of finding cover. Eventually, the ridge rose up before them, a knotted line of stone that looked as if it had sprouted from the earth eons ago. Its rocky face promised at least some barrier against lurking predators. Maisie’s legs burned by then, every step harder than the last, but she kept moving until Sela came to a sudden stop and raised a hand to signal the others to be still.

"There," Sela whispered, aiming her sword tip toward a low, dark gap in the rock wall. The entrance to a cave lay hidden behind a curtain of vines that, mercifully, did not appear to slither with malicious life. The opening looked no bigger than a fox den. Maisie's heart fluttered in relief.

They tested the entrance carefully. Sela prodded at the vines with her blade, then glanced back at Castian for confirmation. Castian nodded, his expression grave but resolute. He stooped and slipped in first, a hunched silhouette against the gloom. After a tense moment, his voice rose from inside, echoing faintly. "No vines here," he called. "You can come through."

Maisie breathed out a shaky laugh that fizzled into a cough. "We go in fast," she murmured, glancing at Sela. Sela nodded. Garran ushered Tobin ahead, and Sir Edric followed with a subdued grunt. Maisie went in last, hissing as her injured leg brushed a rough patch of rock at the cave's threshold. The air inside clung to her face, cold and thick with the smell of damp earth and mushrooms.

She straightened up as best she could in the cramped cavern, eyes adjusting to the murky light. The walls shimmered faintly with white fungal patches. Water dripped somewhere, resonating in slow, steady plinks. Not a single vine threatened to coil around their ankles. The simple relief of that emptiness almost reduced Maisie to tears.

Sela caught Maisie's arm and guided her to a relative patch of dry stone near the back wall. Her gaze flickered to the reddening scratches on Maisie's calf.

"Let me see," Sela said, worry adding a rough edge to her voice. She lowered herself to kneel, using her fingertips to check the raised welts. Maisie winced.

"It stings," Maisie admitted, "but the bleeding isn't too bad." She forced a small smile, trying to quell her sister's obvious alarm. Sela's frown deepened anyway. Under better circumstances, Sela would have rummaged for water, salves, and bandages, but exhaustion shortened all of their priorities.

Nearby, Edric slumped against a rocky protrusion, pressing a hand to his chest as he panted. He seemed to wrestle his own remorse, eyes flicking repeatedly to the floor. Tobin, equally bedraggled, settled himself into a curled shape at the knight's side, eyes wide and shining with leftover fear. Garran hovered at the middle of the cavern, blade in hand, scanning the walls for cracks or shafts that might hide unwelcome creatures.

"I will take first watch," Castian said. His voice echoed in the enclosed space. "I propose two-hour shifts. Anyone with enough strength to keep an eye out should follow me. We cannot risk illusions creeping in while we sleep."

Sela gave a tight nod. "I'll go second, then Garran and Tobin. Edric can rest for the night." Her words held no rancor, even though the memory of broken charms still hovered like a ghost among them. Edric's shoulders drooped, and he said nothing in response.

Maisie watched Castian quietly. His face was drawn, bruises painting his temple and jaw. Blood splattered his worn leathers in places. Still, his posture radiated a rigid watchfulness, sword still in his grip. Her own pulse gave a faint flutter of guilt. She hated seeing him look so hollowed out. Yet it felt like they had been pushing themselves non-stop since they left Dunvarrick Keep. The days blurred together, and Maisie wasn’t exactly sure how long they’d been on the journey so far. At some point, numbness had settled in to keep grief and panic at bay.

Without speaking, Sela slipped a hand into the small pouch at her belt, fishing out a scrap of cloth and a small jar of ointment. She set them down by Maisie's hip. "Clean that wound before you sleep. Use the leftover water from earlier if you must. I'll see if we have anything left to tie a bandage." Then she rose and joined Garran by the cave's mouth, together surveying the jagged opening where Castian would keep watch.

Maisie exhaled, lowering her gaze to the patch of stone she was sitting on. Her calf stung whenever she moved it, but still she considered herself lucky. A memory of the vines’ awful grip on her twisted her stomach. She brushed it away.

Picking up Sela's ointment, Maisie set about the painstaking process of cleaning her cuts. It hurt more than she expected, probably because their entire scramble through the forest had scoured each raw wound with dirt and snapped twigs. She hissed and mentally scolded herself for letting this happen again. So many hunts, so many injuries, and yet the shame of being caught unaware burned hot in her mind. She slid the cloth against her calf, blinking back tears.

She sensed motion behind her and turned to find Castian kneeling by her side. His sword rested across his knees, and his shoulders rose and fell with quiet tension. "Need help?" he asked softly, voice almost lost beneath the gentle drip of the cave's water.

"I can manage," she whispered, though her eyes betrayed relief that he had come. He studied her expression—just a flicker of a moment—then nodded and angled his body to face the cave's entrance while still kneeling near her. A subtle wave of warmth spread through her chest as she realized he wanted to stand watch and look out for her at the same time. She dabbed the salve over the gashes, wincing as it stung.

Tobin, curled near Edric, let out a small shuddering snore that startled even himself. He blinked awake, blearily looking around. "Guess I drifted off," he mumbled, then ducked his head in embarrassment. Edric patted him absently on the shoulder. Neither had much to say. The hush in the cave felt thick, pressing on them all.

Garran soon left the entrance, stepping carefully around the others, and bent his tall frame near Maisie. He retrieved a canteen from his belt. "There's not much water left," he told her bluntly, "but take a bit if you need to finish cleaning those cuts."

Maisie accepted it, gratitude flickering in her eyes. "Thank you." She rinsed the last of the grime away, applying more of the ointment. Garran nodded, then moved wordlessly over to Sela. Their silhouettes hovered near the entrance. Even from her seated vantage, Maisie could see rigid lines of concern etched in Sela's posture. Neither sister had the energy to talk yet. Perhaps that was for the best.

When Maisie finished tending her wound, she leaned back, resting her head against the chilly stone. Her side brushed Castian's knee, and the slightest reassuring pressure from his hand warmed her shoulder in response. In that moment, she wanted to thank him, to say how the knowledge of him standing watch made her feel safer. But her throat felt too tight with exhaustion.

Time slipped into a tense lull. The forest outside rustled with quiet secrets. A breeze caused faint shivers of leaves somewhere above them, but it never reached the cave's interior. Sela and Garran exchanged murmured words about illusions or any sign of further vine activity, then decided to double-check the entrance. Edric shifted, pressing his back to the wall, letting Tobin drowse against his ribs. Every flickering shadow made Maisie's heart flutter, but Castian's steady presence helped bring her breathing under control.

She recalled other hunts from her younger years, huddling in half-broken barns or abandoned huts with Sela, Mam, or Da after finishing tasks in remote villages. Even back then, she had never felt this weary of the forest's unpredictability. Wendwood had gnawed at their confidence, systematically chipping away at physical and mental reserves. Now, with illusions poised to come at any moment, they could only manage the rotating vigil.

Castian cleared his throat softly. "If you want to sleep," he murmured to Maisie, "you can. I will stay awake."

She closed her eyes but did not claim sleep just yet. "You need rest too," she answered, voice raspy. A pang of concern for him flared in her chest. She spotted a bruise on his forearm that she had not noticed before. If only her own supply of healing salves were bigger, if only she were not so drained. She vowed to tend to him once morning came—if morning ever truly arrived beneath Wendwood's canopy.

His tone remained subdued. "I'll manage. Sela and Garran can relieve me in a bit." He set his jaw, then let out a controlled breath. "We can't risk illusions creeping in. I'll keep my eyes on the entrance."

Maisie nodded. Despite her throbbing aches, her heart softened at his unwavering vigilance. She shifted to brace herself against the cave wall, laying her pack beneath her head like a pillow. The memory of the day's terror weighed on her until she could barely hold her eyelids open. Another part of her still buzzed with leftover adrenaline, uncertain if nightmares or illusions might greet her once she succumbed.

The small flame of a hastily lit lantern flickered at the cave's center—someone, perhaps Tobin or Garran, had decided a little light was worth the risk. The warm glow danced on the rocky walls, illuminating the anxious lines on Sela's face. She knelt next to Garran, rummaging for anything to lay on the floor so her sister could rest too. In the far corner, Tobin had finally yielded to slumber, half-tangled in his threadbare cloak. Edric's eyes were closed, though his brow remained deeply furrowed.

Quiet footsteps approached. Sela came over to Maisie, draping a spare folded cloak over her shoulders. "Sleep," she whispered gently. "I will help Castian watch soon. Nobody else is going to get snatched by vines tonight."

Maisie managed a small, dry laugh, though fear still tugged at the edges of her consciousness. "No vines… just illusions. Fantastic." Still, she exhaled her tension as best she could and tucked her chin under the cloak's edge.

Sela touched her forehead in a rare display of tenderness, then rose and walked away, letting the gloom swallow her slender figure. Garran started pacing. Castian remained perched near the entrance, half turned so he could keep Maisie in view.

She parted her lips to speak his name but found her strength fading too quickly. She wondered if he felt as haunted by that night's danger as she did. There was a drip of water somewhere, then another. And another. Maisie heard Garran's muffled footsteps nearing the entrance, then Sela's quiet voice cautioning him to avoid going outside. The attack of the carnivorous vines had attacked taught them to be wary of Wendwood’s silence.

A faint rustle echoed by the entrance. Castian stiffened, leaning forward to peer into the darkness. Maisie's breath caught, but no immediate threat rushed in. She closed her eyes and sank deeper against the cold stone, each muscle giving in to the weight of bone-tired exhaustion.

Seconds stretched into minutes. The drip of the cave's moisture became an odd lullaby. Maisie felt her awareness slip in and out, haunted by phantom images of writhing vines. In her half-sleep, she imagined the illusions of Wendwood forming pale faces that beckoned her to step deeper into the forest. But the dim glow of the lantern reminded her she was still in the cave. Her body stayed anchored in reality, edged by the reassuring presence of her companions.

Minutes later, she stirred to the soft sound of moving armor. Sela must have come forward to relieve Castian. Maisie's eyes flickered open, briefly glimpsing the two exchanging quiet words. Castian looked reluctant to rest, but Sela insisted. Garran leaned on a wall nearby, also prepared to stand guard. In the background, Tobin snored faintly, stirring once with a soft whimper.

Maisie wanted to say something—comfort, apology, even a faint quip about how they always found themselves in dire straits whenever she tried to secure decent lodging. The words stuck in her throat, lodged behind exhaustion and complicated emotions. So she let her eyes close again, trusting that at least one or two of them would remain vigilant.

A drip of condensation plunked against a damp rock. Another answered from deeper in the tunnel. A small hiss of wind slid through the stone opening. Maisie shifted, wincing when her leg brushed against the cave floor. The salve had cooled her bruises, but the tension refused to leave. She caught Castian's voice murmuring something about illusions to Garran, or maybe to Sela. She felt her own consciousness ebb again.

Farther across the cave, Tobin muttered, "No… not in the vines, no…" before he let out a soft grunt and settled. Edric roused with a cough, then slumped back against the wall, eyes half-lidded as though wrestling with guilt. Flecks of lamplight crawled across the rocky ceiling. The entire group huddled in the gloom, battered and silent, tethered to one another by the necessity of survival.

Maisie's heart squeezed with a fierce surge of protectiveness toward them all. This was her strange, makeshift family now, whether by duty or by circumstance. She wanted them all safe. She wanted morning to come. She listened to the slow measure of her own breath, letting it lull her deeper.

Outside, Wendwood made no further move against them. Perhaps it was sated, or perhaps it watched, waiting. Inside the cave, Castian, Sela, and Garran moved in careful rotation, eyes alert for any glimmer of deception. If illusions tried to creep in, Maisie knew they would do everything possible to keep them at bay.

Gradually, the tension in her legs eased in increments. She slipped into the edges of slumber, her head propped on her folded pack. An odd dream teased at the corners of her mind: green lights floating between towering trees, mocking laughter from unseen figures, the brush of wind that felt like a whisper on her neck. She stirred, half-aware of Sela gently brushing hair from her forehead.

Maisie’s last conscious thought was a silent promise to be stronger tomorrow. Then weariness claimed her. Her body sagged into a hesitant sleep, lulled into dreams by the drip, drip, drip of water somewhere in that cramped, damp cave. She slept fitfully, and would for several nights. There were things waiting out there for them, dark and dangerous predators they’d never before encountered.

Pain and trouble coiled through her dreams, not surprising given the dangers they faced on a journey that was still in its early stages. A hooded figure challenged her. Its presence felt unnatural, like something not of this world.

“Are you up to the task, child?” Its voice rattled like old bones.

Maisie tried to respond, to fiercely defend herself. She wasn’t a child. She was a seasoned monster hunter with hundreds of kills to her credit. And she had her sister, her anchor and her confidante, by her side. There was nothing the two of them couldn’t handle together. But when she opened her mouth, only squeaking noises came out.

The figure laughed. “As I thought. You are weak. Pathetic. And you will cause the death of everyone who travels with you.”

Maisie’s throat constricted, the protest lodged like a stone she couldn’t spit out. Her fists clenched at her sides, nails biting into her palms as her eyes burned with humiliation. She shook her head in frantic denial, tears prickling hot and unwanted. “No,” she rasped, her voice barely more than a whisper. “That’s not true. You’re wrong.” But even to her own ears, the words sounded thin, brittle — a child’s desperate plea, not the defiance of a hunter who had faced down nightmares.

She woke abruptly, gasping. Her chest tightened, breath hitching as the figure’s words echoed inside her like a curse. She wanted to scream, to hurl back every ounce of rage and pride she had but fear had snaked its way deep, rooting under her skin. Her gaze darted toward Sela, who slept peacefully in her bedroll. And in that moment, beneath the shame and fury, a flicker of terror bloomed in her heart: What if the dream was right? What if she truly was the weak link?

Chapter

Eighteen

Dawn arrived in pale ribbons that bled through the cave's low entrance, transforming the darkness inside into a murky half-light. Maisie blinked awake, her back pressed against the cool stone where she had dozed off. A dull ache quickly reminded her of the bruises and cuts left by her encounter with Wendwood's vicious vines. Though grateful they'd found even this cramped shelter, she struggled to ignore the stiff protest in her calves. Nearby, Castian watched her quietly, gray eyes creased with concern.

Sela stepped over a jutting piece of rock to reach Maisie, leaning down with a trace of impatience. "We need to move as soon as everyone's ready," she said in a low murmur. "How's your leg?"

Maisie tried to shift, smothering the hiss of pain that followed. "I'll manage," she replied. "No sense in staying here. The forest isn't going to get any kinder."

"It really isn't," Garran said, his voice echoing from the cave's entrance. He was crouched there, holding a small compass in his palm. The device's needle shimmered, but it swiveled in erratic circles, refusing to settle on a direction. Garran's frown deepened. "This blasted thing barely worked last night, and it's no better now."

Tobin scrambled up from where he'd curled against a rock, his bedroll long since kicked aside. He stared at Maisie with bleary eyes. "You sure you're good to walk? Because if you need a singing distraction, I can⁠—"

"Not now," Sela cut in, though there was no malice in her words. She returned her attention to Maisie's injuries. "It's not just about you. We can't risk slowing the whole group if your cuts tear open."

Maisie willed her head to stay high, ignoring the tremor of discomfort that rippled through her ankle. "I won't hold anyone back."

A rustle of movement beside her made her glance up. Castian offered his hand, as though inviting her to steady herself on him. She hesitated, feeling the thrill of memory of their more private moments. The uncertainty in his eyes was matched by a tightness around his mouth, proof that his mind was still on last night's tense guard rotation and the worry that the vines might return. She placed her fingers lightly over his, letting him help her stand. His grip was warm and stable, fortifying her enough to manage without grimacing.

Moments later, they shuffled out of the cave into Wendwood's embrace, the forest's canopy overhead still woven thick enough to obscure any clear sign of the true sky. Early daylight spilled in watery streaks, offering only vague hints of direction. The musty smell of damp earth and old moss instantly settled around them, as though the forest were reclaiming them with each step.

Sela paused, scanning the twisting trees ahead. Her jaw clenched. "We need to find some vantage point or a landmark," she said. "Garran, what about the ridge we saw last night?"

He wrinkled his brow, tapping the compass absently. "I thought I caught sight of higher ground. There might be a trickling stream up there. If we reach flowing water⁠—"

"We follow it," Castian finished the thought. "It could connect to the river we're trying to find." His voice grew softer as he glanced at Maisie's ankle. "We should watch every step on that slope, though."

Maisie attempted a half-smile, but it turned into more of a pained grimace. "I'll be fine. Better than staying lost."

Tobin bounded forward, rummaging in a pouch slung over his shoulder. "I've got cloth strips—figure we can mark the path. That way we won't accidentally walk in circles."

Sela nodded tersely. "It's worth trying. Wendwood illusions or not, at least we'll have some sign we've been there."

Together, they set off, each footstep muffled by layers of moss. The deeper they pressed into the forest, the less morning light seemed to matter. Branches curved in unnatural arches overhead, tinted by a faint shimmer that flickered at the corner of Maisie's vision. She recognized the illusions from before: subtle, dancing orbs and odd reflections that tugged at a person's focus. Garran led them at a measured pace, each of them occasionally halting when light flared behind a trunk or scurried through the brambles. When nothing materialized, they continued.

Maisie kept her attention on the ground, determined not to aggravate her already-raw ankle. Yet with every other step, a sharp ache pulsed up her calf. She gritted her teeth, refusing to slow. Sela pivoted from time to time, checking on her sister. Finally, she released a frustrated sigh.

"You'll make it worse if you keep forcing your pace," Sela muttered. "Let me see it⁠—"

"No." Maisie's cheeks warmed with stubborn pride. "We can't afford to stall. Just a bit more until Garran finds that ridge."

Castian, seemingly caught between wanting to back Sela's caution and respecting Maisie's resilience, fell into step beside her. "Lean on me if you need to," he coaxed quietly. "We have a ways to go."

She wasn't sure if the flutter in her chest was embarrassment or gratitude. "I'll manage," she repeated, softly but firmly. She did allow the brief brush of his arm, which helped her catch her balance on a slick patch of moss. He felt solid against her, a reassuring presence that made her heart skip a beat.

They pressed onward for the better part of an hour, the labyrinthine roots and twisting bushes growing denser the farther they went. Now and then, Tobin's voice lifted, announcing where he secured each strip of cloth. He tied the makeshift markers to branches that jutted out at eye level. But the path remained stubbornly featureless. The only sounds were the wet squelch of boots in mossy soil and the occasional hiss of breath when one of them slipped on a root. Birds remained eerily absent from the canopy above, as though Wendwood itself stilled their calls.

A flicker of movement caught Maisie's eye. She turned her head, but there was only a patch of deep shade. She rubbed her hand over a creeping sense of unease in her chest, quietly hoping that was only her imagination.

"Mind your heads." Garran ducked under a low branch. They reached a slight rise in the terrain, though it felt more like a tangled mound than a proper ridge. Sela's expression soured when she realized the slope stretched merely a few strides upward before dropping into another valley of ropy vines. Garran paused, glancing at the impossibly spinning compass again. "We should be able to see a vantage point from⁠—"

He stopped talking, and Maisie realized her heart was racing. Then Garran pointed through the gloom. "There. That dark line might be the stream. I can't be sure from this angle."

Castian pushed a few leaves aside, straining for a clearer view. "It's worth checking. Flowing water is our best bet."

They edged closer, the brush snagging on their clothes. Sela eyed Maisie uncertainly. "We can go around these vines if you'd like."

Maisie just nodded. She planted her foot carefully and moved on. Her ankle flared again, but she drew in a sharp breath and continued, determined not to be the cause of further delays.

A grumbled curse erupted from Tobin. "I marked this tree a minute ago," he said, voice rising in frustrated confusion. "You see that strip of blue cloth up there?" With wide eyes, he pointed to a nearby branch. "I swear I tied that same mark behind us, not in front."

A chill snaked along Maisie's spine. "That can't be right," she breathed, forcing herself not to glance too hard at the illusions she knew lingered. "Unless the forest is twisting things again."

Sela's grip on her sword hilt tightened. "Could be illusions, or the fae messing with us. Wendwood doesn't like intruders. We learned that lesson yesterday." Her gaze flicked to Maisie's bandaged cuts.

Garran shook his head grimly. "I'm not sure how. But let's push forward a bit more and see if the stream is actually there."

They continued, this time picking their steps more carefully. Tobin repeated his ritual of tying bright cloth around branches, occasionally muttering how he hoped the forest wasn't actively relocating his makeshift flags. Castian stayed near Maisie, scanning the path as though half-expecting to see it shift underfoot. The air itself felt charged, as if the trees were whispering—though no real words echoed.

Minutes passed, dragging into an hour. When at last they emerged into a clearer patch of ground, Sela exhaled in relief as she pointed ahead. "That outcrop of rock—maybe we can see the direction of the stream from the top."

They hurried closer, hearts pounding with a faint spark of hope. But then Tobin let out a shriek of dismay. Garran froze, blinking in shock. Maisie's stomach dropped. The rocky protrusion that rose before them, bathed in the grayish light, looked painfully familiar. Cracks in the stone formed a shape she could have sworn she noticed that morning. She turned slowly, heart hammering, and realized the slope leading down was the same patch of briars they had skirted after leaving the cave.

Sela's voice was a raw whisper. "Don't tell me⁠—"

"We're back," Tobin moaned. "We're right back where we started."

Maisie braced a hand against the nearest old stump, fear and anger prickling her skin. She could feel her ankles throbbing in silent rebuke for all those careful steps. Across the clearing, Castian's face had turned grim, eyes scanning the treetops as though suspecting that Wendwood itself was mocking them.

Garran let the compass drop at his side. "It doesn't matter what direction we tried," he said, frustration strangling his words. "We ended up right here."

Sela swore under her breath, stamping her foot with enough force to send a few leaves scattering. "Damn this forest," she spat. "Damn it for toying with us every step of the way."

Maisie fought a wave of despair. Her ankle hurt more now than it had in the cave, and the day had hardly begun. She bit her lip to keep from cursing outright. A flash of guilt surfaced, remembering how they'd first offended Wendwood by knocking down those charms. Now it felt as though the entire forest were punishing them. Tobin's shaky voice chimed in behind her.

"I hate to say it," he began, "but we might have angered the fae something fierce. Those broken charms, the illusions last night—maybe it's all connected." He rubbed his arms in a nervous gesture, eyes darting from tree to tree.

Sela's gaze flicked around the clearing. "We can't let fear of forest spirits paralyze us," she said, though her shoulders remained tense. She turned to Garran. "What's next?"

"Revisiting that clearing with the broken charms," he answered, voice low. "We replaced them after Edric knocked them down. We didn't do much else. We might have missed something."

Maisie nodded, even as her spirits sank. The memory of Edric's stricken face when the wind howled and darkness fell still felt fresh. "It's the only lead we have," she said quietly. "And better than walking around in more circles."

Castian sidled over to her, his expression wrought with worry. "Will you be all right going back there? The vines--"

She held up a hand and gave him a strained smile. "I'll be all right. We have to figure out how to appease these illusions or fix the offense we caused."

His gaze lingered on her, searching for reassurance. Though her ankle stung, Maisie summoned enough resolve to straighten her spine. She squeezed Castian's hand once, feeling warmth coil low in her chest at the contact, then turned to the rest of the group.

"We all agree then," Maisie said, raising her voice enough to gather their attention. "We head back to where Edric had his accident. If Wendwood is determined to keep us lost, maybe that spot holds the key."

Sela's tight nod signaled her agreement. "Let's not wait. We can't waste half the day wandering."

Tobin released a shaky exhale. "Fine by me. I'll tie more cloths, for whatever it's worth."

Garran pressed his lips into a firm line but offered a curt nod. "Then let's do it."

Maisie took a few tentative steps, leading them away from the rocky outcrop that had mocked their progress. Her ankle twinged on each shift of weight, but she refused to let the pain set their pace. The group gathered their scattered belongings—Castian re-slung his sword belt, Garran pocketed the faulty compass, Tobin readjusted his bag of colored cloth strips, and Sela sighed with restless energy.

Maisie stifled her frustration, every muscle tight with the effort not to break down. She ran her thumb over the edge of the small wooden charm she kept in her rucksack, a family keepsake that felt pitifully small against the might of Wendwood's illusions. Still, the gesture steadied her. Together, they forged back the way they had come—or so they hoped. The ground seemed to shift with each yard advanced, but they had to trust their instincts. This time, they would not be turned around so easily.

Sela led at the forefront, Garran stepping closely beside her. Tobin hovered in the middle, tying cloth markers whenever a decent branch presented itself. Castian stayed near Maisie once more, always a half-step behind or to her side, in case she faltered. She pretended not to notice his watchful concern, though relief flickered in her heart at having him close.

A while later, they started to notice signs of vaguely familiar landmarks: a toppled trunk with bark peeled away, clusters of mushrooms that Sela insisted she'd passed earlier, and broken twigs that Edric might have disturbed. Each fragment of evidence fueled a cautious hope that they were at least heading in the correct direction now.

The day pressed on. The watery light brightened slightly, suggesting midday approached, but no true warmth reached them under the thick canopy. Maisie's breath caught in her chest when she caught sight of something moving in her peripheral vision. She told herself to remain calm and pushed onward, ignoring the burning in her calf. Sela kept glancing back, eyes a mix of worry and frustration, but for once she refrained from scolding Maisie for keeping up. It felt as though even Sela's patience had frayed to a brittle thread.

Garran was the first to recognize the scattering of moss and leaves where Sir Edric had stumbled into those dangling fae charms. He stopped short, raising a hand to halt the rest. Maisie closed her eyes briefly, relief flooding her. At least they had navigated some part of Wendwood the right way. Stopping here might help them piece together the puzzle.

Sela lifted her sword slightly, as if the vines or illusions might lash out at once. Nothing moved except a stray breeze that swirled past her boots, nipping at the edges of Tobin's cloth strips. Garran exhaled softly, scanning the area where carved bits of wood still hung, though many had been replaced in haste the previous day.

"All right," he said, nodding to the others. "We made it. This time, let's search more thoroughly."

Tobin approached the nearest branch, leaning up to inspect the wooden ornament that had been knotted back together. "Figures," he muttered, voice trembling with leftover nerves. "I don't see any new damage, though. Or maybe we just can't tell."

Castian eased forward with cautious steps, scanning the ground for any missed shards or runes. Maisie joined him, ignoring the persistent dull throbbing in her ankle. She rummaged in her memory, recalling green lights that flitted overhead and the sudden gust that almost knocked them flat after Edric's misstep.

Maisie realized she was holding her breath. She glanced at Castian; his eyes met hers with a silent question. She set a hand on her chest, gathering what courage she could. "We'll fix this," she whispered, though she wasn't sure who needed reassurance more—him, or herself.

Behind them, Sela returned her sword to its sheath with a decisive click. "No illusions are going to wrap us up today," she said through gritted teeth. "We'll figure out what the forest wants."

Maisie's chest felt tight. She recalled that intangible presence last night, that sense of being watched, judged even. "Maybe Wendwood expects more than just re-hanging the charms," she ventured. Her eyes flicked to Tobin. "We might need an actual offering, or a stronger apology, if that's how these fae spells work."

Tobin sounded uncertain. "I have some sweets left. And silver coins. Maybe we make a small shrine, or⁠—"

Sela exhaled. "We'll try what we must. Let's see if there's any clue we missed first. Then we decide what to leave. Just do it quickly." She cleared her throat. "We need out of this forest."

Garran nodded grimly, scanning the broken remains on the ground. Castian knelt to shift aside a cluster of soggy leaves, hoping perhaps for a sign carved in the soil. Maisie crouched near him, forcing weight onto her good leg, searching for anything that might guide them.

Yet for all the tension swirling around, Maisie felt a flicker of determination spark in her chest. They had come this far, had survived vicious vines and illusions. She refused to let Wendwood defeat them. Her mind raced with ideas. Could they gather the broken fragments into a circle? Could they say some vow of contrition? She didn't want to rely on guessing, but it was all they had at the moment.

When Garran finally straightened, he met Sela's gaze. "Let's check every inch," he said. "Then we'll decide how to fix this." He gestured at Maisie's leg. "Meanwhile, rest that ankle for a bit."

Maisie stiffened. "I'm fine," she said again, but her voice lacked the full punch of conviction.

Even so, Sela gave her a small nod. "All right. Let's get to it."

A wave of grim understanding passed through them. Tobin tightened his hold on his loose cloth strips, swallowing back any complaints. Castian rose to his feet, offering Maisie a hand so she could stand without jolting her ankle. She accepted it, heart warming at the protective edge in his eyes. Garran set aside his useless compass, tucking it into a belt pouch. Sela pivoted, scanning the perimeter with a fierce resolution that hardened every line of her posture.

The group prepared to retrace each step. They would examine every snapped twig, every runic token. Wendwood had forced them into endless circles, but they weren't about to give in just yet. In that silent glade, the memory of Sir Edric's misfortune lingered like a warning—and perhaps a lesson. If they could piece together what Wendwood demanded, perhaps they would finally secure safe passage to the river beyond.

Together, they stood in tense formation, committed to undoing whatever slight they had inflicted on the forest. Their unspoken hope shimmered amid the shadows: that Wendwood might show mercy, or at least enough neutrality, to release them from its winding illusions. And so, with anxious determination glinting in their eyes, they readied themselves to investigate every detail of the clearing.

They had come full circle in more ways than one. Maisie swallowed around a tight knot in her throat, ignoring the ache in her leg and focusing on the camaraderie that still bound them. She could sense it: one deliberate effort might tip the scales. If they could mend these charms—or properly apologize to the forest—they might cease this endless wandering. The group began to spread out, scanning the moss and the broken bits of wood that Edric had accidentally destroyed. One moment at a time, they would find what they needed.

They shared a final exchange of tense glances. Sela rolled her shoulders, Garran set his jaw, Tobin mustered a faint, nervous grin, and Castian offered Maisie a resolute nod. The path out might just hinge on them facing the place where it all went wrong.

Chapter

Nineteen

Though the morning light filtered down in uneven patches, Wendwood continued to blur all sense of time or direction. Maisie’s head stayed on a slow, constant swivel as they moved, eyes sharp and alert. She scanned the shadows between trees, the dips in the ground, the swish of the low-hanging branches. Every flicker of movement caught her eye — the twitch of leaves, the stretch of a vine — and she tracked each one until she was sure it wasn’t a threat. Her breathing stayed even, quiet, so she could listen.

The forest spoke in subtle sounds — the creak of old bark, the distant flap of wings, the too-quiet gap where birds should be calling. She tuned in to all of it. A change in the wind brought a trace of rot, sharp and wrong. Her nostrils flared slightly, sorting through layers of damp earth, crushed moss, and the faint iron tang of something recently disturbed.

Castian walked near Maisie, his wary gaze flicking among the ancient oaks and twisted trunks. Despite the aches in her calf Maisie refused to slow. Every discomfort felt inconsequential compared to the possibility of being stuck in an endless loop beneath these towering boughs. She tightened her jaw and pushed on, grateful for the gentle steadiness of Castian's presence just behind her. Tobin, striding a short distance ahead, scanned the trees with uncharacteristic silence, as though afraid a single wrong word might bait the forest into ensnaring them again.

They were all looking for the same thing: that cursed clearing where Sir Edric had broken the fae charms. Guilt radiated from Edric's posture whenever Maisie dared peek at him. He trailed at the rear, cloaked in regret.

Garran kept a short distance by Sela's side, watchful and eerily quiet. Occasionally, he glanced toward Tobin's cloth markers tied to branches. Those markers still twisted in the faint breeze, looking harmless enough, yet Maisie knew illusions in Wendwood could shuffle them around like toys if the fae felt offended. She suppressed a shiver. The memory of thrashing vines and illusions that bent reality around them lingered, fueling her resolve to put things right.

At last, Sela signaled for them to pause with a raised hand. They emerged into a small clearing fringed by twisted oaks and patches of pale mushrooms. Scraps of broken wooden trinkets lay scattered across the moss, half-hidden under leaves and dirt.

"Here," Sela murmured. She exchanged a tense look with Maisie. Her voice trembled slightly, though she tried to hide it. "This is the spot."

Maisie exhaled, relieved and anxious in equal measure. The memory of a sudden dark wind and snapping twine replayed in her mind. Edric, standing off to the side, let his shoulders sag. "I never meant to damage anything," he rasped, his sorrow tangible. "I should have watched where I was stepping."

Sela eyed him but refrained from piling on blame. Instead, she sheathed her sword, then knelt beside the scattered charms. "If making amends here gives us a chance to find the real path out, we'll do it," she said simply.

Maisie settled to her knees as well, ignoring the dull protest from her bruised leg. Broken beads and snapped twigs littered the moss. She cupped the fragments in her hands, seeing the delicate swirls carved into the wood. "We have to gather every piece," she said softly. "I don't want to risk leaving anything behind that the fae might consider disrespectful."

Garran nodded. He crouched by a pair of carved baubles shaped like coiling vines, gently lifting them from where they had fallen next to a patch of mushrooms. Tobin joined in, his thin fingers deftly retrieving bits of bright thread that had snagged on a root. Edric hovered at the perimeter, shoulders rigid, until Sela beckoned him closer.

"Help, if you can," she said quietly. "Better to fix the damage with your own hands. You owe this place an apology." Her tone carried no scorn, only a firm encouragement.

Edric nodded, wordless. He bent down, brushing aside leaves with careful motions. Maisie's heart twisted to see how shame weighed on him. She knew he was trying to atone. If the forest took pity, perhaps they could finally leave Wendwood behind.

They spent the next while in tight concentration, sifting through moss and damp earth. Maisie's fingertips quickly became caked in dirt as she retrieved every splintered wooden shard she could find. Beside her, Castian retrieved bits of carved beads, depositing them in Sela's outstretched palm. Though his face displayed quiet concentration, Maisie caught small signs of tension at the corners of his mouth. He wanted out of this forest as much as anyone. The illusions had worn on them all.

Eventually, they gathered the broken pieces into a small mound on a relatively flat patch of moss. Sela let out a low sigh, running her thumbs over the intricately etched surfaces, searching for how they might fit back together. "We can try to rethread them," she said, though doubt edged her words.

Maisie peered at the snapped strings and frayed knots. "I have some spare twine," she offered. Her voice wavered with both hope and unease. She rummaged in one of her leather pouches, retrieving a thin spool. The spool reminded her of home and her father's gentle instructions on how best to tie salves in muslin wrappers.

Garran gestured for a piece, and Maisie passed him a length of twine. He handled it carefully, looping a few beads in approximate order. "It might not look pretty," he warned, "but maybe it'll serve for now."

"Almost anything is better than letting them stay broken," Sela said, lifting the end of Garran's newly strung ornament to inspect it. She steadied her breathing, then pressed her lips together. "Edric," she added quietly, "I'll speak for us all, but maybe…maybe you speak too. Let them hear you regret it."

Edric's cheeks reddened. He bowed his head, nodding. "I will." Without further prompting, he murmured a soft apology, directing it not just to the companions around him but to the silent clearing itself. "I meant no harm," he concluded. "We humbly ask forgiveness."

Tobin, kneeling by a gap in the roots, started to fasten a second bundle of wooden charms. He eyed it critically, then added a small flourish of bright-blue thread from his own satchel. At that, inspiration flickered across his face. "We should make offerings," he said. His voice was quieter than usual, lacking its typical comedic lilt. "If the fae hold grudges, maybe we show them we respect their domain."

His remark stirred something in Maisie. She recalled how her family always left small tokens of thanks whenever a hunt claimed a creature's territory. A handful of seeds or fresh herbs, placed with reverence, had long been her parents' method of honoring the forest. Now, she pulled out the small cloth packet in which she kept ginger sweets—slightly crushed from their frantic flight through Wendwood, but still potent with the spicy warmth she associated with home.

She placed it in her lap, heart suddenly pounding for reasons she couldn't name. "I'll leave these sweets," she said quietly. "They're cherished where I come from, so maybe the forest will accept them."

Tobin brightened. "Yes. I've got two silver coins left," he said, fidgeting with his belt pouch. "They aren't worth a fortune, but they're dear enough to me. I'll add them to the shrine as well."

Sela nodded approval. She began tying the newly fixed ornaments to a low-hanging branch overhead, where the original charms had once dangled. Garran helped, lifting each strung set. The reassembled pieces looked rough, some beads dangled out of place, some twine snagged awkwardly, but the effort was genuine.

Edric cleared his throat to speak, but his words came out hoarse. "I—I'll keep watch here for illusions," he said, looking helpless about how to make further amends. Maisie reached out and gently squeezed his shoulder, letting him know he was doing enough.

When they finished re-hanging the last of the ornaments, Maisie moved toward the thick trunk of an ancient oak at the clearing's center. Her hands shook a little. She set down the cloth packet of ginger sweets on a flat stone in front of the oak's roots, carefully unfolding the edges so the confections peeked out, enticing if any fae or forest spirit found them. Tobin slipped in behind her, kneeling to arrange two silver coins next to the sweets. The coins gleamed in the filtered light, a small but meaningful gift.

Sela, standing with her arms crossed, closed her eyes briefly. "Let this serve as our apology," she said under her breath. "We never intended disrespect."

The group remained still, as if expecting an abrupt wind or surge of darkness like they had felt the last time. For several seconds, nothing happened. The air felt charged, though—heavier, denser. Maisie exhaled a slow breath, silently hoping the forest would accept their contrition.

Then a faint breath of wind stirred the branches high above. Leaves shivered. Maisie glanced upward. Pale pink petals drifted down on them. The petals caught in the breeze, and moved in a gentle spiral that danced around the newly hung charms.

Tobin inhaled in awe, while Sela's eyes widened. Garran's sword-hand tensed, but he did not raise his blade. Meanwhile, Castian took a single cautionary step toward Maisie as though to shield her, though no threat manifested. A flutter of faint lights, the same disorienting orbs that had led them astray earlier, began flickering around the perimeter of the clearing. Maisie's heart pounded at the sight, but these lights did not rush away or move around them like whirlwinds. They approached with measured slowness, forming a subtle chain of shifting glow. It appeared to trace a route between the thick trunks, deeper into Wendwood, but softened rather than menacing.

Maisie swallowed hard. "Do you see that?" she asked.

Sela nodded. Her posture was still guarded, but her expression contained cautious relief. "It might be a guide," she whispered. "Or another trick. But…we might not have another option."

No one spoke as they gathered their belongings and hastily packed their rucksacks.

Then Garran exhaled, stepping forward. "I'll lead. Keep your wits about you." Without waiting for replies, he moved to follow the flickering lights. Tobin, Edric, and Sela fell in behind him, the tension in their frames showing how prepared they were for a last-minute snare. Maisie and Castian brought up the rear.

Castian stayed close to her side, and when he silently offered his hand to help pull her up and over an enormous fallen tree, she accepted. She didn’t need the help, she was ten times stronger than he was, but she wanted to feel his touch. The fleeting contact steadied her racing thoughts as they followed the others down the trail.

“I want to believe the fae folk have accepted the apology,” she said to him, “and they’re leading us out of the wood.”

“I hope so, too, but…” he let his voice trail off as he shrugged.

“They might just as easily be toying with us, biding their time before they take revenge.”

He eyed her up and down. “They were the ones who led us to the ruined chapel.”

Maisie knew Castian was probably right. There was zero chance that the fae folk didn’t know about the slithering vines that attacked them. Until now, nobody had been willing to voice that opinion for fear the fae would hear. She could see it in the way no one met each other’s eyes, in the stiffness of their movements, in how quiet they’d all become as they watched the lights move around them.

Indeed, the group knew the fae were always listening. So they kept their mouths shut and their heads down, pretending the glowing lights still meant safety, even as dread filled their hearts.

Maisie gave Castian small, tight smile. “Let’s hope that was a horrible coincidence.”

Castian let out a soft breath, glancing warily at the lights ahead. “If it was, the timing was damn horrible.”

Maisie’s scanned the area around them, the fairy lights were still as plentiful as when they first appeared. “Let’s be on our best behavior until we get out of the forest.” She gave him a sidelong glance. “Some of us have already offered apologies for the mishap.”

Castian straightened a little and returned the look, surprised. “I didn’t knock anything over.”

“No, of course you didn’t but the fae are known to mind the tone of things… not just the actions.”

His brow creased. “Tone?”

She walked on, the faintest smile tugging at her lips. “Oh, nothing. I’m sure they can feel your… respect.”

Castian rubbed the back of his neck, casting a sidelong look at the trees. “Do you think I should… say something to them? Just in case?”

Maisie’s smile widened as she gave a soft hum of agreement. “It couldn’t hurt.”

Castian cleared his throat softly, glancing at the trees where the last of the fairy lights flickered like watchful eyes. He shifted his weight, clearly uncomfortable, then muttered just loud enough to be heard, “Ah… fair folk, good folk… if I’ve done anything to offend — which I’m sure I haven’t, but just in case — please accept my humble apology. You have… very fine taste in shrines, and, ah, excellent lighting.”

He gave an awkward little nod to the empty air, then added under his breath, “There. That should cover it.”

Castian rubbed the back of his neck, his eyes darting nervously to the shimmering lights drifting all around them. “This feels ridiculous,” he muttered under his breath, glancing at Maisie. “I didn’t even do anything, and now I’m about to apologize to floating lights.”

Maisie gave him a warm, encouraging smile. “Oh, go on. You’ll feel so much better afterward. Besides, it’s just a few kind words — you’re good at those when you try.”

He let out a quiet harumph, shooting her a look somewhere between fond and exasperated. “Flattery won’t get you out of this either,” he grumbled.

Still, with a resigned sigh, he straightened a little and cleared his throat. “Ah… fair folk, good folk… if I’ve somehow given offense — though I truly can’t imagine how — please accept my apology.” His eyes flicked to a particularly bright cluster of lights circling his shoulder. “You’ve got… excellent taste in forest decor and, ah, quite impressive lighting.”

He gave a stiff little nod, cheeks coloring slightly, then muttered to Maisie, “Happy now?

“Immensely. Very well done.” She smiled at him, and when he smiled back, she felt herself melt just a little. It wasn’t one of his usual guarded, half-hearted expressions — it was real, warm, the kind of smile that made her forget, for a breath or two, that they were deep in a cursed forest being led by possibly mischievous spirits. Her heart gave a quiet, traitorous flutter, and she had to glance away before it showed too plainly on her face.

They followed the fairy orbs through a corridor of criss-crossed tree leaning against each other and moss-covered rock. Every so often, the lights flitted away, only to reappear a few paces ahead, coaxing them along. The forest canopy gradually thinned, slender sunbeams piercing the gloom in brighter shards. Maisie's spirits soared, a cautious hope taking shape in her chest.

She tried not to think about how easily Wendwood had twisted their path before. Anxiety and excitement warred in her mind, but each step forward revealed a more open sky. The breeze carried the scent of water now—fresh and rushing, a promise of escape. Edric, limping slightly from old injuries, pressed on with renewed vigor, as if the tang of river air rejuvenated him. Tobin's shoulders relaxed bit by bit, and he even let out a small laugh when a faint whirl of colored light sped past him and vanished again.

Before long, the final row of towering trees gave way to a sudden burst of sunlight. Sela staggered to a halt at the forest's edge. Garran nearly collided with her, shock and relief flaring in his eyes. The Great River sprawled before them, its broad surface glittering under the midday sun. Tumbling currents foamed around jagged rocks, sending up a roar that set Maisie's nerves humming with gratitude.

"We made it," Maisie said. She could hardly process the stark change from Wendwood's dimness to the river's brilliant rush of sound and sunlight. Her chest constricted with emotion. She spun to check on Sela, who stared, mouth parted in silent wonder, then glanced at Toby, Garran, and Edric in turn, as if confirming that they all stood there in the same reality.

Castian moved closer to Maisie, his gaze drifting to the rushing currents. In that instant, a subtle tension eased from his face like something that had weighed him down since they first set foot in the forest had let up just a little. He let out a slow breath, turning to meet Maisie's eyes with an unspoken gratitude. She offered him a small smile in return, her heart thudding with relief strong enough to bring tears.

Sela moved forward, boots sinking into the soft, damp ground of the bank. The open sky and sparkling water felt almost surreal. Behind her, Tobin let himself fall to his knees at the water's edge, scooping a handful of the river's spray onto his face. Garran planted one hand on his hip, scanning the far bank with a half-smile on his lips. Edric remained standing on the fringe, but the tension in his shoulders melted away. Even if only for a beat, they could banish the forest's oppressive illusions from their minds.

Maisie bent to touch the water’s surface, the cold numbing her fingertips. She closed her eyes, inhaling the crisp tang of running water and letting relief wash over her.

"We owe that success to humility," Sela said quietly, her voice carrying just enough to be heard over the rushing current. She turned to the others, lips set in a firm line. "We might have had to fight illusions forever if we hadn't made a proper apology."

Garran dipped his head, acknowledging the truth in those words. "Humility," he echoed. "And a little faith, perhaps."

Tobin, splashing himself again, grinned through droplets of water. "I can't believe it worked," he said with a laugh that bordered on hysteria. "Those broken charms…then the sweets, the coins…" His chuckle turned a bit breathless. "I think I'll be leaving better tips for every woodland spirit from now on."

Maisie almost giggled at that, overwhelmed by an odd buoyancy. She caught Castian's eye and saw a flicker of shared amusement. Even Edric's face had softened, though a thread of guilt still haunted his gaze. There would be time enough for him to reconcile those regrets. For now, they had found the river. Wendwood would not claim them.

Sela's expression sobered. "We should stay cautious. We escaped this time, but Wendwood has a long memory." She cleared her throat. "If we ever return, it might not be so forgiving."

Garran nodded, jaw tightening as he stared back toward the tree line. A few of those shimmering lights flitted at the forest's edge, as if waving a final, cryptic farewell.

The Great River glistened invitingly, but a faint reminder of what they had just endured pricked the back of Maisie's mind. She fussed with a stray wisp of hair that had come loose and flicked her gaze from Sela to the rest of the group, feeling an unexpected lump in her throat. This moment was monumental; it promised a new leg of their journey, free of illusions for the time being. But Wendwood's parting presence lingered, too.

Sela inhaled, squared her shoulders, and turned to walk along the water's edge. Castian set a hand gently on Maisie's elbow, guiding her around a tangle of driftwood. She could feel the warmth of him through her sleeve before he let go. Each contact sparked a comforting glow inside her, a reminder that they had survived together. She swallowed down the burn of fresh tears, mustering a shaky smile.

The wind carried the river's chill against their cheeks. Everyone stepped close to the bank, as if verifying that the rushing water and open sky were not another figment. The earth felt more solid here, the air clearer, as though Wendwood's heavy weight had finally lifted.

Sela lifted her gaze to address them all. "We'll need to figure our next move," she said softly. "Still, let's be thankful we're not caught in that forest anymore."

Her words turned Maisie's thoughts to the offering they had left behind: ginger sweets arranged on a stone, silver coins glinting in the sun. Perhaps the forest had indeed accepted their gesture of respect. Relief twined with lingering caution, but Maisie allowed herself a small, genuine smile.

Edric took a final glance over his shoulder, mouth pressed into a remorseful line. Tobin stretched his back with a dramatic roll of his shoulders, as if discarding the forest's tension. Garran let out a low, steady breath.

The river stretched out ahead of them, a realm of possibility. The exhaustion on every face could not dull the hope that sparked at the sight of wide waters and a bright sky. Maisie knew they still had countless trials to face, but for now, wind and sun felt like blessings on her skin.

It was decided they needed firewood to build a fire for the night. Camping on the riverbank wasn’t any safer than camping in the forest so they would have to take shifts to guard the camp and that meant they’d need a lot of fuel for the fire. Nobody was particularly eager to go back into the forest but since that’s where the trees were, it couldn’t be avoided. Castian offered to go, and Maisie offered to help. Thanks to her enhanced healing, her ankle already felt better and so did her calf where the vines had stung her.

They moved into the forest, the sound of the Great River fading behind them until only the soft crunch of their footsteps and the rustle of leaves remained. They were careful not to venture too far in lest they find any unfriendly creatures who wanted to devour them or anger the fae folk again. The air smelled of damp earth and woodsmoke from their distant campfire, rich with the promise of nightfall.

Maisie crouched near some fallen tree branches, running her fingers over its damp bark, testing its dryness. Not quite right. She sighed and pushed herself upright, brushing dirt from her knees.

“Maisie. Come look.”

She turned at the sound of Castian’s voice, brow lifting. He stood a few feet away, half-shadowed beneath the boughs of an overgrown thicket. One gloved hand gripped a small, twisted vine tangled in the underbrush—its leaves broad and deep green, speckled with clusters of ripe, plump blackberries that hung heavy in the fading light. Their skins were taut and glistening, dark as ink, as though swollen with the very essence of summer itself.

Maisie’s mouth watered. “Oh,” she breathed, stepping toward him. “Well done, you. We'll have a sweet treat after dinner tonight, won't we?”

Castian made a quiet noise of amusement as he plucked one from the vine, rolling it between his fingers. “We should try them first. Make sure they pass inspection.”

She opened her palm, waiting for him to drop it in her hand. Instead, he brought it to her lips. Maisie went still. His fingers, calloused from wielding a sword, were surprisingly gentle as they brushed her lower lip, coaxing her to take the fruit. A challenge lingered in his gaze but there was something else there too—something that made her stomach tighten, something that turned the warmth of the evening into something hotter, sharper.

Slowly, she parted her lips and let him press the berry onto her tongue. The taste burst over her senses—deep, sun-warmed sweetness with a faint, almost tart edge, like the last lingering kiss of summer before autumn stole it away. The juice coated her tongue, thick and decadent, and she hummed despite herself.

Castian’s throat worked as he swallowed, his gaze tracking the slow movement of her mouth as she chewed and swallowed.

He plucked another from the vine and fed her again, this time dragging the pad of his thumb over her lower lip as she took it from him.

Maisie sucked in a breath, heat curling low in her stomach. She didn’t miss the way his own breath hitched, the way he bit down briefly on his lower lip as he watched her. A moment later, his fingers found her lips again, wiping away berry juice at the corner of her mouth with a slow, deliberate stroke.

Maisie forgot how to breathe. Castian went utterly still, his fingers lingering at the corner of her mouth. Then, as if realizing what he had done, he let out a ragged, barely audible breath and pulled his hand away—too fast, too abrupt, as though he'd been burned.

Maisie’s lips tingled where he had touched them. Her pulse hammered, and she knew—gods, she knew—that whatever this was between them was no longer something she could ignore.

They returned to camp with firewood and blackberries, delighting their companions, who eagerly welcomed fresh food after days of trail rations. Two more trips brought enough firewood, and soon a comforting fire crackled, warming them as night fell. Sir Garran volunteered for the first watch. Maisie expected to be wakened later, but to her surprise, Castian took a double shift, allowing her to sleep undisturbed through the night.

Chapter

Twenty

Awarm glow spread across the sky in streaks of pink, gradually melting into gold. Maisie inhaled deeply and rolled her aching shoulders as dawn arrived, illuminating the pathway out of Wendwood's lingering gloom. The scent of moss and pine still clung to her cloak, but at least the forest's oppressive weight had eased. She no longer felt the unsettling sensation of eyes following her from every twisted trunk.

She glanced over to Sir Edric, who adjusted the leather strap at his shoulder with a tired grimace. He caught her looking and managed a crooked half-smile. "I'll never grumble about normal roads again," he muttered, voice scratchy from too little sleep. "Grateful we got out of that infernal place." His statement would have sounded more lighthearted if his face weren't lined with exhaustion.

Nearby, Sela knelt to re-check the patch she had stitched into Tobin's worn bedroll. She touched the spot with quick, practiced movements, ensuring no loose threads remained. Garran quietly examined the group's supply packs, muttering under his breath about the bruises Wendwood had gifted them. Though Garran's voice seldom rose above mild disapproval, Maisie suddenly heard him curse at a broken buckle on a pack strap. He brushed a scrap of cloth over it and tied it tight.

The group stood at the forest's edge, a rough semicircle that looked out onto a broad, shining expanse of water: the Great River. It seemed larger than any waterway Maisie had ever seen near Draklûn Bay. Foam churned around rocks nestled midstream, and the current rushed with a cheerful roar, and a fresh breeze skimmed across Maisie's cheeks, carrying a crisp, vibrant smell that promised adventure and perhaps a small respite from fear.

She stepped forward and planted her boots on a softer patch of grass, marveling at how quickly Wendwood's gloom yielded to daylight. Behind her, the forest's canopy still brooded, its twisted branches looming like silent judges. She forced her gaze away, deciding that she would not let anxious memories dictate this morning.

Castian's presence was steady at her side, warm and protective. She felt the briefest press of his elbow near hers. It sent tiny sparks through her chest.

"You look relieved," he remarked, low enough that only she could hear.

Her throat felt dry. "It's hard not to be," she replied in a softer voice. She remembered how his concern had shone in his eyes when the vines tightened around her ankle back in those ruins. That memory, though terrifying, also stirred an odd reassurance: they had endured such dangers together, and he had not once looked away. Pushing aside the flutter in her chest, she nodded at his sword belt. "You'll be able to keep that blade sheathed for a bit now, I hope."

He only shrugged. "I won't take chances." Yet his severe expression softened just enough to give her a wordless sense of comfort. He reached to steady her when she stood on a slick rock. Heat bloomed again in Maisie's face, but she appreciated that silent care.

The group strolled closer to the riverbank, stepping around a patchwork of stones. Tobin groaned as he drew level with Sela. "I feel like I've been run over by a horse cart five times."

"You mean you aren't writing a ballad about your forest heroics?" Sela asked, eyebrows arched. She finished knotting the bedroll and slung it over her shoulder. Her voice emerged clipped with latent tension, a leftover from the harrowing illusions.

"Oh, I plan to," Tobin answered, raising a single finger like an orator. "But ballads can't be properly inspired when every muscle complains. My comedic genius requires a functional body."

Sela let out a sound that might have been a half-laugh, half-sigh. "At least your mouth never tires," she teased, though the corner of her lips twitched upward.

Sunlight gleamed off the water, dazzling Maisie's eyes. She paused to absorb the scene: a line of smooth stones gave way to a deeper channel, where swirling eddies spun in mesmerizing circles. Small flecks of river spray kissed her cheeks.

Sir Edric exhaled a low hum of contentment. "Let's hope the rest of this day is kind," he said, adjusting a strap across his chest. His wiry hair ruffled in the breeze, and for the first time since dawn, he genuinely looked less burdened.

Garran joined them, shading his eyes with one hand. "We'll need to find a decent crossing, or at least a boat." His tone held its usual calm, but there was a note of relief beneath it. "That flow will knock anyone off their feet if we try to ford it on foot."

Tobin peered across the water. "I don't see any friendly fishermen yelling for customers," he remarked, "so we might have to follow the bank." He poked the tip of his boot at a tangle of driftwood. "Hopefully that path we spotted leads somewhere."

Sela gave a sharp nod. "We press south and look for any sign of settlement. Or a place to cross. Wendwood's illusions left us a little behind schedule, so we'd best make up ground." She exchanged a serious glance with Garran. If the illusions had toyed with them for another day, who knew what dire delays they might have endured?

Maisie stepped forward, focusing on the river. She watched as water rushed over the rocks, and it reminded her of simpler times sitting by the sea at home in Draklûn Bay, though that sense of calm never lasted long in a monster hunter's life. She brushed a strand of hair from her eyes. The bandage was tight around her ankle, and it was a reminder that even with her enhanced strength, she was still human and healing wasn’t always instantaneous. She and Sela would never be able to outrun every wound.

Castian must have noticed her subtle limp, for he moved closer, voice quiet. "How is your leg?"

She forced a smile, refusing to let pain overshadow relief. "Better. The stinging is manageable, especially away from that wretched vine-infested ruin." Her attempt at levity was only half successful, but she appreciated the sincerity in his gaze.

He watched her, something unspoken flickering in his eyes. He opened his mouth as if about to say more, then closed it. His grip tightened momentarily on his sword hilt. She wondered if he burned with unvoiced worries, the same way she felt a swirling mixture of hope and anxiety over everything that lay ahead. The quest. The threat of returning illusions. The uncertain pull she felt each time she stood too close to him.

Before the pause could deepen, Tobin burst into a tune, brandishing his arms like a traveling minstrel. "Oh, fiendish tree-tentacles, you bound us in endless woes," he sang, wiggling his fingers in a grotesque impersonation of vines. "But we emerged, triumphant and free, to vex you with our throbbing toes!"

Garran gave him a flat stare. "Your rhyme scheme needs work."

"Artistic expression can't be confined to neat structures," Tobin retorted cheerfully, skipping over a pebble that nearly threw him off-balance.

Edric let out a low chuckle. "Should put that line on your tombstone if we ever bury you out here, Tobin."

Tobin gasped, feigning mortal offense. "How cruel! On second thought, perhaps I'll refine the melodic lines to honor your many fine qualities." He tapped his chin. "Heroic shoulders, a gallant stance, and a sour scowl for illusions. Beautiful, yes?"

"Over my dead body," Garran muttered, though Maisie glimpsed a faint glint of amusement in his eyes.

They moved along the rocky bank, forming a loose column. Sela kept to the front, posture taut as she scanned every tree and clump of bushes. The memories of shifting illusions had not faded from her mind. Garran remained near the center, adjusting supplies and ensuring everyone's gear was secure. Edric and Tobin walked behind them.

Maisie found herself beside Castian once more. Their strides fell into a quiet rhythm. Tension lodged itself in her chest every time she considered how close they'd all come to disaster. If their apology to Wendwood's fae magic had failed, they might still be stumbling in circles, each new day more hopeless than the last.

She caught Castian looking at her hands. She realized she was holding them clasped against her chest as if bracing herself. "All right?" he asked, voice level.

She forced a stronger smile this time. "I keep expecting illusions to flash in the corner of my vision. Every flicker of light feels suspicious."

He nodded in understanding. "You aren't alone. After everything Wendwood threw at us, it's no wonder we're jumpy." He hesitated, then clasped her shoulder gently. "None of us will let that happen again," he said quietly. "We'd fight illusions all night before letting you be trapped a second time."

Her throat tightened at the sincerity in his vow. She gave a small nod, unable to form a witty response. Instead, she walked under the canopy of a leaning willow that draped its branches near the water's edge. For an instant, she pictured pulling Castian aside under those swaying branches, letting the bright morning sun highlight what lingered between them. Instead, she moved on, unwilling to feed the longing that might distract them all.

Up ahead, Sela stretched her arms overhead, scanning the horizon again. She paused at a bend in the water, gesturing for the others to approach. "The path narrows there," she called, voice echoing over the rush of the current. "We'll need to walk single file. Keep an eye on loose rocks."

Garran flanked her left side. "Our supplies feel heavier now that the forest's enchantments have cleared," he muttered. "Lost illusions or not, my back is paying the price."

Sela gave him a sideways glance. "Better an aching back than illusions that turn us in circles. I'll accept the weight."

They navigated the narrower footpath, stepping over a crumbling bank of gravel. Maisie tried to remain mindful of her vantage, staying balanced despite the uneven terrain. Now that the forest lay behind them, new types of hazards greeted them: slick stones near the water, drifting logs that might have come loose upstream, and the ever-present possibility of hidden predators.

Tobin persevered with his improvised ballad, though the rest of them only hummed or groaned in half-hearted accompaniment. The sun inched higher, gilding their surroundings in bright, clear light. A few waterfowl glided on the river's surface. Edric paused to remark that perhaps game birds might be found on these banks if they needed to replenish supplies. Garran agreed, though they all hesitated to slow down. They wanted distance between themselves and Wendwood before any second-guessing could set in.

Maisie moved easily now, keeping pace with the others, though Castian stayed close by her side all the same. He didn’t say anything, didn’t draw attention to what he was doing, he just matched her steps, quiet and steady. The simple gesture made her chest tighten with a soft rush of gratitude. She realized, with a longing for him that caught her off guard, that she trusted Castian in a way she usually reserved only for Sela or Da. The bond growing between them felt both thrilling and unsettling.

Sir Edric ambled closer as they paused to adjust the load on Garran’s pack. He cast a glance at Maisie, his expression unreadable at first, then nodded with quiet respect. “You Fairborne girls don’t stay down long, do you?”

Maisie gave a modest shrug. “It’s how we’re made. Enhanced strength and senses and healing. Ankle is nearly fine now. Just a twinge now and then.”

Edric chuckled under his breath. “Your Mam was the same. You Da told me the story of Evelor taking a cave troll’s swipe to the chest once, nearly flayed her open. But she still managed to take its head, then saved the three villagers the troll had caught in a trap. Your Da stitched her up and she was completely healed within days.” He gave a little shake of his head. “Brenton told me that story over a bottle of mead when that one was in nappies.” He pointed at Sela.

Castian perked up. “I know you have enhanced abilities but…how did you get that much power?”

Maisie caught Castian’s glance and gave a small, almost shy smile. “It runs in the family. My Mam is a monster hunter, so was my grandmother, and great-grandmother. Nobody really knows when it started or why, but it has run through the women in my family for hundreds of years..”

Castian tilted his head, curiosity flickering across his face. “You’re still… human, though?”

“Of course I am,” Maisie said with a quiet laugh. “We bleed, we break, we can die just like anyone else. It’s just harder to keep us down.”

Castian’s gaze softened, his expression thoughtful. “That’s…more than a little remarkable.”

Maisie tried to brush it off with another small shrug, though a flush crept up her neck. “We have a responsibility to protect people. That’s all.”

From where he stood, Edric let out a low snort. “She makes it sound simple. It’s not. And it matters.” With a grunt, he turned back to Garran, leaving Maisie and Castian in a quiet moment, the weight of his words lingering in the air.

Sela pointed to the left, where the bank widened into a sloping stretch of pebbles. "We can make better time if we walk there," she decided. "Keep your eyes open, though. That gravel looks like it could shift."

One by one, they descended carefully onto the pebble field, boots sinking slightly as their weight pressed the stones apart. Maisie hissed at the renewed bite in her ankle. Castian offered his elbow in a silent gesture, and she placed her hand there just for a moment, balancing while stepping around a mossy rock. Her heart fluttered even as she pretended that the movement was purely practical.

Behind them, Tobin's voice piped up in sing-song. "Our fearless huntsfolk, Sela leading the way – perhaps we'll find a boat by midday. If not, we'll float on driftwood or pray. Or Garran can carry us all on his back, hooray!"

Garran shook his head in exasperation, but Sela snorted. "Keep singing such nonsense, and I'll make you carry the packs, too."

Tobin gripped his flute in mock horror. "You wouldn't deprive the world of my musical gift, would you?"

"If it means you'd be quiet for an hour, I might," she retorted.

Their banter fueled a sense of relief that swelled like a zigzagging breeze across the river. Gradually, the group fell into a steady march again, inhaling the sunshine and the promise of open skies. Maisie's mind drifted through a mix of practical worries—food supplies, healing salves, the possibility of bandits—and the intangible ache of wanting more time to figure out her tangled feelings for Castian.

At last, the bank curved inward around a broad bend. The margin between river and land narrowed again, forcing them to hop carefully across larger stones. Any slip might send them tumbling into the swift current. Sela paused once more, scanning the horizon. Sunlight danced on the ripples, turning each crest into a scatter of tiny diamonds.

Maisie looked up and spotted a formation of thin clouds drifting across the sky, tinted with the edges of dawn's leftover pink. The air bristled with possibility—no creeping illusions, no vine-laden ruin, just a wide expanse that reminded her of how vast the world could be beyond the forest's shadows. She let out a careful breath, yearning to trust this new freedom. Downstream, the faint footpath promised them an onward route.

They pressed forward without further complaint. Tobin's comic comments were few and far between as he puffed with effort, walking gingerly over uneven ground. Garran spent intervals blinking into the morning sun, adjusting his packs with a scowl whenever the straps dug into his shoulders. Edric's stride became more surefooted, as if the open terrain had rekindled his energy. Sela's posture remained guarded, eyes ever watchful, though her tight-lipped grimness eased whenever she caught Maisie's gaze.

Maisie's ankle hurt, but she found softness in every step as she matched pace with Castian, whose silent presence braced her better than any bandage. Nearby, the Great River churned on, heedless of the travelers at its bank. Its waters roared over rocks, sometimes spitting up glittering arcs of spray, and the breeze that wove through the group carried the smell of wet earth, fresh as the promise of daylight.

They trudged on for some time, guided by the faint path hugging the water's edge. Nobody spoke of fear or illusions anymore. They simply walked, resting light hopes on the possibility that the Drakknir Mountains—distant and half-veiled behind a shimmer of haze—might be reached without more supernatural interference. Even so, Maisie's instincts refused to banish the caution humming through her veins. Passion, fear, yearning for silence: they all tangled inside her. Yet she relished the steps that took her away from Wendwood's domain.

Eventually, Sela slowed her pace, allowing Garran to draw up beside her. Tobin sipped from his waterskin, humming a new tune. Edric watched the river in thoughtful silence. Castian lingered next to Maisie, his expression unreadable but steady. In that moment, she realized all of them carried ghosts in their hearts. They each had reasons to fight, reasons to hope, reasons to dread. Wendwood had tested them, but they remained together, forging fragile unity with each shared step along the Great River's bank.

Just then, the sun climbed higher, banishing the last traces of dawn's coolness. The breeze shifted direction, ruffling Tobin's hair until he pulled his hood over his head with theatrical flair. No illusions flickered in the corners of Maisie's vision now. The bright day allowed them a patch of peace at last.

Chapter

Twenty-One

Maisie squinted at the sun's slanting rays as the group rounded yet another subtle bend in the Great River. The afternoon light caught silvery sparks on the rushing water, while tall reeds stirred in the breeze along the muddy banks. She felt the soft ache of fatigue deep in her bones, amplified by memories of their harrowing trek through Wendwood. Still, there was relief in finally being under an open sky, the wide expanse of the river a steady presence rather than some living maze intent on trapping them.

She caught sight of a modest dock made of aged timbers. The weathered wood glowed pale in the waning light, almost like driftwood bleached by years of sun and surging currents. Just beyond it, leaning in the shadow of lanky poplar trees, stood a humble cabin. An old man perched on a wooden crate out front, patching a fishing net with quick, deft motions of his gnarled fingers. Despite his slight build and stooped posture, his gaze was keen and searching, the gaze of someone unafraid to scrutinize strangers.

The cattails and bulrushes gave off a soft, grassy scent, with a faint hint of hay whenever the breeze stirred through them. Up close, there was a mild, herbal note where the stalks bent and brushed together, blending with the smell of fresh water.

Sir Garran, strode a few steps ahead, then slowed to assess the dock with an almost suspicious eye. A fisherman, who sat on stool on the dock, watched them closely, and his bony hands paused as he mended a net. He looked advanced in years, but not frail. He was muscled and fit which spoke of decades of physical labor.

"Travelers," he observed in a voice that was rough but steady as they approached. "You look like folk who have seen a hard road, but not so hard you cannot pay for services." His gaze flickered to Tobin, who clutched his flute in one hand, and then to Sir Edric, who stepped closer to examine the line of canoes bobbing near the dock's end.

Edric, graying hair framed by the late sun, carefully ran a hand along the side of the nearest canoe. The worn boards of the seats creaked under his weight. He grunted. "These have seen better days," he said, glancing at the fisherman. "Will they hold up if we load them with gear?"

The fisherman tossed his net aside. "They will if you treat them right," he grumbled. "Not your fancy war-horses, but they float well enough. It’s not a well-worn path to my door, but some travelers do their way through Wendwood, like yourselves. So, when they turn up, I can be convinced to rent the boats for a fair price. No haggling. Figure it’s the least I can do when they survive whatever the fae folk throw at them."

Sela's eyebrows lifted, but she gave him a courteous nod. She introduced them briefly: knights and monster-hunters with reason to travel downstream. The old man listened, expression impassive, then shot back, "And you'll also be wanting a place to sleep. The nights along this river are cold once the sun goes down." His eyes flickered to where the sky already deepened into saffron and dusky blue.

"That would be ideal," Sela acknowledged. Her voice was level, though Maisie knew her sister's patience had been worn thin by recent ordeals. "We're short on comforts these days. How much do you want, for both the canoes and somewhere for us to sleep?"

"Only one gold mark each, " he said. "Extra if you want to stay in the cabin out back. Not much of an inn, but it'll do in a pinch. There’s a landing at the en Time I parted with them for good."

Maisie stood behind Sela, watching the fisherman's unflinching stare. She felt fresh tension coil in her stomach. Tobin groaned when the conversation shifted to payment, raising his arms in theatrical despair. "Our coin purse nears its final breath," he lamented. "Is there no mercy left in this miserably expensive realm?"

Sela's jaw tightened. "We have plenty of coin," she said, nodding toward Garran, who stowed the coin purse in his rucksack. "Pay the man."

As Garran paid, the fisherman glanced at the coins in his hand. He spat to the side, then put them in a pouch hanging from his belt. "We have a deal.” He jerked his head toward the rear of his own his cabin. "Go on, stow your things. A few magpies who come through here every now and again said that humans were headed toward the river, so I’ve a stew on, if you've an appetite. No extra charge for the meal. I figure you've earned it, trudging out of that forest alive."

A wave of relief passed through Maisie. She gave him a genuine nod of thanks. Casting a glance over her shoulder, she saw Tobin's posture brighten at the mention of stew. Sela made a brisk, approving sound, and Garran gave a small dip of his chin. It felt like a fragile victory, but a victory all the same.

They hauled their belongings into the small cabin, which was small but cozy, had a fireplace, and plenty of space on the floor for their bedrolls. Then, they joined the fisherman in his cabin. Inside was sparsely furnished with a battered wooden table and benches, and a cot in the corner of the room. There was a fire in the fireplace which kept the place warm. The fisherman motioned for them to sit, and then produced a loaf of fresh bread. The aroma of stew—onions, river fish, and a scattering of herbs—rose on the cool dusk air.

They settled around the table. Castian sat beside Maisie, though he left a small space between them. Tobin perched at the table's edge, playing idle notes on his flute in an attempt at a pleasant melody. As the fisherman ladled stew into each bowl, he offered no greeting, simply carried out the motion with stoic efficiency. Edric, who was always mindful of courtesy, bowed his head in thanks. Garran murmured a polite word of appreciation as well.

Maisie cupped her bowl in both hands, feeling the warmth seep into her aching fingers. She inhaled the stew's savory scent. Her mind drifted briefly to her father's cooking back home, the comfort of simple meals in the Fairborne kitchen. She only took a few sips before she spoke softly to the old man. "Thank you for offering dinner."

He nodded, no softer for the gratitude, but his eyes flickered as though acknowledging her sincerity. "You lot heading for the mountains?" he asked at last.

Sela answered with a cautious nod. "We are. The Drakknir range."

"Dangerous territory," the fisherman muttered. "Seen too many pass by here, all bright-eyed, only to vanish in those crags." He fed another log into a small fire pit near the table, stirring embers to life. Sparks floated up briefly, then died. "So I wish you luck. Might need it more than you know."

The stew was hearty, and it was hot. Tobin at quickly then took advantage of the lull, leaning forward to tell the tale about the strangling vines that attacked in Wendwood. He played a few chords on his flute, the melody soft, as if uncertain whether to amuse or to be more somber in what he played. "We bargained our souls just to escape that forest," he said dramatically, though no one missed the layer of truth under his bravado. "Perhaps luck weighs in our favor at last?"

The fisherman glanced at him but made no comment. Instead, he turned to check the simmering pot. Sela traded a glance with Maisie, and Maisie felt a shared understanding pass between them. They were both exhausted. Even Garran's watchful posture had begun to slump. Edric rubbed at a spot on his shoulder, a souvenir bruise from the last scuffle in Wendwood. Castian stared quietly into his bowl. Maisie sensed his thoughts, reflections on duty and guilt. She reached out under the table, brushing her fingertips against his wrist for the briefest moment. He didn't turn, but the faint shift in his posture told her he knew her touch was comforting.

When they finished, the fisherman rose without ceremony, letting them set their bowls aside. "The small cabin is that way," he said, pointing to a narrow path behind the cabin. "You'll see a lantern. Floor's mostly dry. Better than sleeping in the open, I suppose."

He took his leave, returning to the cabin. Maisie heard him moving about indoors, possibly stowing his net or preparing for his own evening routine. Tugging her cloak more tightly around her shoulders, she stood. So did everyone else. The last of the sun had dipped below the horizon, staining the sky with rust and violet. Wind off the water carried a biting edge now, rustling the reeds and tugging at her hair.

Sela took the lead again, crossing the clearing behind the cabin, pulling out a small flint to light the lantern that hung beside a rickety door. Maisie followed, adjusting the strap of her pack. The path was strewn with patches of coarse grass and pebbles that crunched underfoot. Her back ached as if her body demanded a proper rest, one without the threat of creeping vines or illusions.

She stepped into the cabin and paused, letting her eyes adjust to the dimness. The space was cramped, its tar-patched roof listing to one side, but it had a semblance of walls and a floor that felt relatively solid beneath her boots. A lingering scent of ashes and old timber clung to the corners. A few piles of disused fishing gear lay strewn beside the walls, and a battered rake leaned in one shadowed corner. No chairs appeared in sight, only bare space near the center where they could arrange bedrolls.

Tobin shuffled in next, letting out a theatrical sigh. "I suppose even squalid lodging is a step above our last sleeping arrangement," he joked, but his voice cracked with genuine weariness. Garran grunted in agreement, setting his gear against a side wall and rubbing the back of his neck, as if he already felt every knot from the day's journey creeping through his muscles.

Edric inspected the place with a practiced sweep of his eyes, ensuring no immediate dangers lurked. "At least no illusions here," he said dryly, though a flicker of guilt darted through his gaze. Maisie understood it: he still blamed himself for knocking down those charms in Wendwood. She wanted to reassure him again, but the weight of weariness pressed on them all. Another conversation would have to wait.

Castian entered last, carrying two bedrolls stacked in his arms. He paused near Maisie, glancing around as if appraising the flimsy walls, then placed one bedroll at her feet. Their gazes met, and he gave her a nearly imperceptible nod, acknowledging that yes, this was hardly ideal, but it would serve.

Sela nudged a coil of rope aside with her boot. "We'll need to be gone early," she said, pushing loose hair back from her face. "No reason to linger now that we have our boats. The fisherman said we can set out at dawn if we want."

"That's a plan," Garran agreed. His voice was low, drained of its usual edge. "Sooner we reach those mountains, the better. Every day that passes, the roads could get worse."

With the group's consensus hanging in the air, Maisie swallowed a surge of gratitude. She had dreaded another sleepless night in the open. The battered walls of this cabin, pitiful though they were, felt almost luxurious compared to sleeping on the forest floor or in damp caves. The presence of her companions quieted something tight in her chest. After the illusions, after the endless tangles of vines, they had arrived somewhere—if not safe, then at least out of immediate peril. She told herself it was enough for tonight.

They spent a few minutes unrolling bedding, adjusting positions so no one ended up on top of the netting or fish crates left behind. Tobin whimpered that he might sprain a muscle in his back if he tried to lie on such hard ground. Sela shushed him with a grunt. Edric rummaged in one of the packs and withdrew a tattered blanket, tossing it in his direction. Garran eyed the roof beams, as though still unsure if the entire structure would hold through the night.

Finally, Sela broke the quiet. "All right," she said, "we have canoes, a roof… a meal inside us. We're exhausted, but that's better than dead. We set out at first light."

Maisie crouched to unfold her own bedroll, smoothing it across a relatively flat section of the floor. The lantern's dim glow stretched their shadows across the rough walls, the flickering light dancing in corners. Her breathing slowed. Castian claimed a spot nearby, not intruding but close enough that she felt the subtle aura of his presence.

The fisherman's words echoed in her thoughts: They vanished in those crags. It was a gentle reminder that the next stretch of their journey would be no holiday. She shook off a ripple of trepidation. Right now, she wanted only to sleep, to close her eyes and let the day's exhaustion carry her to a moment's peace. If the sense of Castian's quiet watchfulness eased her fears, she would accept that comfort.

Edric knelt near the door, fiddling with some gear. Tobin mumbled about wanting to pen a new ballad describing their negotiation with the old man, but he trailed off before finishing the line. Garran sank into a sitting position, back to the wall, gaze half-lidded. Sela quietly moved around, verifying everything was in order.

They had come so far from Draklûn Bay, from Tissington's meager rewards, from twisted illusions. The battered, half-lit cabin felt like a milestone in itself. Maisie inhaled, her thoughts drifting to her family at home, the gaggle of siblings who awaited news of epic hunts. She hoped they would be proud of her, though she often wondered if her father's heart clenched with worry. But no new wave of regret would keep her awake tonight. She bowed her head, letting an unspoken promise anchor her: Soon, she would see a brighter outcome than endless battles.

Outside, the wind sighed against the cabin walls, and the moon rose somewhere above the poplars. Their gear was stowed, coins counted, canoes purchased. The fisherman had accepted their payment without further suspicion. The next leg of their journey would begin at sunrise, braving the water and focusing on new perils that surely waited beyond the bend.

Finally, the group looked to one another, acknowledging the day's end with quiet nods. person claimed a patch of floor, content for now to share the space and let exhaustion overtake them. Maisie caught Castian's gaze one more time, an unspoken camaraderie passing between them, followed by Sela's nod that there would be no watch needed in this place. The fisherman's cabin and the relative emptiness of the riverbank made them safer than they had been in days.

Garran, arms folded, leaned against the wall. "We need more wood," he said. He nudged the dwindling woodpile with the toe of his boot. "That is definitely not enough to last the night."

Maisie pushed up from her crouch near the lantern, blood prickling beneath her skin. She had sat still too long. Every muscle ached and her mind would not still from the tension that had dogged her all day. The cramped walls seemed to close in on her, and she was tired of the feeling. "I'll go fetch more," she offered. “Shouldn’t take me long.”

Sela stopped fidgeting with her bandage, eyes flicking up. "Don't be foolish, Maisie. We have no idea if any creatures roam here at night.”

"But we need firewood, right?” Maisie withdrew her cloak from a peg on the wall, steadying her heart against the possibility of danger. From what she remembered, the old man had implied that most beasts avoided the area, deterred by the swift currents and minimal prey.

Sela's mouth tightened. "Except for the river spirits that seem to roam these parts, but you know better than to trust any civilian’s word about what’s ‘safe’ and what isn’t." Her gaze swept from Maisie to the door, as if the outside darkness itself were an enemy. And, in many ways, it was because you never knew what predators were outside your door.

Tobin prepared to crack another jibe, but Castian's voice rumbled softly before the jester could speak. "I'll go, too." He rose fluidly from a corner, setting aside the short dagger he had been cleaning. His closeness sent a flutter through Maisie's chest. There had been an unspoken tension between them all evening, a silent awareness she kept trying to ignore.

She risked a sideways glance. He was already looking at her, expression calm but intense. She nodded, swallowing around a lump in her throat. "All right, then."

Sela exhaled sharply, as though she had half a mind to forbid it. Reluctance etched her features, but she said nothing else, only gave Maisie a meaningful stare that warned her to stay cautious. Even Garran, usually reserved, parted his lips to say something, then opted for silence. Tobin huffed out a small breath as if disappointed he was not included in this errand, but he sank onto an empty crate and resumed toying with his flute.

Maisie pulled open the door, and the cool night air kissed her face, carrying the scent of the river. The faint light from the fisherman’s lantern outlined his figure as he sat on the porch. He watched them, his pipe smoke trailing in a thin wisp around his head like some silent sentinel. She offered him a wave, though he did not wave back, only puffed at his pipe slowly.

She led Castian down the narrow path that curled behind the fisherman's property. Gravel crunched under her boots, and each step sank into the quiet of night. The lantern she carried cast shifting pools of light along the ground, illuminating patches of scraggly grass. She remembered the fairy lights in Wendwood Forest and, for a fleeting moment, she caught sight of flickering shapes darting at the edge of her vision. But the shapes vanished when she looked closer, only half-imagined shadows teased to life by her memories.

Castian moved beside her, his posture alert and confident. She knew he was keenly aware of their surroundings, scanning each angle in case something more than a stray fox lurked in the gloom. She drew in a slow breath, steadying herself. Though they were well beyond Wendwood's domain, her heart had not yet shed the tension from that cursed forest's illusions.

"You're quiet tonight," he observed, his voice low enough that the river nearly drowned it out. "But your eyes seem bright."

She forced a small grin. "I'm trying not to spook away any stray firewood," she joked. It was a weak jest, but it made him chuckle softly. She liked that sound, the warmth of his laughter.

They reached a bend where reeds rustled in the wind, revealing a patch of moonlit weedy ground. Beyond it loomed a dark shape. She raised the lantern higher, catching sight of slanted roof beams, half collapsed under their own weight. "That must be it," she said, stepping gingerly over a tangled root. "The other cabin the fisherman mentioned. I hope it has enough wood to make this detour worth it."

Maisie stopped, angling the lantern's glow through the gap. It revealed an interior dusty and dark—and, to her relief, stacked along one wall were neatly cut logs, likely left behind by traders who once rested here. Some logs looked damp or partially decayed, but there seemed enough salvageable pieces that they could carry back.

"After you," Castian said, placing a hand over hers on the door to help guide it open. She felt a disconcerting jolt at his touch, an awareness that rippled through her stomach in warm rivulets. She pushed the door slowly, letting it scrape across uneven floorboards.

Inside, the air smelled of old timber and faint ash, as though a small hearth once warmed travelers' nights here. She advanced in a slow circle, lifting the lantern until the orange light revealed more of the cabin's crevices. There was debris scattered about—a broken stool, a few shards of pottery. And a bed with an old mattress against one wall. But the real prize was indeed that row of split logs near the far corner, waiting quietly for anyone rash or lucky enough to take them.

"Guess the fisherman didn't lie," she murmured. "He said it might be rotting but still stocked."

Castian's gaze swept the room. The flickering lantern highlighted the contours of his face, throwing half of it into gentle shadow. She watched him exhale, and a subtle tension seemed to melt from his shoulders. "That should be enough to keep the fire going overnight," he said, though his tone carried a hint of distraction. His eyes skimmed over the broken rafters, the dark corners, then finally settled on Maisie again.

She tried to still her own heart. It beat wildly, too aware of him and how much she wanted him. Focus, Maisie, she told herself. "We should make quick work of it, then," she managed, clearing her throat.

They walked over to the logs. She set down the lantern, its circle of light dancing across the dusty floor. Castian tested a few of the pieces with an appraising knock. "Some are too wet," he said, separating them into a smaller pile, "but these look fine."

Maisie crouched beside him, her cloak brushing her ankles. She checked each log, tapping fingernails against the bark. Part of her wanted to concentrate on her task—anything to ground herself in practical reality—but her thoughts spun around the man so close to her elbow. She recalled the faint glances they had traded that morning, how the memory of her near encounter with those grabbing vines in Wendwood still made his jaw tighten if he thought she might be in harm's way.

The floor creaked, and she glanced up. Castian was watching her, his expression thoughtful. Heat flared under her cheeks. "Something the matter?"

He shook his head. "Just—" He paused, found no immediate words, then softly chuckled. "Sometimes I wonder if you even realize how easily you face danger. I mean, fighting monsters for a living. You are…really brave."

Her cheeks burned, and she struggled for a playful retort. "Yes, offering to fetch wood on my own is very brave."

"I am in earnest,” he said simply. The sincerity in his tone made her heart jolt. "I've seen you run headlong to protect those around you, especially when we were attacked. Yet you still manage to keep kindness in your eyes. There’s a joy in you I do not often see in people."

A fleeting sense of vulnerability washed through her, sweet and confusing. She dropped her gaze, focusing on the log in her hand. "Well... better to keep going, and stay cheerful, than to give up and die, right?"

He did not answer right away, but she felt the shift as he moved closer. The neat, masculine scent of his armor oil and a trace of river breeze mingled around them. "It isn't just about pushing on when there’s trouble," he said. "It's also about believing there's still good out in the world. You’re like the calm after a storm. I don't think I believed in much of anything for a long time... not until now."

Maisie's breath caught. In the dusty gloom, she could hardly breathe for how intensely his presence pressed on her senses. She saw the reflection of the lantern's flame flickering in the depths of his gorgeous eyes. Another minute, and she might lose her nerve entirely. So she forced a shaky laugh, nudging him gently with her elbow, trying to keep the mood lighter. "You'd better not turn all poetic on me, or Tobin will think you’re competition."

An almost-smile curved at Castian's lips. "I promise, I'm no bard."

Castian’s gaze flicked to her mouth, then back to her eyes, hesitation trembling at the edge of his resolve. His fingers brushed a lock of hair from her cheek, barely a touch, and her heart squeezed so tightly she forgot how to breathe.

For a heartbeat, they lingered like that — not quite apart, not quite together — and Maisie realized she was leaning in without meaning to, drawn toward him as though the air itself had tilted.

When his lips touched hers, it was tentative, a whisper of a kiss, testing, uncertain. It was nothing like the fierce, hungry moments she’d imagined in stolen glances or tense silences on the road. It was soft and searching, as though he was asking permission with every breath.

Maisie’s fingers tightened slightly on the log she still cradled, then with a half-laugh, half-sigh, she let it slip to the floor, the sound small and muffled between them. She lifted her hand instead, fingers brushing his jaw, feeling the rough scrape of stubble, the warmth of skin.

When they drew back, just a breath apart, Castian exhaled a quiet laugh, forehead resting lightly against hers. “We forgot the wood,” he murmured, voice low and warm.

Maisie smiled, her heart racing, her pulse wild. “Somehow,” she whispered, “I don’t think we’ll freeze.”

In light of the lantern, now set on a small table next to the bed, she saw her own wonder reflected in his eyes. Her pulse thrummed in her ears, and the already thin air in the cabin felt charged with a new intensity. Castian hesitated, as though wrestling with what to do next.

Her breath caught in her chest as she admitted the truth to herself: she wanted him. She could almost taste the realization on her tongue, an understanding that neither of them had come here simply to retrieve fuel for the fire.

Chapter

Twenty-Two

Maisie's breath caught in her chest. They were really going to do this. Each step seemed to amplify the rush of blood in her ears, and even the echoes of the wind outside and the low murmur of the river could not subdue her racing pulse. She could still feel the faint tingle in her cheeks from the banter they had shared moments ago. Searching for firewood, they had teased one another, every reply laced with a tension neither dared name. Now, in the dim interior, they both stood motionless.

Castian shut the door behind them, his gaze heavy and intense, locking onto hers. "Are you sure?" Castian asked, his voice rough with desire yet edged with caution. Maisie stepped toward him, her fingers gripping the fabric of his tunic, pulling him close. "Yes," she whispered, her heart racing, her lips parted in anticipation. His mouth captured hers fiercely, hungry and possessive, the kiss igniting a spark that burned away her lingering nerves. His hands slid through her hair, pulling her closer, deepening their kiss as their bodies pressed together, and warmth ignited between them.

Clothing fell away, forgotten in their urgency, until Castian paused, his breathing uneven. Maisie’s eyes caught on something that made her breath hitch. Three long scars fanned out from his left shoulder and curved across his chest. They were old, faded to white, the edges slightly raised, but they looked brutal.

She drew in a sharp breath. “What happened?”

Castian glanced down, then quickly looked away, the muscle in his jaw tightening. “Battle scars,” he said simply, his voice flat. He shifted slightly, pulling back, as if suddenly self-conscious

But Maisie didn’t let him retreat. She reached for him again, her hand warm against his skin. “I’ve been a healer almost as long as I’ve been a Shadowslayer,” she said, her voice quiet. “Scars don’t bother me.”

He stilled under her touch, and for a moment neither of them spoke. Maisie hesitated, her fingers resting just above the worst of the damage. “Do you want to talk about⁠—”

Castian shook his head, not unkindly, but firm. “No,” he said, voice low.

Maisie gave a small nod. She didn’t press. She pulled him closer, and kissed him slow and deep, letting her presence do what words couldn’t.

He reached into a small pouch on his belt, pulled out a lambskin sheath, and slipped it on with practiced care. He guided her gently to a bed in the corner of the room, and his mouth began exploring her skin, leaving a trail of heat from her collarbone down her stomach. Each kiss dissolved her doubts, stoked the embers of anticipation until they flared into irresistible need.

Castian positioned himself above her, pausing as he sensed the sudden nervous tension that gripped her body. He studied her carefully, realization flickering in his eyes. His voice became suddenly gentle, hesitant. "Maisie, have you ever...done this before?" he asked. Heat rose to her cheeks, her pulse quickening.

"No," she admitted softly.

He immediately tensed, concern shadowing his expression. "We don’t have to—" he started to say.

Maisie reached up, cupped his jaw firmly, silencing his doubts. Her eyes locked with his, fierce and unwavering. "This was exactly what I want.”

She reminded herself that their quest was perilous, their lives uncertain. She didn’t want to risk dying without knowing a man’s touch, without feeling the raw, powerful connection she sensed could exist between them.

"Please," she said, determination threading her words, "I need this. We need this." Relief and hunger flashed through Castian's eyes as he nodded slowly. “It doesn’t have to mean anything beyond just two people who want to forget the world for a while and love each other.”

“If you’re sure.” He brushed the hair from her eyes. “I want this, too. I want…you.”

She grinned wickedly at him. “Then what are you waiting for?”

He laughed and it was a beautiful, rich sound. "Just wanted to make sure you’re okay.” His expression turned serious. “It may hurt a bit, at first. But I’ll go slowly,” he promised softly. “Until you, ah…get used to me.”

When he finally entered her, Castian moved slowly, carefully, watching her face for any sign of discomfort. Maisie's breath hitched at the initial shock of his intrusion, but it quickly turned into something deeper—aching, delicious, undeniable pleasure. Her body adjusted, opened to him, and welcomed him.

Seeing the shift in her expression, Castian's restraint fractured. Maisie matched his rhythm, arched into his thrusts, driven by newfound passion. Her fingertips traced desperate patterns across his shoulders, feeling every muscle flex beneath her touch. Their bodies moved together, and urgency built rapidly into an explosive hunger.

Castian’s hands slid through her hair and gripped gently as their kisses deepened, wild and consuming. Each thrust, each gasping breath bound them closer, until they both shattered together, their cries mingling and echoing softly in the quiet night.

Maisie noticed the lantern’s flame starting to sputter, its light flickering across the cot. Soft shadows danced over the room, catching the sheen of sweat on their skin. The distant roar of the river crept back into her awareness, a low, steady sound that grounded her. Castian lay beside her, one arm resting over her waist, as if he couldn’t bring himself to let go. His breath moved slowly against her collarbone, steady and deep, a quiet reminder that he was there, alive and safe.

Her lips curved into the barest smile as she nestled her cheek against Castian's shoulder. A single memory from the attack they’d endured flickered in her mind: thick ropes snaring her ankles, the sound of living vines slithering across the stone floor. She shivered

"I was… scared for you," Castian murmured suddenly. He seemed to sense what she was thinking He pressed his mouth to her temple in a featherlight kiss. "I saw those vines coil around you, and they just kept coming, and I thought we might be…”A slight tremor rippled through him, as though he could not finish the sentence.

She tightened her hand around his arm. "I was terrified too. But I had never felt so alive as I did, realizing life could be stolen at any second," she said, drawing a shaky breath. "This entire journey forced me to face more danger than I ever imagined. But somehow, it had also shown me a different kind of... clarity."

His gaze met hers, his storm-gray eyes softened by the low light. The vulnerability in his expression sent a tender ache through her chest. "I tried to deny how badly I wanted something good in all this chaos," he admitted quietly. "I believed letting anyone close would end in more regret." His words matched so neatly with her own hidden fears that tears pricked the corners of her eyes.

She lifted a hand, brushing her thumb along the faint scar near his brow. "I understood that fear," she whispered. "And I... I thought I was a fool, longing for some kind of safe, quiet life.”

Castian cupped her cheek, letting his palm rest there for a moment, the simple warmth of his touch communicating what words could not. She caught the subtle tension in his jaw, echoing the mixture of longing and dread swirling in her own heart. The unspoken bond between them felt like a carefully wound thread, delicate and vital.

He shifted to straighten slightly, propping himself up on one elbow so he could look at her fully.

The old cot groaned beneath his weight. His hand trailed down her arm in a slow caress, as though memorizing every curve. "I'm here," he said softly. "I didn't know how everything else would turn out, but for now... I was here."

A surge of hope stirred in Maisie's chest, mingling with the fading echoes of pleasure and the persistent worry about the perils lurking outside. She attempted a small laugh, though it wavered with emotion. "Then I would hold you to it, Sir Castian," she said, though her words quaked under her raw vulnerability.

The corners of Castian's mouth lifted in an answering half-smile, and for an instant she imagined how different her path might have been if she had never journeyed beyond Draklûn Bay.

Distantly, a wisp of gloom pulled her thoughts back toward reality: their companions waited with anxious hearts, the night's chill pressing in. She could almost feel Sela's admonishing stare. Sooner or later, they would have to return to the others, arms filled with enough firewood to explain their lengthy absence. Yet those few precious minutes in the aftermath of intimacy felt too vital to abandon.

She drew a deep breath. "We should... probably get dressed," she said in a quiet voice, though reluctance tugged at her. Rolling onto her side, she reached for the scattered pieces of her clothing. Her limbs still hummed from his nearness, and a wave of embarrassment mingled with satisfaction as she picked up her tunic from the dusty floor. She grinned at the memory of peeling it off of him. The mere recollection sent her heart racing again.

Castian pushed himself upright, a thoughtful shadow passing across his features. There was no regret in his eyes, only that steady, protective softness, as though he were still prepared to guard her from threat at any abandoned corner of the world. He started refastening his armor buckles, making sure not to jolt the injured flesh near one of his older wounds. Maisie's chest tightened with gratitude. She fingered the edge of his bracer before handing it to him. Even then, she could not quite look away from the lines of his jaw or the faint flush still lingering at the base of his neck.

They dressed quickly in the dim lantern light, wrestling with buckles and layers. Castian retrieved the lantern, checking the oil before adjusting the wick. The flame steadied, providing just enough glow for them to confirm that they had left nothing important behind. Maisie's cloak, his belt pouch, and the lambskin sheath rested where they had been placed. She found her cloak, shaking off dust as best she could and slipping it around her shoulders. The softness of the worn fabric was a comfort, though now it held new memories that made her heart pound with sweet recollection.

He reached for her hand, and she allowed herself one final reflection in his unwavering gaze. In the morning, they would return to unnerving illusions, violent skirmishes, and the presence of knights and bards—and her sister's hawk-eyed scowl. Yet that moment belonged to just the two of them, an unspoken promise that fostered a fragile hope. She felt a prick of tears. They were tears of awe and anxiety and overwhelming relief that something real had touched her life after so many nights of fear.

"Maisie," he said quietly. The sound of her name in his mouth, low and almost reverent, brought her dangerously close to sobbing. "Thank you for trusting me tonight," he said.

She swallowed, giving his hand a small squeeze. "It wasn't just about trust," she confessed. "I... wanted this. Wanted you." She bit her lip, half-embarrassed by her own honesty. But the moment begged for truth, not timid half-measures. Her words were unsteady, yet they lifted some invisible weight off her heart.

Castian leaned in, pressing a faint, lingering kiss to her forehead. The quick press of his lips roused another wave of warmth in her chest. "Then let's make sure we survive this journey," he murmured.

She nodded, her breath hitching. Carefully, they gathered the firewood—enough to justify their extended absence. The logs clacked together, stirring motes of dust in the air. She tried to steady herself, telling her heart to calm down, but it was a losing battle. Everything about her life had changed, pivoting around that one precious experience that neither she nor Castian had planned. She could already feel the shift inside her, a new current of determination to hold onto the delicate hope they shared.

They slipped outside beneath the star-strewn sky. The wind off the river was cooler than before, reminding her how fleeting warmth could be. She wondered if their closeness would be obvious to everyone when they returned. Tobin might craft an obnoxious rhyme on the spot, while Garran gave them a silent, all-knowing look. Sela's reaction stirred a trace of worry. But such concerns temporarily receded beneath the weight of what was blossoming in Maisie's chest.

Chapter

Twenty-Three

Maisie forced a smile as she and Castian rejoined their group at the first cabin. The moment they stepped inside, her cheeks flared with heat. Tobin, balancing on a rickety crate near the corner, immediately waggled his eyebrows in an exaggerated gesture of feigned innocence. She swallowed hard, wishing her own heartbeat would settle. She could still feel Castian's warmth on her skin, and every whispering memory of their moments in the abandoned cabin made her pulse race anew.

Sela's stare landed on Maisie like a heavy weight. The older sister said nothing. She only folded her arms across her chest, scars half-visible where her sleeves pushed up. In that single silence, Maisie read everything: a demand for an explanation, a spark of irritated concern, and maybe the faint glimmer of fear. Maisie's stomach knotted. She had anticipated some curious glances, but Sela's quiet scrutiny pierced deeper than any mild teasing Tobin could conjure.

Garran, leaning his sword against the wall, and had the decency to avert his eyes from Maisie and Castian. He coughed once, then bent to help Castian stack the logs next to the hearth.

"That should keep us warm for a while," Castian said, voice taut with forced normalcy. He didn't look at Maisie. Instead, he busied himself positioning a final piece of wood with meticulous focus.

Maisie couldn't blame him. She felt exposed, as though every gaze might uncover the secret she let unfold earlier. Fighting the blush creeping along her cheeks, she ducked behind a makeshift partition—little more than a sagging curtain of old canvas hung across a corner. She needed air, needed to steady herself. Only a few heartbeats later, Sela slipped through the small opening, cutting off the scant privacy Maisie craved.

Maisie braced her back against the rough boards. "I know," she murmured, anticipating her sister's scolding, though part of her wanted to deflect the lecture. "You're going to say it was reckless."

Sela exhaled in a soft hiss. "Reckless doesn't begin to cover it." Her eyes, usually stern, sparkled with heightened urgency. "When we're facing illusions, curses, who knows what else, you decide to… indulge in personal matters?" She kept her voice low, but it still trembled with pent-up worry.

"I needed a scrap of warmth," Maisie whispered, hugging her arms around herself. She felt foolish admitting how lonely she had felt, how the tenuous sense of freedom in Castian's arms blurred every caution.

"Needed a scrap of warmth," Sela repeated, arching an eyebrow. "You risk more than your own heart." She glanced toward the curtain, as if wary the others might overhear. "Hearts break. And distractions kill. That's the truth I've learned too well." Her jaw tightened, unwavering.

Maisie closed her eyes. She remembered all too clearly how Sela had once worn a promise ring around her finger instead of on a chain. She remembered the tears and the guilt when Sela lost her fiancé in that gruesome monster attack. "I'm not looking to repeat your tragedy," Maisie said gently, though she knew the words might sting. "But I can't pretend I don't feel something. I won't."

Sela's frown deepened. She reached out and squeezed Maisie's wrist in a tense grip. "The question is, can you handle the aftermath if things turn bad?" she asked. "Because if you can't, it won't just be your heart that suffers. We're all tethered together on this quest, sister."

Maisie's chest tightened. "I can handle it." She wasn't as certain as her response sounded, but she needed to stand her ground. She was tired of living in the shadow of monsters and illusions without letting herself want anything for fear it would unravel.

For a long moment, Sela searched Maisie's face, looking for cracks or second thoughts. A flicker of doubt shifted across her expression. At last, she let go. "Then don't lose yourself," she whispered. "We can't afford that."

With no further lecture, Sela ducked back through the canvas partition, leaving Maisie alone to exhale a trembling breath. Glancing around the cramped corner, Maisie realized how meager her refuge was: a few crates, a tangled blanket, and one flickering candle. Her mind spun with regrets and a lingering heated memories. She could still taste the adrenaline.

At length, she straightened her shoulders and slipped out from behind the curtain. She spotted Tobin perched by the firepit now, writing the words to a lyric or a poem on some parchment. Garran had claimed a small stool near the wall, resting while half-heartedly inspecting the edge of a short dagger. Castian stood by the door, arms folded, gaze dropped to the dusty floor.

Edric, returning from a final perimeter check, trudged in. He gave Maisie a nod that bordered on fatherly concern. "We'll get an early start," he said to Sela in a low voice. He paused, eyes flicking briefly to Maisie and Castian, then continued. "The fisherman says the canoes will be ready at dawn."

"Good," Sela replied tersely. The old wound she had been rewrapping earlier was hidden under new bandages, and the weariness in her eyes suggested she was too tired to talk much. "We'll be off in the morning."

“We’re at a crossroads, of sorts,” Tobin said. “We’ve made it through the woods, and now continue journeying down the river. I think it calls for a song to mark the occasion.”

Nobody argued and Tobin’s began to sing in a lilting tone, the first clear notes threading through the cabin like a quiet blessing, soft and sure against the crackle of the fire and the sound of the river outside.

“First light on the river,

Soft wind’s quiet tone,

Oars cut through the water,

We will not journey alone.

The road winds and wanders,

Past thorn, past briar, past bone,

But hands on the shoulder,

Make a hard path known.

Oh, the night is long,

And the stars fall cold,

But a heart held in friendship

Is a heart turned bold.

First light on the river,

Last word at the door,

We carry each other,

To the farthest shore.

Let the river keep flowing,

Let the dark winds moan,

With a friend at my shoulder,

We are never alone.”

Maisie drew her knees up to her chest, resting her chin on them as Tobin sang. The simple was soothing, like a balm on a wound, smoothing the edges of her worry and softening the weight she hadn’t realized she was still carrying. For a moment, it felt like the world held its breath just to listen. Across the fire, Edric gave a low grunt of approval, glancing toward Tobin with a faint, crooked smile.

“Well, I’ll be,” he said. “The lad’s not half a bad singer after all.”

Maisie caught herself glancing at Castian. He had shifted a fraction closer to the fire, arms still crossed over his broad chest. She recalled the gentleness of his hands, the softness hidden behind his stoic exterior. An ache rose in her throat, torn between wanting to close the distance and knowing Sela's warning still hovered.

Eventually, they settled sleeping arrangements. The partial loft in the cabin was just a short climb up a wooden ladder hammered into the wall, giving minimal separation between them and the few still awake below. Maisie claimed a corner up there, near a sagging beam that let in a trickle of cold air. She cocooned herself in blankets, heart thudding so loud she wondered if Castian could hear it. He quietly chose a space a little distance away, almost at the edge, trying to respect the unspoken boundary. Down below, Sela and Garran murmured about the upcoming route, while Tobin pestered Edric with questions about canoeing. Nobody spoke of how silent Maisie had become, or how Castian barely participated in the group's talk.

Maisie's eyes burned with tears she refused to shed. She had no regrets about the closeness she shared with Castian, not truly. But she couldn't shake the churn of guilt. The weight of Sela's warning pressed down, and she saw the logic in it: in a life so fragile, emotional entanglements felt like an invitation to heartbreak. Yet she also felt a new warmth kindled in her—she had never felt so truly desired or so purely alive.

Maisie tucked the blanket tighter around her shoulders, hearing the faint rustle as Castian did the same. She let her gaze drift across the wooden beams. She counted knots in the wood, the faint shapes of trapped silhouettes flickering in the lantern's last glow. When she finally let her eyes droop, it felt as though she stood at a precipice between longing and fear.

She wasn't sure how long she lay awake, mind buzzing with second-guessing everything that had just happened. Every half memory of their lovemaking both warmth and anxiety in her chest. She thought about how it felt to lean on him, how his heartbeat pounded against hers. She thought about the day's journey ahead—about illusions that might plague them, or beasts that might lurk beyond the next bend in the river. Perhaps the biggest question: was opening her heart to Castian a defiance of caution... or a necessary spark of hope to keep her spirit alive in grim times?

Eventually, exhaustion claimed her. She dreamed of drifting on the Great River, separated from the others by swirling mist, and every time she tried to call out, the words jammed in her throat. She woke with a start before dawn, heart hammering. She pushed herself upright, blinking grit from her eyes. Sela was already up, rummaging through her sack.

With a small sigh, Maisie gathered her blankets and climbed down the rickety ladder. Castian had woken as well, quietly gathering gear near the corner. Their eyes met, and he offered the barest tilt of his head—an unspoken question: Are you all right?

She nodded. A frail attempt at a smile twitched at her lips, but she looked away quickly, too aware of how the previous night's closeness hovered between them.

They moved through the morning routine with tense efficiency. Garran paced by the door while checking the fastenings on his sword belt. Edric and Tobin sorted through the remaining supplies, repacking them into their travel-worn packs. Outside, the fisherman's gnarled silhouette appeared in the weak dawn light, awaiting his payment.

Tobin stuffed his flute into its pouch then put it in his rucksack. "Let's hope my singing doesn't scare away the fish," he said in a dramatic voice, trying to inject some humor. Edric gave an exasperated look, but a faint curve at the corner of his mouth betrayed mild amusement.

When the fisherman led them to the edge of the river, Maisie's exhaustion was replaced by a sober awareness of the challenge ahead. The canoes rested at the narrow dock, tethered with fraying rope that squeaked as the craft bobbed against the shore. The water looked cold and swift. Morning mist curled across the surface, giving everything a pale, ghostly cast.

"We'll divide up," Sela said, surveying the vessels. She cast a meaningful glance toward Garran, who dipped his head in agreement. "Garran, you're with me."

Edric, standing closest to the third canoe, gestured Tobin forward. "Come on," he said wryly. "Before you start composing a sea shanty about drowning."

Tobin pressed a hand to his chest in mock offense. "I would never mention drowning!" He paused theatrically. "Capsizing, maybe, but never drowning."

Castian finished securing a few extra supplies to the second canoe, then turned to look at Maisie. She inhaled, nerves fluttering in her belly. They would be sharing that small space upon the water, forced into close proximity despite last night's emotions. She steeled herself, stepping closer to double-check her own gear. If they could function as a team—if they could hold onto that wordless understanding—maybe this day would pass without heartbreak.

She swallowed and forced a steady note into her voice. "I'll handle the bow," she told him softly. Her aim was for practicality. If she sat at the front of the canoe, she could watch the currents, keep them from running aground.

He nodded. "I'll steer."

In mere minutes, the group made their final checks. Edric helped Tobin into the third vessel, ignoring the jester's muttered commentary about soggy boots. Sela and Garran settled into their canoe, each moving with practiced caution. Maisie climbed into hers, heart pounding at how the canoe rocked beneath her. Castian followed, kneeling briefly to shift the weight. His presence settled in behind her, close enough she could feel the warmth radiating through the mild morning chill. She set her paddle across her lap.

"All right," Sela said, twisting to glance back at the others. "We follow the current downstream until midday. If the current picks up too much, we find a place to haul ashore. Don't attempt anything fancy." She spared Tobin a pointed look.

His eyes widened in mock indignation, but he only pressed a palm over his heart, as if swearing to behave. Edric smothered a chuckle under his breath.

Castian clenched the makeshift rudder at the canoe's stern and eased them off the dock. Maisie dipped her paddle in the water, bracing herself against the sudden pull of the current. She focused on the repetitive motion—dip, pull, lift—just enough to maintain a steady line behind Sela and Garran. The Great River felt broader here than she realized, its surface swirling with eddies that threatened to pull them sideways. Cool wind licked across her face.

Behind her, Castian navigated with quiet concentration. She could sense the subtle movements of his arms adjusting their course, felt the slight shift each time he corrected for the river's current. More than once, she remembered the press of his body from the night before. The memory still heated her veins despite the crisp air. She struggled not to let it distract her. Sela's words echoed: Hearts break and people die when focus strays.

Edric and Tobin's canoe lagged a short distance behind. Through the corner of her vision, Maisie observed Tobin flailing his arms whenever they swayed a bit too far from the group. Garran and Sela, leading at the front, looked steady but tense—as if even the river was an adversary to outlast.

Maisie tightened her grip on the paddle, trying to match Sela's rhythm. She found herself wishing for at least a moment of unguarded conversation with Castian, but all the words knotted in her throat, overshadowed by the caution glinting in her sister's gaze.

Time bled into each stroke of the paddle. The rising sun thinned the morning mist, revealing the full breadth of the river. Off to the sides, rocky banks and sparse trees slid past, still shadowed in half-light. Above, the sky stretched wide and pale, hinting at a cold day ahead. And beyond it all, at the far horizon, the silhouette of mountains towered: dark, jagged lines that promised both answers and more danger than they could imagine.

Maisie's heart twisted. Even with every pang of guilt , she could not regret letting Castian into her arms for that heated moment. It might be a fleeting spark, but it was real in a way her old illusions never were.

Water droplets clung to her hands, the chill creeping through her gloves whenever she paused in her stroke. She was keenly aware of Castian's presence behind her. The wind brushed strands of her hair free from her hood, and she shivered. She did not know if it was the cold or the memory of his touch that caused the tremor.

Yet no matter how the cold wind stung their faces, Maisie's memory stayed hot with the memory of Castian's touch, and she wondered if the fragile hope of having something more with him could coexist with the harsh realities of what still lay ahead of them on the quest.

Chapter

Twenty-Four

Dawn in the Sunless Pass possessed none of the hopeful glow Maisie had come to expect from a new day. The so-called morning light was trapped within the high canyon walls that enclosed the path deeper into the Drakknir Mountains. Behind them, to the Southwest, lay The Great River and Wendwood Forest. Further south of that was home, Draklûn Bay. Ahead of them, if they were lucky enough to find it, if it did actually exist, should be Balrûth Dûm.

The family back home, Mam and Da and Granny Faelin, knew the basics of their journey so far. Well, what they had to write down and send with Whisper and Glim as they winged their way back and forth with messages home and supplies Mam and Da sent. And of course, they knew their daughters well; Mam had taught them to fight, Da had taught them to heal. But no matter how well you knew someone, no missive could contain the quiet, steady ways a journey changed a person from the inside out.

Maisie wondered sometimes what Mam and Da would see in her now, not just a fighter or a healer, but a woman who had faced fear, heartbreak, and choices she never imagined, and kept going. Would they still hear the same laugh in her voice, see the same stubbornness in her spine? Would they recognize the woman standing at the edge of a world none of them had ever touched?

It was not the geographic distance she had travelled that changed her, it was the experiences shaping her into the person she was becoming. She straightened, the ache of homesickness still warm in her gut but no longer tugging her back to the bay. She missed home, but she couldn’t imagine turning back until the quest was done.

They’d lit the torches they carried before they entered the pass; in the fog, they had to be able to see as much of each other as they could. She glanced behind at Tobin, who staggered against a sudden gust while clinging to his pack. He cast her a half-hearted grin. "If these winds keep up," he muttered under his breath, "I might just take flight and spare my legs the climb."

Garran, trudging just ahead of Tobin, snorted. "Keep flapping those arms, and you will take off," he said. It was a rare attempt at humor from him, but his tone remained tense, eyes trained on the shifting fog. A few pebbles slipped beneath his boots, rattling into the gloom. He stilled, scanning the narrow path carved out of the canyon's side. His knuckles gripped the hilt of a sword at his hip.

Sela led the group with her shoulders squared, each step deliberate. She was no stranger to dangerous climbs, and she did not attempt to mask her unease. Maisie could see it in the tightness of her older sister's jaw, the flicker of caution whenever the wind whipped fiercely. Every broken stone or clatter of loose gravel put them on edge, reminding them how unforgiving this gorge can be. But they had each other, and that was what mattered most.

She sensed a presence at her right shoulder and glanced over to find Castian. He offered a fleeting nod, a silent question in his eyes: Are you all right? She nodded back, though they both knew none of them were truly all right out here. The pass was a place half-forgotten by the sun, and even the wind's moan seemed to mourn the travelers who once tried—and failed—to cross. Maisie tried to quell an uneasy shiver, attributing it to the cold rather than the current of awkwardness stirring between her and Castian.

Finding the proper path proved difficult. The fog lingered in drifting curtains, rippling with each gust. Tobin cursed as he leaned into the headwind. Maisie dropped back to offer him a hand. She gave his hand a squeeze.

"Come on. Just keep moving,” she told him. “Sela knows what she's doing."

Up ahead, Sela lifted a hand, signaling them to slow. Garran halted at once, rigid, scanning the ledge overhead. Castian let out a quiet exhale, stepping nearer to Maisie as if to shield her from whatever might be prowling unseen in the mists. She sensed the tension coiling in him.

Sela's voice echoed softly. "The path narrows in a few steps. We'll need to edge along that rock face." She gestured to a thin, slanted stretch of rock that vanished around a bend. "No room to walk two across." She glanced over a shoulder at Maisie, her brow drawn in worry. For once, Sela did not voice her caution. She only nodded, anticipating that everyone will be careful.

One by one, they shuffled forward. A stiff wind tore at Maisie's cloak, sending the hem lashing against her thighs. She pressed herself against the cold limestone wall, inching along the precarious path that felt scarcely wider than a horse's hoof. Her heart drummed, not from exertion but from the raw fear that one misstep could send her tumbling into unseen depths. She noticed Castian's hand splayed protectively at her back, not quite touching but prepared to catch her if she slips.

Tobin's teeth chattered. He edged ahead to be closer to Edric and Garran who close behind Sela. None of them spoke beyond muttered curses or rapid prayers under their breath. Sela was the first around the bend, her form all but swallowed by the swirling haze. Maisie counted each careful step, stifling the urge to hold Castian's hand for stability. She did not doubt his willingness to steady her, but she feared the flush it would bring—one more reason for Sela to question her judgment.

At last, the path widened into a shelf. Sela waved them over. "We can rest here for a moment," she said quietly. Maisie noticed the flush on her sister's cheeks and the tension in her posture. Even Sela, the steadiest among them, was uneasy in this place. Garran leaned against the rock wall beside her, letting out a slow breath. Tobin set his pack down, rummaging for a waterskin.

Castian checked their surroundings, gaze lifted to the canyon's high edges. Falling rocks remained a real threat, especially in these swirling drafts. After a moment, he glanced at Maisie. His eyes flicked to her ankle. "How are you holding up?" he asked in a low tone, referencing half-healed scrapes from the vine attacks days ago.

She flexed her foot tentatively. "Doing fine. The worst bruises are gone." She was grateful for the accelerated healing she and Sela shared, though the memory of that night—and the nightmares it brought—still prickled in the back of her mind. She tried to focus on the present moment. Her pulse steadied slightly, hearing Castian's quiet concern. Tension aside, there was something comforting in knowing he watched out for her.

"Check your flasks before we move," Sela said to the group. "We'll keep water rationed until we clear the pass. If we find a river, we’ll get more water and boil it before we drink." She sliced her gaze from Tobin to Garran, leaving no room for argument. Then she glanced at Maisie, the silent question of, Are you sure you're all right? plain in her eyes.

Maisie mustered a reassuring nod. "I'm set, Sela."

Sela gave a curt nod, satisfied. "Let's not linger."

Tobin, searching for a moment of levity, attempted a wavering grin. "If there's an epic song about traveling the Sunless Pass, I have yet to compose it but I'll gather plenty of inspiration from this misery."

Maisie offered him a faint laugh. The bard-in-training’s attempts at humor were the only scraps of normalcy out here. She tightened the strap of her pack and followed Sela, bracing herself for another stretch of precarious ledges. Castian's footsteps crunched softly on gravel. Every time the wind rose in a shrieking gust, she imagined an invisible hand trying to shove her into oblivion. Her heart thrummed in her throat.

They progressed in tight single file, forced to concentrate on each step. Rocks shifted underfoot, sending gravel skittering toward the unseen canyon floor. Maisie could not let her mind wander to the exact drop. The gloom clung to them like a living shroud, occasionally parting enough to reveal the massive heights above. More than once, she glimpsed a precarious boulder perched overhead, half-embedded in a fissure. She hoped it would not come loose from one of the wind gusts.

About twenty paces later, Sela came to an abrupt halt, nearly causing a collision with those behind her. She held up a hand, cautioning silence. Garran stepped up next to her, and peered into the fog. They stood on an outcrop that jutted out over a slightly wider portion of the pass. The path veered sharply to the left, and they couldn’t see what was around it.

A strange echo answered in the distance, a hollow reverberation, as if something large moved through the darkness deeper in the gorge. It could have been the wind curling through crevices, or it could have been something else. Maisie's pulse skittered. She glanced at Castian, who had stepped forward, sword half-drawn.

"It might be just the wind," Garran murmured cautiously. Yet his posture remained tense, reflecting the doubt in his own words.

"We'll keep moving. Eyes open." Sela signaled Garran to take the lead this time, presumably so she could guard Maisie from behind. Her sister's protective streak remained unwavering, though Maisie couldn't help feeling she no longer needed quite the same measure of coddling that she did when this journey began.

They moved forward slowly and rounded the next bend. The gorge tightened, forcing them onto a path that tilted inward. One side was a nearly vertical stone face, blotched with dark streaks of old mineral deposits. The other side dropped away into a trough of swirling fog. All that remained was a precarious walkway, halfway crumbled. The wind's bitter whip intensified.

A faint noise brushed Maisie's ear. She almost mistook it for an exhalation from behind, but when she glanced around, Castian was far enough back that she could not have felt his breath on her skin. She listened again, straining to catch it over the wind's groan. It was more a whisper than a voice, an airy murmur that sent a prickle up her arms. She pressed her palm against the rock wall, fighting a surge of unease.

Castian moved to walk next to her, and she felt the subtle press of his gloved hand against her elbow. "You hear that?" he murmured, so soft that only she can catch the words.

She nodded, swallowing hard. The pass was quieter now, as if the rock around them muffled everything but the swirling breeze.

"Careful," Garran snapped in a tense whisper. "If you slip here, there's no coming back."

"Must you remind me?" Tobin's voice wobbled. He clutched the straps of his pack, pulling them close to his chest, as if that pillow of cloth might somehow protect him if he fell. Despite the dire situation, Maisie spared a gentle look for the bard, hoping to offer him some reassurance. But her throat felt too dry for words.

Sela checked their footing, then motioned them onward again. They inched forward another agonizing ten steps, each footfall carefully tested before shifting weight. Maisie tried to keep her breath slow and even, though her heart thrummed with each uncertain step. The swirling fog absorbed even the faint echo of their boots, leaving them isolated in a world of shifting gray and distant howls.

Suddenly, the wind gusted with renewed fury. The blast tore at Maisie's hood, ripping it free from her head. She yelped as her braid whipped painfully across her face. Gravel skidded underfoot. She fought for balance, pressing her body against the rock. The wind roared in her ears, deafening, and for an instant, she could not see anyone, only the swirling haze.

The gust subsided as quickly as it came and the air cleared. Maisie's heart continued to pound. She gripped Castian's forearm, struggling to regulate the panic thrumming in her veins. He dipped his head slightly, voice rough with concern. "Are you hurt?"

She shook her head, blinking away the dust that stung her eyes. "No," she managed, ignoring the burn that rose in her throat. She tried to summon a smile but it faltered. "Thank you."

He exhaled, a ghost of a smile flickering across his lips—then he pulled away to check on the others. Sela stood a yard ahead, fists clenched at her sides. No one spoke for a long moment. They stood in silence, each of them quietly aware of how close they’d come to going over the edge. No one said it out loud, but the look in their eyes said enough. They were damn lucky to still be alive.

Finally, Sela exhaled, a tremor beneath her usual composure. "We keep moving," she said, though her voice was tight. "This pass twists another mile before it widens." She clenched her jaw, turning to lead them forward. Garran guided Tobin close, ensuring the jester remained upright. Maisie steeled herself, checking she still had her pack. The chill seeped deeper into her bones, but she willed her legs to move. It felt safer to keep going rather than remain in one spot, waiting for another gust or some hidden threat that echoes in the gorge.

With slow, careful strides, they pressed on. The wind quieted, giving them a bit of a respite. Sela glanced at Maisie and asked, "Is there another way through the pass?"

She shook her head. "According to the map, this is the way we’re supposed to go.” She shifted her attention to Tobin, who was muttering rhymes under his breath, as if chanting them might banish his fear.

The next bend of the trail plunged them into thicker fog, the pale gloom so dense Maisie could not see more than a few feet ahead. Garran muttered something about how quickly the temperature was dropping. Maisie lifted her gaze to the canyon walls overhead, but they remained obscured, as if the entire gorge was shrinking around them. The sense of claustrophobia intensified.

At one point, they reached a wide crack in the rock face; it was large enough for a person to squeeze through. Garran inspected it, but the gap did not appear to lead anywhere safe. It narrowed too quickly, the interior lost in darkness. "We can't shelter in there," he decided, rejoining the group. "We'll keep going."

They pressed on, hoping the path would open soon, letting them escape before night truly claimed the gorge. The relentless wind blasted their faces, and each footstep echoed a rhythm of desperation and determination.

All at once, rubble shifted above them, triggering a cascade of stones. They pressed themselves against the rock wall as rocks clattered across the ledge, bouncing off the path and disappearing into the depths below. From somewhere behind, Tobin's strangled gasp signaled how close they came to disaster. After a painfully long pause, no more rocks fell.

Sela drew a careful breath, then gestured for quiet progress. Step by step, they edged forward again, unwilling to linger where stone might crumble. The daylight remained dim, though Maisie could not tell how much time had truly passed. She only knew her shoulders ached from clenching, her fingers were numb from the cold, and that a mounting dread coiled around her heart. Despite the harsh climb, her body felt chilled to the core.

They carried on, going deeper into the twisting gorge, wind and fog closing around them like an unrelenting shroud. Every sound—pebbles rattling, their shifting packs, Tobin's stumbling gait—heightened Maisie's awareness of how isolated they were. She missed Edric's calm presence, missed the sense that someone older and wiser was guiding them. But they had to do this themselves. She adjusted her grip on her cloak, determined not to let fear anchor her feet.

Behind her, Castian met her gaze once more. The flicker of compassion in his eyes lifted her spirit, if only for a moment. In this barren pass, overshadowed by raw wind and fog, even a brief tether of comfort steadied her pulse.

The path ahead narrowed again. The canyon's walls rose higher, curving inward as if threatening to converge and seal them in. The fog thickened, swirling in restless eddies. Dawn was supposed to give them a head start, but it felt as though it had been twilight all day. The gloom was so profound that Maisie wondered if the sun ever touched this place. She exhaled, a plume of white breath, and tension drew her shoulders tight.

At Sela's signal, they trudged onward, hearts drumming in time with the scrape of boots against the slick stone. The deeper they ventured, the more the pass constricted, channeling the biting wind into an eerie wail that echoed off the canyon walls. Each clatter of loose gravel triggered another lurch of paranoia, coiling in their chests. Yet Sela, jaw clenched, led them onward, determined to see them through these ominous twists of rock and fog before the last of the light faded completely.

Chapter

Twenty-Five

The Sunless Pass had lived up to its name. Even now, with its endlessly tall walls behind them, Maisie felt as though a part of it would be with her forever, settled in her bones like chill that never went away. It wasn’t just the absence of light they’d endured, but the way the shadows had crowded out thoughts of anything else, and made every step feel heavier than the last.

The pass hadn’t just been a place they travelled through, it was a place they endured. It had left its mark, like a cold hand crushing a heart, reminding them there was a thin line between living in safety and being lost. And though they’d stepped into daylight again, Maisie knew they were still carrying the shadow of that place with them.

Sela's footsteps caused small rocks to shift underfoot as she led the group farther along the winding path through the gorge. Maisie followed close behind, with her torch.

Garran trudged alongside Sela, his quiet assessment of the cliffs setting Maisie further on edge. "We should look for shelter," he said. His voice echoed slightly in the claustrophobic gloom. "These winds are growing more fierce than they were in the pass."

Tobin, shivering despite two layers of cloaks, edged closer to the group. "A hollow that's not home to wraiths or worse, I hope," he muttered.

After another twist of the narrow trail, Sela raised a hand, signaling them to slow. "Look," she said quietly, pointing. To their left rose a half-collapsed entrance in the rock, barely noticeable in the feeble torchlight. Through the gap, faint sparks of lavender and soft blue shone, like distant starlight caught in stone.

"Crystals?" Maisie asked, heart fluttering with a strange mixture of hope and caution. The idea of any glow in this sun-starved place drew her like a moth to flame.

Garran nodded. "Could be. They sometimes form in deep caverns. Let's see if it's large enough to shelter in."

They crept toward the alcove. Cold air hissed faintly from within, carrying a strange tang of ancient dust. Maisie led the way, torch held high, illuminating rock walls studded with crystals that flickered in response to direct light. Castian came up beside her. She caught the flicker in his gray eyes—a mixture of wariness and curiosity.

"It feels… haunted," Tobin said, voice low.

Maisie nearly shushed him, but the moment she stepped fully inside the half-collapsed hollow, she froze. At the far end of the cramped space, a pale, translucent shape hovered close to the ground. It looked vaguely human, clothed in what appeared to be tatters of a robe. Except it had no solid form—only swirling vapors. Feeling her pulse hammer, she nearly dropped the torch.

Sela hissed a warning. "Everyone, stay back."

But it was too late. The spirit turned toward them, translucent face etched with exhaustion and hope. Chains gleaming with runic symbols snaked along the cavern floor, anchoring the figure in place. Maisie heard a feeble rasp, like wind sighing through old doors. Only when it repeated the sound did she realize it was speaking.

"Please…" The whisper carried no breath, but a despair that prickled Maisie's skin. "Release me."

A chill prickled at the nape of Maisie's neck. Ghosts and spirits were not entirely unknown to them. Wendwood had its fairies, and there were more haunted places in Valendor than one could shake a stick at. Necromancy, in particular, was a growing problem. She steeled herself, stepping carefully forward until she stood a short distance from the bound figure. A shimmering chain anchored the spirit's wrists to runes on the floor. More runes circled the perimeter, scratched roughly into the stone as if crafted in haste.

Garran crouched, face grim. "This is definitely some warding script," he murmured. He traced a shaky line just outside the chain with his fingertip. "Looks fresh. At least not centuries old."

Castian shifted, one hand hovering near the hilt of his sword. "If it is a trap⁠—"

The spirit moaned softly, turning a hollow gaze upon him. "No trap. Only captivity," it whispered. "Necromantic meddling courses through these mountains. I was stationed to protect, yet I am imprisoned by those who twist illusions for cruel ends. Release me, or flee. Either way—beware."

Maisie felt the tug of pity stir in her chest. The sorrow etched in the spirit's voice resonated with a vulnerability she couldn't ignore, no matter how dangerous this might be. She glanced back at her sister. "Could these chain spells be undone?"

Sela approached, kneeling near the scattered runes. Her older sister's brow furrowed. "These sigils… They’re old. Possibly the Old Rune language." She reached out a hand, and let it hover over the chain. "I sense magic but I can’t tell if its good or bad."

Tobin subtly edged nearer to Garran, as if seeking protection in the older knight's closeness. "So the fairies in Wendwood might be child's play compared to this?" he asked, voice shaking.

The spirit's eyes flicked to Tobin. "They are. The illusions here are born of deeper corruption," it breathed. "Trust no visions that offer easy comfort in these mountains. They feed on fear. Necromancy warps reality."

A tremor snaked down Maisie's spine. She thought of the times illusions nearly ensnared her, especially in the chapel ruin, the way those hunger-vines seemed to appear out of nowhere. Had that been only the beginning? She tightened her grip on the torch and forced a steady breath.

"Anyone sense a direct threat now?" Castian asked, gaze sliding toward Sela.

She shook her head. "Not immediate. But we need to be sure we're not freeing something malicious. Garran?"

Garran rose quietly, scanning the spirit's face. "The wards are indeed necromantic. They're meant to bind a ghost, keep it from leaving or interfering."

Maisie's compassion flared again. She remembered how illusions in Wendwood were resolved by showing humility, by making amends to the fae. She couldn't shake the notion that if this spirit truly was a guardian, they couldn't simply walk away. "It's cruel to leave the poor thing here," she said softly.

Sela shot her a guarded look. She was older, more pragmatic, and loss had tightened her heart in ways Maisie understood. But Maisie's resolve surged. "We can't turn our backs," she added. "Look at its condition."

The spirit met Maisie's gaze, something akin to gratitude flickering across its translucent features. The faint glow of the crystals made its imprisoned form shimmer with fragile light.

"Agreed," Garran said, surprisingly gentle. "But we proceed carefully."

Sela turned her attention to the runes scrawled across the stone. She traced them with a fingertip, brow furrowed. "If these match the notes I have from Mam, the second and fourth lines are the actual binding wards. The rest might be decoys or attempts to confuse intruders." She glanced at Maisie. “Never thought I’d be so grateful for the Old Runic interpretation lessons Mam insisted we do."

Maisie nodded. "You and me, both."

She knelt, placing her torch gently against a rock so the flame would illuminate the floor. Castian's protective stance behind her offered both comfort and an unexpected flutter of warmth in her chest. She forced herself to focus. Each rune glowed faintly under the torchlight, carved in uneven lines. She recognized the second line of script as a twisted variation of an Old Draconic symbol for "bind." On impulse, she pulled a small piece of chalk from her pouch; it was a useful tool to help the ridges of a rune carved into stone stand out. She went slowly, careful not to alter any of the lines which could change the shape of the rune, turning it from one symbol to a completely different one

Sela hovered beside her, reading the runes. "Yes, that's it," she murmured. "Keep going."

Beads of sweat trickled along Maisie's temple. She exhaled, remembering Da’s voice as he guided her through delicate healing tasks. Go slow. Be steady. Trust your instincts. She blew gently on the runes as she went, gently dislodging debris where she could so they could read the runes better. A faint hiss filled the air. Both Sela and Maisie stopped moving.

“What the hell is that?” Sea asked.

“No clue,” Maisie replied.

The rock walls began to shimmer, the colors of the rock shifted from gray to pale blue and then lavender. Then a tremor rippled along the runes, and the cavern floor shook a bit like an earthquake was coming on.

The runes glowed red for one tense moment, then fizzled out. The chain's links cracked as if a massive force exerted itself from within. The spirit let out a shuddering sigh, drifting upward as luminous cracks spread along its manacles.

At last, the chains fell away. A wave of cold air surged across the cave, stirring dust and causing the torch flame to dance. Maisie's lungs clenched as the spirit rose, freed. She glimpsed the faint lines of a once-proud robe, insignias half-lost to time, and an echo of long-forgotten dignity.

Sela stood, stepping back to join Garran. Tobin swallowed audibly. Castian shifted, freeing his sword hand from the hilt, no longer expecting sudden violence.

"Thank you," the spirit's voice whispered, stronger now. The shimmering figure bowed its head to Maisie, then regarded the entire group. "I was a guardian, assigned to protect these passes from intrusion long ago. But dark magic prevailed. Necromancers tinker with illusions here, hungry for unwitting souls."

Garran nodded grimly. "We have seen illusions before, but not quite at necromancy's level."

The spirit's eyes—if they were eyes at all—settled on each companion in turn. "You must be vigilant. Already, wards unravel deeper along this gorge. Foul deception coils in your path. Shapes may wear faces you trust. Whispers may promise hope. But illusions sow doubt or lure you from each other."

Maisie's throat went dry. She recalled every moment of confusion in Wendwood, every time illusions nearly made her lose herself. If necromancy twisted that power further, how many ways could it sabotage them?

"And if we fail to resist them?" Tobin asked, voice shakier than usual.

"You will bring nightmares into flesh," the guardian cautioned, voice resonant. "They feed off fear and heartbreak. Do not dismiss them as trifling illusions. Someone powerful wants travelers lost, devoured, or corrupted."

Castian's jaw tightened. "You seem certain. Do you know who?"

The spirit's form flickered. "Not by name. Only by the heaviness of their magic, deeper than any fae glamours. I sense they serve a cunning master, one who thrives on necromancy. Trust your hearts, not the illusions in the dark."

Maisie's pulse quickened at the spirit's words. She exchanged a concerned look with Sela, remembering the cryptic warnings from Balrûth Dûm. They had suspected necromancers were at work. Now they had confirmation, though it felt more like a curse than an answer.

Garran broke the unsettled silence. "Is there any path free of illusions? A safe route?"

The spirit's shoulders drooped, the tatters of its robe fluttering in some unfelt wind. "No truly safe path exists here. But your unity is your shield. Stand by each other. Challenge shadows with unwavering resolve." The ghostly face lifted toward the cavern ceiling, crystals shimmering anew. "My time fades. Your release is my final debt repaid. Go, and do not falter. Necromancy will twist these mountains until someone dares to stop it."

A ripple of cold energy shuddered through the cave. Fractures raced across the radiant crystals, and flakes of stone rained down. With a trembling sigh like a final exhalation, the guardian dissolved into pale wisps of light that faded into darkness. Only the memory of its voice lingered, carrying that dire admonition.

For several long heartbeats, no one spoke. Dust settled on the floor. The torch sputtered, threatening to go out before steadying again. Castian's gloved hand came to rest on Maisie's shoulder, and she found herself leaning instinctively closer. The fear, pity, dread inside her was softened by the warmth his presence instilled.

"What now?" Tobin finally asked, voice thin.

Sela gathered her composure, shaking off the dust from her left sleeve. "We keep going," she said. "But we do so with eyes open. We question everything."

Maisie exhaled, massaging a cramp in her fingers from holding the chisel so tightly. The echo of the spirit's final warning threw her nerves into disarray. She recalled the illusions that tried to devour her in Wendwood—and that was before necromancy sank its claws into illusions here. A single misstep could cost them all dearly.

Castian spoke quietly, "We trust ourselves and each other." He caught Maisie's gaze, a silent promise flickering in those stormy eyes. She felt an odd wave of relief that, at least in that moment, neither of them wanted distance. The memory of their closeness in the fisherman's cabin, and all the turmoil that followed, humbled her anew. If illusions tried to deceive them, she would cling to what was real in her heart.

Garran nodded and angled his sword at the cave's darkened exit. "We should look for a safe spot to rest soon," he said, voice heavy. "We're not ready to travel the pass at night."

Sela murmured agreement. One by one, they turned away from the broken chains and chipped runes. Maisie lingered a moment behind them, eyes tracing the faint glow of the crystals overhead. Their flicker had grown weaker, like a dying lamp. She could almost picture the spirit's face, superimposed on that shimmering light. A chill coursed through her, reminiscent of that moment the wards snapped.

Then she followed her companions out into the raw wind of the gorge. The torchlight danced over the jagged rocks, and its feeble glow felt inconsequential compared to the shadowed labyrinth waiting. They pressed on, accompanied only by the distant wail of wind against stone.

Silence blanketed them for several paces until Tobin's halting steps caused pebbles to clatter. The memory of the spirit's words lingered in every breath, each swirl of fog, each fleeting shape at the edge of their vision. Perhaps they were illusions, perhaps only the mind playing tricks. Yet the caution was seared into their thoughts: illusions had grown stronger here, twisted by dark hands.

They advanced, tense but resolved, determined to heed the guardian's cryptic hint. Maisie's torch dimmed under the hungry gloom that stretched ahead. She kept her mind focused on the final plea echoing through her thoughts, an anchor against the dread creeping under her skin.

Trust your heart. Trust the group. Stay alive.

Chapter

Twenty-Six

Maisie stepped around a toppled column, scanning the broken ground for any sudden shift. Broken arches and fractured walls loomed like sleeping giants in the mist. The remains of what must have once been a grand temple rose around them, sculpted reliefs on every pillar.

Tobin trailed a few steps behind Garran and Sela. He ran one hand through his unruly hair, trying to maintain a cheerful composure. "A place of glorious armies, no doubt," he said, attempting to launch into a make-believe ballad. Maisie recognized the forced bravado. He was as rattled as any of them by the swirling fog that hovered in every corner.

Castian edged up beside her, eyes narrowed. She sensed the tension in his posture, the protective stance he assumed whenever unknown threats loomed. Since the chilling warnings in the gorge, all of them had been on edge, half expecting illusions to spring from every shadow.

"Tread carefully," Garran said. Even in the dim light, the scar along his cheek gave his face a harder edge. "We have no idea what is lurking out there, waiting to attack.” He nodded toward Tobin. "And you. Stop singing."

Tobin closed his mouth. He looked as though he might whimper in protest, but he simply nodded, swallowing too hard. Sela's grip on her sword never wavered. Maisie flexed her fingers, remembering Mam’s instructions on fighting your own fear: do not let panic drive you. She wished she could talk to Mam now, and she felt homesick.

They moved deeper into the half-standing structure. The arches soared overhead, their tops broken or canted at odd angles. Long cracks spidered across the stone, while sections of carved runes had fallen away. A mosaic floor glittered beneath grime and moss, reflecting flecks of metal in the old tile. Maisie caught glimpses of images that might have depicted a crowned figure standing triumphantly beside a monstrous shape, but the cracks and dirt made it impossible to see clearly.

Her chest tightened at the memory of other illusions that had ensnared her before. She reminded herself that the group had survived each time by clinging to each other. That was enough to steady her breath. She glanced sideways, meeting Castian's gaze. He offered her a brief, guarded smile, and warmth flickered in her chest despite the looming threat.

"This temple must be from the Drakari War," Tobin murmured. "The carvings show a king or general leading an army." He trailed off when a faint moan curled through the fog above them. Garran and Sela tensed, knuckles whitening around their weapons.

"Less talk," Sela said through gritted teeth.

Tobin bobbed his head in compliance, but Maisie almost told him he need not fear so much. She took one more step, then froze. Low wind rumbled like a gathering storm. She abruptly heard a keening sound, not animal, but not human. Her pulse leaped.

Creatures emerged from the shadows, their feet touching the ground but they seemed to hover instead of walk. There were four of them. Two looked like men with beards. The other two had breasts and long hair, and as grotesque as their visages were, they were distinctly more feminine than the others. Their skin was pale and tight over bone, their eyes glowed faintly red, empty of anything human. Shreds of clothing clung to them, quiet reminders of the people they had once been.

“Oh gods,” Garran said, "they’re wraiths."

Maisie felt a spike of dread pulse in her stomach. Already, the wraiths' shrieks tore at her nerves. Sela stood firm, her sword raised. Garran flanked her. They formed a line of steel between the howling specters and Tobin, who drew the dagger Maisie had given him.

Maisie tightened her grip on the hilt of her short sword. She felt a subtle presence at her side: Castian. He was ready to move. Their shoulders brushed, a grounding contact amidst the chaos.

The first wraith struck with chilling speed. Sela's blade met it in mid-lunge, slicing through the ghostly torso. A hiss like escaping air reverberated off the temple walls, and the wraith's form wavered. Yet it did not fall. Garran cursed softly, pivoting to slash at another wraith that aimed for his head. His sword swept through the thing like a knife through soft cheese.

The creature’s torso warped like a disturbed reflection in water, rippling around the blade before snapping back into place, but it stumbled from the blow. So, Maisie thought, weapons could slow them. There was no wound or blood, nothing human about the damage, but steel left its mark all the same.The question was whether or not they could be killed.

A shriek split the air. Cold rushed over Maisie’s shoulder as a wraith lunged, so close she felt the icy prickle through her clothes. Castian’s shout snapped through the din as his blade came down hard, slicing into the wraith’s torso. It reeled, its form rippling like water struck by a stone, but it didn’t fall.

Maisie barely caught her balance against the column, pulse pounding in her ears.

“Stay together!” Castian barked, planting himself at Maisie’s side, sword raised.

Another wraith came from the left—Sela’s blade met it in a precise, brutal arc. The strike took its head clean off. The body crumpled in an instant, folding inward and collapsing to the ground like an emptied sack.

Maisie’s breath caught. That was it. “Go for the head!” she shouted, urgency surging through her chest. “Take the heads!”

With a wordless war cry that tore from his throat, Tobin hurled himself at the wraith, dagger gripped tight in both hands. His arms shook from the effort, but he drove the blade forward again and again, stabbing at the creature’s chest, its ribs, its throat—anywhere he could reach. The blade scraped bone, slipped through rotted sinew, each strike fueled more by determination than skill.

Beside him, Garran cleaved through another wraith with a vicious sweep of his sword, the head tumbling from its shoulders. He barked a short, rough laugh, casting Tobin a quick glance as the younger man jabbed furiously at the next wraith pressing in. “By the gods, lad, you’re a terror! Keep at it—you’ll wear the beast to pieces!” Garran’s grin was brief but genuine, his sword arcing once more as Tobin, sweat streaking his face, drew a ragged breath and plunged the dagger deep into the wraith’s side, keeping it off balance just long enough for Garran’s killing blow.

Two left.

The third wraith flew at Maisie, arms outstretched, jaws gaping. She pivoted, swinging her short sword up in a desperate, controlled strike. The blade met bone and sheared through with a crack. The wraith fell instantly, the severed head rolling before fading into mist.

Across the clearing, Tobin and Sela moved in tandem. Tobin ducked low, drawing the last wraith’s attention with quick, fearless jabs. Sela came from the side, her sword flashing in a clean, final blow that severed the creature’s head. The wraith dropped soundlessly, its twisted form unraveling as it hit the ground.

Maisie’s lungs burned. She turned, sweeping her gaze across the group, Castian was steady but marked with bruises, Sela grim and focused, Garran pressing a hand to his ribs, Tobin pale but standing firm, dagger still clenched tight.

A broken stone fell with a dull thud somewhere nearby. They all flinched, muscles taut, hearts pounding. Then, slowly, Sela lowered her sword, letting out a long breath.

Maisie turned, chest still heaving, and fixed her eyes on Tobin. He stood a few paces away, bent over with his hands on his knees, gasping for breath, the dagger still clenched white-knuckled in his hand. “Tobin,” Maisie called, a half-laugh breaking through her exhaustion, “what in the world got into you?”

Tobin straightened, cheeks flushed and hair stuck to his brow with sweat. His eyes darted between them all, as if only now realizing they were watching. “I—I don’t know,” he admitted, a slightly dazed look crossing his face. “I just… I’m tired. Tired of being the one cowering in the back. Tired of being scared. Tired of—of feeling useless.” His voice dropped a little on the last word, shoulders sagging as the adrenaline drained out of him.

Castian, wiping his blade on a strip of cloth, gave a faint, wry smile. “Well,” he said, glancing over with a glint of amusement in his tired eyes, “you’re not exactly useless.” He slid the sword back into its sheath. “I’d say your jokes are improving.” A soft laugh rippled through the group, the tension breaking just a little as Tobin gave a crooked, sheepish grin, the last of his nerves easing as the weight of the moment settled into something almost light.

They moved on quietly after that, walking slowly as the path sloped down into a narrow gully, where the soft rush of water whispered against stone. A mountain stream, clear and cold, wound its way through a cluster of boulders and into a small pond, the surface broken with small white ripples. After Maisie and Sela checked the water and saw no sign of anything lurking beneath the surface, they pulled off gloves, loosened belts, and shrugged off cloaks before kneeling along the banks. Sleeves pushed up and collars loosened, they rinsed sweat and dirt from their skin and wiped grime from their weapons, the icy water biting at their fingers and forearms.

Garran ran a wet hand through his hair with a quiet exhale, and Tobin, still pale but steady, scrubbed his face with both hands, his dagger tucked into his belt. Maisie and Castian crouched at the water’s edge together, washing their face and arms and necks.

They dressed without needing to speak, pulling on gloves, tightening belts, and slinging cloaks over their shoulders. Once weapons were checked and packs were set, they set off again, moving in a steady line up the mountain path.

As they came around the bend, Maisie caught sight of a stone column rising from the ground ahead, half-hidden by tall grass and creeping vines. At first, it seemed like nothing more than a broken marker or an old boundary stone, but as they drew closer, another column came into view, then another, each one standing at uneven angles, worn down by time.

More shapes followed — chunks of stone half-buried in the earth, pieces of carved wall peeking through thick ivy, and the faint curve of an archway. The clearing opened before them, and there it stood: the ruin of the temple, its once-proud form sunken and claimed by the earth around it. Columns leaned under the weight of years, vines twisted along the walls, and carved patterns still clung to the stone — a serpent coiled through a ring, stars scattered above, their edges softened by rain and wind.

The roof had fallen in long ago, leaving a wide gap open to the darkening sky. Light filtered through the break, brushing the stone with the pale gold of the fading day. As they stepped into the clearing, Maisie felt the change in the air, something close and watchful, though no sound stirred the grass.

Her chest tightened. She hadn’t forgotten the last ruin they’d sheltered in, the chapel deep in the Wendwood where vines had attacked Maisie’s fingers brushed the hilt of her sword as she glanced at the others. “Let’s be careful here who knows what might come alive and try to eat us,” she said, her eyes fixed on the ruin ahead. She had no trust left for quiet places like this.

Chapter

Twenty-Seven

Maisie followed Sela's cautious steps deeper into the ruins which seemed to be some sort of a temple. They walked through a broken down archway. Statues lined the walls, some standing proud though weathered, others cracked at the base or missing limbs. She recognized a few from old stories: Amara, goddess of mercy, her stone eyes downcast; Varek, god of the hunt, his bow chipped but still raised; Seltrin, the old god of rivers, his hands outstretched as though forever blessing the waters that no longer flowed here. Vines crawled up their forms, twining around ankles and elbows, creeping toward stone mouths that would never speak again.

In the center of the cracked mosaic floor, where weeds pushed up between the tiles, a row of ceremonial fonts stood. Their wide, shallow basins were filled with rainwater, with drifting leaves floating quietly on the surface. Maisie could imagine the rituals that had once taken place here, hands dipped into the water, prayers whispered into the quiet.

Near the largest altar, a brazier sat half-sunken into the ground, its iron sides rusted and bent. Once, it must have held fire that bathed the chamber in light; now it crouched cold and empty, ringed with fallen ash and scattered pebbles. The walls behind it were marked with carvings so faded they were little more than soft impressions, scenes of worship, of offerings laid at the gods’ feet, of processions long vanished. Maisie traced one faint line with her gaze, feeling a prickle crawl up her arms. She could almost hear the echoes of footsteps, the murmur of voices, the rustle of robes in a place that had been alive with devotion.

“Maisie,” Sela called out, and Maisie immediately walked over to the altar where her sister stood. “Look at this.”

On the altar there were intricate carvings of two dragons intertwined. There were also runes around the figures, and some of them letters were erased by time. Maisie shivered at the sight, unsure whether the chill came from the wind or the lingering dread still clinging to her bones after the wraith attack. But there was something about these runes that touched her.

Maisie walked around the altar, reading as many of the symbols, the were really more like glyphs than runes. They depicted a regal man crowned with a large crown, and he was reaching for a woman who was also crowned. Curling lines around them suggested some magical transformation.

"We should check for more of those wraiths," Garran said with no small amount of irritation in his voice. "If we’re staying here for any length of time, we need to make sure we’re protected.”

"We will keep an eye out," Sela answered. Worry lines above her brow hinted how tired she felt. She angled her chin at Tobin to let him know he could set his pack down. Then she turned to glance at Castian, who had slumped against a low slab of stone.

Maisie's gaze landed on him too, and her breath caught at the sight. He was trying to pull off his leather cuirass, a breastplate for the front and a backplate for the rear, which were fastened together with straps. His hands fumbled with the buckles. In the torch's uncertain glow, she spotted a stain of crimson that spread along the side of his tunic. She hurried to his side, dropping onto one knee among scattered pebbles.

"What’s wrong?" she asked.

He winced as she carefully eased the breastplate free and set it aside. Gently, Maisie worked his shirt loose, drawing it down over one shoulder and arm. As the fabric slid away, her breath caught. Across Castian’s upper arm and shoulder, angry blisters rose in clusters, the skin reddened and swollen.

"Why didn’t you tell me you were injured at the river? We could have cleaned them," she said, a careful effort to keep her tone even. She shrugged off her rucksack and pulled out some of Da’s ointment that would heal Castian’s blisters.

Amid the blisters was a patchwork of old scars beneath the new wound. Some were faint, almost lost to time, while others stood out in pale ridges against his skin. The fresh injury glistened with a slow, stubborn trickle of blood.

" Castian let out a slow breath, glancing down with a frown. “I didn’t even feel them until a few minutes ago,” he said quietly, the surprise plain in his voice.

"We’ll get you sorted out," she told him, as she dabbed a clean bit of cloth into the small pot and then gently apply it to the blisters. "It may feel cold at first."

The soft scrape of metal on rock echoed as Garran freed his sword belt. Tobin tried not to look at Castian's injury, but the jester's concern shone in his wide eyes. "We are breathing and not wraith-fodder, so this counts as a good day," he attempted to joke. His grin wobbled, prompting a half-hearted chuckle from Sela.

Castian exhaled a strained breath. His focus shifted back to Maisie, who had finished applying the salve. The tension in his posture said he was doing all he could not to flinch when her fingertips brushed over his sensitive skin. A faint tremor ran through him, and he let out a ragged sigh that felt like it held more than physical relief.

“Those should be healed by morning,” Maisie said. “At least no one of us were injured by the wraiths. I’m not sure what kind of ointment or potion heals those kinds of injuries.”

Her eyes lingered on the scars that streaked across his chest. “Still don’t want to talk about those?” she asked, gently.

He shook his head and looked her in the eye. “No, I do not.”

Sela and Garran exchanged a look but kept a respectful distance, letting Castian speak unburdened. Tobin's restless fidgeting slowed, as though he realized the weight in the knight's confession.

His voice turned rough. "It is still amazing to me that you don’t flinch at the sight of my scars," he said, half in wonder, half in shame. “

"I’ve been a healer almost as long as I’ve been a Shadowslayer," she said. "I’ve treated a lot of injuries."

“And you heal with the same incredible skill as you do fighting monsters.”

He winced a bit less now, gingerly rotating his shoulder. Relief softened his features; the ointment must be working.

She brushed an errant lock of hair from her eyes, trying to swallow the last traces of nervousness. "I will stay close tonight," she said quietly, pulse strumming a nervous beat behind her ribs. "We might both sleep easier if we know the other is safe."

He hesitated, then let out a soft sigh that carried the edge of relief. "I would like that," he answered.

In the silence that followed, she gently pressed her palm to his shoulder. He did not flinch now. Instead, he gripped her hand in gratitude and let his eyes close for a moment. The musty smell of dust and crumbling stone and healing ointment lingered in the air, but Maisie's touch seemed to lift some of the darkness he carried. She prayed it might last long enough for him to rest.

A faint scuttling noise stirred among the leaves a few feet away. She tensed, then realized it was only the quick scramble of a small squirrel headed for the trees. Across the temple, Sela was busy examining more carvings, and taking notes on parchment that she later stuffed into her rucksack.

Grim fear and hope coexisted in her chest. She was afraid of more battles, of illusions that might tear open old wounds, of heartbreak that could mirror her sister's loss. Yet Castian's ragged breaths steadied, for a fleeting instant, she believed they could walk through the gathering storms together.

His voice broke through her thoughts, low and heartfelt. "You are braver than you know," he told her, his hand still clasped around hers. "I see it every time you insist on standing between danger and the rest of us."

She bowed her head, his faith a balm to her own festering insecurities. "I will try to believe that."

He gave the smallest hint of a smile, and for a second, it stirred something in her chest she hadn’t expected. As he carefully straightened, testing his arm, she stepped in without thinking, slipping a hand to his shoulder to steady him. She could feel the warmth of his skin even through his shirt, feel the tension still running through him. They were close, closer than they needed to be, and she was suddenly aware of the way his breath caught, the slight shift in his gaze. For a moment, their faces were so near she could have leaned in and closed the space between them, but the soft sound of footsteps behind them snapped her back. She gave his arm a gentle squeeze instead and let the moment pass, even as her heart kicked up in her chest.

Crumbling stones crackled beneath Castian as he sank back against short section of one of the walls still intact. Maisie adjusted his bandage, making sure it was tight but not too tight, then she leaned back on her heels and looked at him.

“No hero moves for the next few hours, okay?” She tried to keep the tone light, but his face was serious as he looked at her.

He drew in a slow breath, as though searching for the right words. At last, he quietly said, "I do not have answers for your fears about what lay ahead of us in these mountains, and I cannot banish ghosts whether real or in our heads. But for as long as we are together on this journey, I promise to shoulder some of that burden with you."

Her heart twisted with gratitude for the promise, uncertain as it was. "It means more than you know."

With the bandaging complete, she set aside her supplies. They remained there, side by side, surrounded by chipped columns and the silent sorrow of the carvings on the altar. She watched him rest his head against the damp stone, eyes sliding shut. The synergy of their confessions still throbbed between them, a fragile closeness.

Maisie touched his bandaged shoulder one last time. She did not speak. Neither did he. Words felt unnecessary now. In that stillness, every old scar, every unspoken dread, lingered in the air like a reminder of how fragile hope could be. Yet for this brief space in time, they both found solace in each other's presence. The quiet beneath those ancient carvings became a shield against the weight of past and future.

Chapter

Twenty-Eight

Maisie sat with her back against a stone column, her gaze drifting over the flickering shadows that danced across the uneven floor of the temple. Dim torchlight licked the ancient walls, illuminating runes carved in an era no one truly remembered. Each etched symbol told fragments of calamities gone by—tales of betrayal and shattered crowns that hinted at ruin. She drew her knees closer to her chest to stave off the penetrating chill.

Sela and Garran were on first watch, their silhouettes fixed against the far section of the ruins. From Maisie's vantage, their outlines looked as though they had been carved in stone themselves, each half-illuminated by the flickering braziers they had salvaged from the temple's scattered debris. The swirling wind hissed between broken arches, threatening to blow out the few stubborn flames. Maisie watched as the red glow played across Garran's battered armor.

He had taken some of the worst blows from the nightmarish wraiths that lunged out of the fog earlier. Even from a distance, Maisie could see long slashes in the metal plating near his shoulder. Sela hunkered down beside him, rummaging through a small pouch she always carried. The scratched runes on that pouch matched the pattern on her own gear—a small flourish from their mother, who had stitched those symbols to protect them from malicious spirits. Maisie heard the low murmur of Sela's voice above the moaning wind, though she couldn't make out the words.

Shivering, she shifted her weight. A sense of weariness clung to her bones. The fresh memory of battling wraiths still made her nerves jangle. At her side, Castian stirred. He had been quiet for most of the evening, muscles taut beneath the makeshift bandages Maisie had applied an hour before. A faint bruise traced the line of his jaw from one of the wraiths' glancing hits. He glanced at her, brow furrowing with concern.

"Are you cold?" he asked softly.

Maisie tried to smile in reassurance. "Satisfied with my share of the chill. But it's the sort of night that creeps right into your bones."

She felt him watching her, as though he wanted to pull her closer but hesitated. That subtle tension defined much of their interactions since they had pledged to fight side by side. They were no longer strangers, yet ghosts of unspoken fears still lingered between them. With her arms wrapped around herself, she looked away, focusing her attention on her sister.

Sela was kneeling now, her brow knitted with concentration as she threaded a needle. Garran had unstrapped one of the plates from his armor, revealing a ragged tear in the leather padding beneath. The lamplight painted the edges of the torn metal a dull orange. His posture radiated discomfort. At last, he exhaled a slight grunt of reluctant acceptance. Sela pressed the needle to the shredded edges of fabric. The wind muffled whatever Garran said, but his mouth tightened in a faint grimace when she began stitching.

Maisie leaned over to Castian, lowering her voice. "I should help. I have salves for the cuts he's hiding under all that armor."

Castian shook his head in gentle refusal. "He'd never let you see them right now. Pride, I suspect." He tapped a careful hand on her forearm. "Let Sela deal with him. She has the skill. She'll call for you if needed."

Maisie's shoulders relaxed by a fraction. Sela was more than capable. For all their differences, they shared a keen sense of how to care for each other, no matter how battered or bruised. She studied Garran's face in the half-light—tense, shadowed by flickers of flame. He rarely betrayed more than stoic calm, yet tonight even he seemed haunted. The illusions conjured by the wraiths had shown each of them images dredged from the darkest corners of their minds.

She remembered her own illusions all too vividly: twisted memories that turned loving family faces into scornful shapes. The wraiths had whispered doubts in her ear, mocking her longing for a peaceful life she might never have. She suppressed a shiver. Across the chamber, Garran said something low. Sela inclined her head, as though listening more carefully than usual. None of them had much capacity for idle chatter tonight.

Castian pressed a comforting hand to her shoulder. "You're trembling."

She hadn't noticed. Even her voice felt shaky when she responded. "I think it's just the aftermath of everything. This place, the wind, those illusions. I keep expecting another wraith to burst from the fog."

He gave a small nod, worry etched in the lines around his eyes. "Try to rest. I'll watch over you until my turn on guard."

Her heart gave a quick flutter—the old conflict between relief at his protection and guilt for depending on it. She and Sela had spent years fending for themselves, determined to prove that women monster hunters could handle as much as any knight. It still felt strange to lean on someone else's strength, yet part of her recognized how vital Castian's steady presence had become. She took a breath and nodded, allowing him to drape a ragged cloak over her shoulders. The faint scent of leather and underlying traces of iron and sweat surrounded her like a quiet shield.

Turning her head, she glanced again at Sela. Her sister's mouth was set in a thin line of concentration, eyes narrowed as she carefully knotted the thread. Garran's armor jerked when he stiffened, but he yielded to her ministrations. Perhaps, Maisie thought, a flicker of unexpected understanding was forming between those two as well. She had long suspected Garran carried regrets he never spoke of; Sela knew how that felt. Where Sela had once lost the man she loved, Garran had faced the horror of illusions pointing to a hidden sorrow. Maisie's chest tightened in empathy. None of them emerged from the wraith attack unscathed.

Slowly, Maisie sank down onto the cold stone floor, wrapping the cloak around her like a blanket. Castian settled beside her, keeping a hand on his sword in case any threat emerged. The battered temple arches towered overhead, open to the night sky. Starlight glimmered in watery patches, half-obscured by drifting clouds. In the distance, windblown moans swept through the structure, stirring dust and debris. It felt like a place on the threshold, neither fully alive nor entirely abandoned—just like their fragile band of travelers caught between duty and fear.

Her eyelids grew heavy. She tried to shut out her worries. Even so, scraps of memories kept creeping back: Alistair Bramble's sneering face conjured by a wraith or the hollow voice that had threatened to reveal her hidden fears about never finding the home life she secretly craved. She pressed her lips together, forcing those images away. There was safety in the knowledge that Sela watched over them. She breathed in, inhaling the faintly metallic smell of old stone, and exhaled slowly.

In the lull, she overheard Garran's voice. Though low, it carried a certain rawness she hadn't heard from him before. "I saw... things I fought hard to forget," he said. His next words were lost to the murmuring wind. Sela's response came in the form of a hoarse whisper. Maisie caught only scattered phrases: "We all bear ghosts," and something about illusions feeding on regret. Regardless of the exact words, there was a gentleness in her older sister's voice that Maisie seldom witnessed these days.

Sela tied off a final knot in Garran's armor padding. Her figure shifted in the gloom as she rose, scanning their surroundings for any sign of danger. Garran moved his shoulder, testing the stitching. Maisie couldn't see his expression clearly, but he inclined his head in what might have been gratitude. Sela only nodded back, locked in her familiar stoic reserve.

Maisie's pulse slowed. A wave of exhaustion loomed, tugging her toward uneasy sleep. She wanted to stay awake and reassure Sela that she was all right. Instead, her body betrayed her fatigue. The combination of fear, cold, and relief at having survived another night left her limbs heavy. Castian, sensing her struggle, slipped an arm around her.

"Close your eyes," he said. "Even if it's just for a short rest."

She nodded, letting him guide her so that her head rested against his arm. The faint rise and fall of his breathing steadied her own. Within the chill and the echoes of the wind, she felt the faint pounding of his heart—an anchor she latched onto. Drifting, she recalled the fleeting comfort she offered him earlier, back when she applied salves to new claw wounds. Now, he was the one offering her the security to sleep.

Across the chamber, footsteps crunched on scattered rubble. Sela and Garran moved to opposite sides of the chamber's entrance, each bracing themselves to keep watch. Their silhouettes flickered, framed by old columns that rose like silent sentinels around them. The debris-littered floor crunched under Garran's boots as he tested each step. His sword remained strapped to his waist, and he kept one hand near the hilt. Sela, ever cautious, settled her own blade across her lap.

Maisie's eyelids fluttered. In her near-doze, she was aware of soft rustles as the magpies glided down, closer to where Sela and Garran stood. They perched overhead with surprisingly little fuss, like benevolent watchmen whose entire focus was attuned to any abrupt shift in the silence. The old runes carved into the surrounding pillars cast spidery shadows that looked almost alive.

She heard Sela's voice again, subdued. "We should check the far end soon. Make sure those wraiths didn't leave anything else behind."

Garran gave a low reply. "We will, once dawn creeps in. No use stumbling in the dark if they haven't regrouped."

Maisie stifled a yawn. The steady rhythm of their guarded conversation lulled her. Strangely, it reminded her of home—of nights spent hearing her parents' murmured voices across the hall as they discussed some minor detail, always believing Maisie to be asleep. The thought gave her a brief pang of longing for the warm chaos of the Fairborne household, where younger siblings chattered until midnight and no illusions haunted the corners of every threshold.

"What did you see?" Sela asked, quieter this time. Maisie blinked, uncertain if she was dozing or truly hearing her sister. She risked a glance. Garran stood with arms folded, the torchlight making the scar on his cheek more pronounced.

He hesitated, as though struggling to voice it. "Mistakes… regrets." His clipped tone suggested that was all he would share.

Sela's posture softened. "I know the feeling."

There was understanding in her voice that needed no further elaboration. Maisie closed her eyes fully, certain that her sister's gentle empathy was the best comfort Garran would accept. It hurt a little, wanting to rush over there and assure Sela she didn't have to carry that old heartbreak alone. But she also recognized Sela's boundaries. A quiet, mutual acceptance with Garran mattered more than anyone's attempts to intervene.

Castian's arm shifted along her back. She heard a soft exhale, then felt him press his lips against her hair in a feather-light gesture of reassurance. In that moment, despite the cold, Maisie felt the faint glow of safety coil around her. They were all broken in some way—Sela with her memories of Niall, Garran with unspoken torment, Castian with his old scars from battles lost, and Maisie's own fear of never truly belonging anywhere but her family's battered home. Yet, even in a place filled with illusions, they had chosen to endure together.

Her vision blurred as genuine fatigue claimed her. The wind hissed through the ruined arches, swirling dust motes over the mosaic floor. She drifted in and out of a half-sleep, keenly aware of the temple's eerie stillness. Torchlight flickered, and time seemed to stretch. The respite felt more tenuous than any lodging they'd had before, but they had no safer option. Maisie closed her eyes again. Sleep began to anchor her in gentle waves, the weight of everything pulling her under. Her body demanded rest, even if her spirit remained uneasy.

In that drowsy haze, she pictured Sela leaning back against those worn runes, Garran by her side, forging a bond that went beyond forced alliances. She imagined Castian, half-lost in his own reflection of doubts, continuing to keep a protective hand on his sword near her. She allowed the final whispers of anxiety to slip away, if only for a tiny moment, trusting that her sister and Garran would wake them at any sign of danger.

Castian shifted to lean against the battered wall, pulling Maisie gently with him. She barely registered the movement, her thoughts hovering in the limbo between rest and worry. Against the backdrop of ancient debris and half-forgotten legends, the five of them existed in a sphere of fragile trust. Through the fractured temple roof, the night sky stretched on, oblivious to mortal woes. Maisie finally dozed without flinching at every shift of air.

Chapter

Twenty-Nine

The next morning, Maisie sat on a damp patch of stone, her back pressed to a tall white stone column. Each time she blinked, she was mesmerized by how the dusty motes floated in the narrow shafts of sunlight, the gloom steadily giving way to a pale, ghostly glow. She inhaled carefully, letting the musty scent of old stone anchor her in the present moment.

Across the chamber, ancient pillars and shattered statues stood in partial ruin, their surfaces warped by centuries of elemental wear. Runes snaked across chipped walls, culminating in vast murals that told ancient stories through swirling lines and jagged cracks. Maisie could not help feeling an odd reverence as she rested in this temple. The runic carvings made a compelling tapestry of dragons and soldiers, kings and queens. Some figures resembled monstrous silhouettes fused with regal forms, evoking her earlier glimpses of the illusions that had nearly devoured them.

On the other side of the room, Tobin was already on his feet. He craned his neck to peer at a swath of carvings high near the ceiling. He let out a small gasp of awe, enthusiasm shining in his eyes. His bright patchwork attire, torn at one sleeve, contrasted with the cool gray of the temple stones. "Come, look at these!" he called. His voice vibrated with excitement.

"You are going to strain your neck," Sela muttered, yet her steps carried her toward him. She had a hand pressed to the ring on a chain around her neck—Niall's old promise ring—an involuntary gesture she often made when anxious. As she stood by the altar, looking again at the entwined pair of dragons carved there. She rested fingertips on the ancient script etched along the beasts' tails. Her voice softened. "These runes… I know some of them. Mam showed me fragments of this pattern when I was small."

Garran Thorne hovered beside her, watchful as ever. The diagonal scar on his cheek appeared harsher in the dawn light, but determination underscored each line of his face. He shifted his weight and began raising the torch he held, though the flickering flame paled in comparison to the morning's glow. "Let me see if I can angle the light." His voice echoed in the quiet air.

From Maisie's vantage, Sela's stony commitment to studying the inscriptions looked like a reflection of her unspoken vow not to fail this time. They both had endured too many close calls—Sela especially carried the weight of the memory that had destroyed her hopes in the past. Quietly, Maisie approached them, pulling a scrap of parchment and a slender piece of charcoal from her pouch.

"It might help to copy them," Maisie said. Warmth spread through her chest when Sela mustered a faint nod of agreement. The temple felt sacred, as though it demanded they speak in reverent tones.

She slowly ran the charcoal over the parchment, capturing the shapes of the runes bit by bit. Tears of stone dust crumbled under her sheepish attempts to keep the paper stable. Some of the engraved lines were half-marred by time, so she had to guess what the missing strokes once were.

Castian, quietly nursing his own set of injuries, came forward to assist, stepping around a fragment of a toppled statue. Even in the uncertain light, Maisie noticed the faint lines of exhaustion beneath his eyes. She allowed herself a soft, private warmth at his nearness. Just hours ago, she had tended to claw marks on his shoulder, pressing healing ointment against torn flesh that had glimmered with remnants of supernatural corruption.

"Careful," he said gently, bracing his hand under hers to keep the parchment from slipping on the rough-hewn column. "Your paper almost tore." The subtle hint of concern in his tone made her heart flutter, though she forced herself to stay focused on the runes.

"Thank you," she said quietly. She lowered her gaze, noticing how surprisingly steady his hand felt, how his warmth seeped through the battered leather glove he wore. The fleeting awareness of his presence—and the memories of confessions they had nearly shared during the night—pulsed beneath her cautious control. This was no time to lose herself in longing.

She concentrated on copying the next line of script. Sela whispered each symbol she recognized. "This… might read ‘Balrûth Dûm.' Or something close to it." Her voice trembled only slightly. "It references a sealed place at the mountain's summit. I see references to wards requiring ‘blood willingly shed.'"

At that phrase, Garran stiffened. He shifted the torch in his hand, the flame quivering from the movement. "That does not sound promising," he muttered. "Will these wards require blood? Are we dealing with a more potent magic that before?"

Sela's eyes narrowed. "It looks that way." She drew a rune that resembled dragon scales. Then she lifted her head, scanning the highest portion of the mural. Some of the carving was half-lost to time, the shapes reminiscent of a king kneeling while a queen hovered in a monstrous transformation. "It implies the wards remain unbroken."

Tobin half-laughed, half-sighed. "Let’s be honest: illusions nearly tore us apart." He flicked a glance toward Castian. "I would rather face hungry Bonecrushers than any kind of wraith beast."

"Wraiths are horrifying," Maisie admitted, voice subdued. "But we have to be ready for anything." She lowered the parchment, scanning what she had copied so far. Her attempt to capture the runes was crude, but it should be enough to reference later.

She stepped back, noticing more of the carved murals spread across the far wall, partially hidden by the angle of a broken arch. Statues of a regal couple, their faces chipped beyond recognition, stood with upraised arms as though trying to hold the collapsed roof in place. Between those statues, swirling runes depicted a story: an ancient king with a crown of flame, a queen who mirrored him in stance but wore a different crown. Another panel showed them merging into draconic shapes. Maisie's pulse shivered at how easily fate could twist mere humans into beasts.

Castian moved to help Garran shift a larger chunk of toppled block so they could reach the higher carvings. Each grunt made Maisie flinch in sympathy. She was almost certain the motion tugged at the raw edges of Castian's bandaged chest. Garran, stoic as always, pressed his weight to pivot the stone aside, revealing a portion of the wall that had been screened by rubble.

Torchlight flickered, and Sela inhaled sharply. She reached out to trace an inscription on the altar. "I think that dragon symbol there matches the lore you showed me. In the books in Dunvarrick's archives." Her gaze slid to Tobin. "You pointed out that symbol once before—like two scaled shapes twisted around each other."

Tobin's face brightened. "My memory is not always terrible," he teased, stepping closer. Then his eyes widened. "Look, Maisie! There is a pattern right beneath the twin dragons that might be the same as some of the old myths about humans turned into dragons." He raised his voice with a bard's longing to spin a story. "This temple was once devoted to the story of their curse. Perhaps the king we see carved here is… King Aedric?"

Maisie's heart thudded at the name. Could these carvings be direct references to him and the rumored queen? She stepped forward, leaning in to run her fingertips across the battered stone. A wash of sorrow stirred in her chest at the depiction's subtle lines of heartbreak.

"Did you capture rune pattern near the middle?" Castian asked softly, distracting her from the haunting carvings. He nudged the parchment she clutched with a careful hand. She realized she still had not recorded that portion.

She nodded. With quick, efficient strokes of her charcoal, she copied the designs. "The runes mention dragons, wards… beasts fashioned by centuries-old magic." She paused, reading the half-faded portion. The final line was so eroded that only scattered letters remained. Together, she and Sela pieced them into something that might be a warning.

"Dragons. They’re extinct." Sela replied, her voice dropping raspy and low.

Maisie swallowed. She did not dare tear her gaze from the runes. These weren’t idle caution. They had faced the dangers of Wendwood Forest and the Sunless Path already, but these runes hinted that far more dangerous forces waited ahead.

Garran set down the empty torch bracket, chest rising and falling in a tense sigh. "So illusions might be the lesser danger."

Sela pressed her lips together, brow creasing with worry. "We have to face it nonetheless," she said. "Balrûth Dûm is our only lead. We cannot let fear distract us now."

Maisie tucked the charcoal away and brushed stray dust from her hands. "If the wraiths are the least of the threats we will face, we’ll need to summon all the courage we can muster. At least now we know the entrance to Balrûth Dûm is somewhere high in the mountains, and getting inside will likely require a blood offering, freely given.

Sela exhaled, her posture still grim but no longer braced as if expecting an immediate attack. "We should gather our things. If we move soon, we can cover ground before the sun rises too high."

She gestured to a corner where they had stashed their battered gear and half-finished bedrolls for the brief rest they had snatched after the wraith fight. Garran stooped to retrieve a dented canteen. Castian stepped away to check his sword, methodically inspecting the blade for cracks. Tobin resumed humming a half-hearted tune, rummaging through his pack.

Maisie stooped near their pile of supplies and tucked the parchment with her copied runes into a leather wrap for protection. Knowing they now had a partial record of what the temple's carvings revealed comforted her. She only hoped it would prove enough if illusions twisted reality again.

While they finished sorting gear, she stole a sidelong glance at Castian, who was tightening the straps of his shoulder armor. In the gentler light, the shadow of anxious devotion flickered in his expression. She wanted to ask him how badly his wounds throbbed, but the subtle tension in his posture told her he did not desire fuss. She swallowed back the urge to fuss anyway.

"All of you, be mindful," Garran said quietly, voice carrying across the temple. He might not have Tobin's flair for dramatics, but when he spoke, they listened. " If these runes are to be believed, illusions may be only the first line of defense."

Maisie nodded. A flutter of trepidation coiled in her stomach. She imagined stumbling upon hidden wards that demanded blood. She thought of illusions that might mock them with false images on the next part of the journey. The memory of the battling the wraiths sent a chill down her spine. The notion that something worse awaited them on the next part of the quest churned her gut.

Still, she steeled herself. They had come too far, risked too much. The entire quest hinged on forging a path through these perilous mountains. Maisie's jaw set with a quiet resolve she had once doubted she possessed.

Slowly, they reconvened by a single standing pillar near the temple's entrance. Pale dawn poured through the shattered arch, illuminating the path that wound between shards of fallen columns. The footprints they left in the dust were still visible from last night, along with faint scuffs from their frantic struggle against the wraiths.

Tobin winced. The fight had knocked him around, but he bore no major injuries. "All set," he reported, though his grin was subdued.

Sela carefully slid her sword into its scabbard. Garran tested the weight of his shield. Castian stood behind them, quiet determination emanating from his tall frame. Maisie caught his eye. He offered a tight, brief nod, as though wordlessly promising that they would face whatever lay ahead together.

"Then let’s go," Sela said. She motioned to the open arch, where the swirling remnants of mist parted to reveal the sky brightening with morning. A crisp breeze fluttered in, stirring the dust motes into a glittering dance of light and shadow.

Maisie let her gaze travel across the murals one last time. Her heart clenched at the sorrowful images of the cursed king and queen, each panel hinting at the tragedy that might linger at Balrûth Dûm. She pressed her palm over the leather wrap in her pouch, reassured by the presence of the parchment. They had clues now—the partial inscriptions, references to illusions, wards that demanded willing blood, and beastly enchantments that mortal blades could not break. The knowledge, though fragmented, was precious. If they intended to free King Aedric or find answers about the curse, the runes might guide them.

"Yep. Let’s go," Maisie breathed, lifting her chin. Though her muscles answered with stiff protest, she stepped forward into the corridor of broken pillars. The others followed, each burdened by caution but spurred by the need to continue.

Tension throbbed like a new heartbeat in the temple's quiet remains. That tension was fear, yes, but also resolve. They had not survived illusions, wraiths, and a harrowing trek through Wendwood just to falter at the threshold. As Maisie and her companions emerged from the ruins, dawn's light washed over them, reminding her that hope still flickered, even in the darkest corners.

Standing at the crumbled threshold, they paused. Sela glanced at Garran, who gave a terse nod. Tobin's grin was as wide as it had ever been but now the corners of his lips quivered. Maisie couldn't figure out if he was excited or scared out of his mind. Probably a little of both. Castian let his gaze roam over the high mountain peaks visible through tendrils of thinning fog.

Chapter

Thirty

Maisie heart pounded as she stared at the colossal cave entrance looming before them. It was impossibly large, carved into the mountainside with a gaping maw that looked as if a full-grown dragon could glide straight through. Flickers of daylight glinted on the wet, mossy rocks around the opening. A trickle of wind carried the echoes of distant dripping water, hinting that the tunnel inside might stretch on for miles. Yet despite the apparent invitation of this gaping threshold, none of them could set foot inside.

An invisible barrier shimmered at the boundary between the mountainside and the open air in front of it. When Maisie first reached out a cautious hand, she felt something cold and unyielding press against her fingertips. She pulled back with a startled inhale. The others tried as well. Sela pounded a gloved fist against what should have been empty space, only to be met with that same unmoving surface. Castian, Garran, Tobin, and Sir Edric all took turns testing the barrier, each attempt meeting a flat rejection.

“It’s real,” Maisie whispered, still shocked by how firmly the magic refused them. She racked her mind for any clue she might have gleaned before. From everything they had read in tomes in Dunvarrick Keep’s archives and their maps, this had to be Balrûth Dûm. The name alone sparked images of hidden corridors and ancient secrets, all behind an unyielding wall of magic.

Tobin planted his hands on his hips and leaned closer, as though squinting at the barrier might reveal a weak spot. “Well, that’s just rude,” he said, blowing stray hair out of his eyes. “We came all this way.”

Sir Edric gave a shuffle of his feet against the rocky ground. “Rude or not, it’s too strong for us to batter through. Magic rarely cares about basic politeness.”

Sela moved around to one side of the cave, glancing at a cluster of carved symbols etched into the rock face. Her eyes narrowed. “Maisie,” she called. “Look here.”

The rest of them drifted closer. Maisie crouched to see the intricate runes chipped into the stone. Some swirled in patterns reminiscent of the draconic figures they had glimpsed in old manuscripts, and in the alcove in the Sunless Pass where they freed the spirit. And in the ruined temple with the carvings of the dragons. It was all fitting together.

Others resembled the runic alphabet that Mam and Da had shown them years ago, yet they looked older—cruder in their lines, like echoes of the language that modern scribes refined over centuries. Yet these symbols did not line up in any exact order.

“They’re archaic,” Sela murmured, running her fingertips delicately across one of the lines. “I’ve seen references to these in older sections of the archives, but not quite like this. It’s as if the script was evolving… or devolving.”

Nearby, Garran stood watch. The tension in his stance was palpable. Castian lingered behind Maisie, quiet but vigilant. His eyes flicked between the runes, the barrier, and Maisie’s face, as if checking for the smallest sign that she might need him.

Tobin leaned against a boulder near the and pulled a small quill and parchment from his rucksack. “If you can read these, tell me what to write. I promise I’ll do my best not to smudge more than half of it.”

His earnest grin coaxed a small laugh from Maisie. She nodded, then bent over the runes. They appeared to be a jumbled cluster, but some symbols repeated more often than others. She murmured half-formed thoughts to Sela, letting her sister cross-reference bits of knowledge with their earlier training.

“This one means ‘dragon’ or something close to it,” Maisie muttered, tapping a strange glyph that curled like a serpent’s tail. “Drakthar, or maybe Drakkan. The shape is close to the modern form for ‘drac.’”

Sela’s eyes glimmered with a new understanding. “And that twisted pattern next to it might be Haldreth. There’s an older runic root for ‘passage’ or ‘doorway’ that looks similar. Wait, let me see that smaller mark.” She leaned in, brow furrowed. “Yes, that’s the archaic version of the scythe shape used in modern magic script. So it might be Haldreth after all.”

Tobin scribbled notes as they talked, scratching across the parchment. Each line of ancient text began to open a fraction more of the meaning behind this barrier.

Castian cleared his throat. “Could these runes be an incantation that seals the cave? If so, maybe the right combination of words or gestures could break it.”

Sela nodded. “Exactly. This is looking like an old-world locking spell, keyed to a specific phrase and… something else.” She paused, tracing a finger over the symbols. “Here, these ones look like they indicate a cost. Possibly the requirement of a living presence.”

A chill threaded down Maisie’s spine. She had seen runes referencing sacrifice before—particularly spells that demanded blood as payment. Carefully, she pressed her hand to a shallow groove carved into the rock. “Sareth,” she said quietly, voice strained. “That stands for spilled magical blood.”

Everyone fell silent. Even Tobin halted his scribbling to stare at her. Edric’s husky exhale broke the silence. “So it demands a sacrifice…of blood”

She pulled her small dagger free from her belt. The steel caught the fading sunlight. She glanced at Sela, who gave a curt nod, though her eyes blazed with worry. At the perimeter of her vision, Maisie spotted Castian stepping closer, a protest simmering in his expression. Before he could speak, she turned her gaze back to the runes.

“Blood it is,” she whispered, trying to keep her voice steady. She pressed the dagger’s point to the inside of her left palm. A quick slice sent a flare of pain shooting along her hand. Maisie raised her palm to the runes, letting her blood streak across them. The stone drank in the crimson. Lines of gold flared beneath the surface, traveling along the wall until runes lit up in a chain reaction. The air around them grew thicker, humming with raw power. Wind picked up out of nowhere, swirling dust at their feet.

She lifted her voice, pronouncing the words they had deciphered: “Sareth Drakthar Kyrlan Haldreth.” The archaic syllables rumbled past her lips, carrying a sense of something ancient awakening. She felt the cave’s magic respond, a low vibration that rattled her teeth.

Then the barrier struck back. A blast of invisible force slammed into her chest, flinging her off her feet. She hit the ground with a bone-jarring thud, every inch of her body pulsing with pain as she tumbled into a patch of loose stones. Stars flickered across her vision, and she dimly registered Sela’s startled curses, Tobin’s yelp, Edric’s grunt, and the scrape of Castian’s armor against rock.

For a moment, numbness spread through Maisie’s limbs. Wind roared in her ears. When the world stopped spinning, she found herself sprawled. She tried to sit up, but everything ached. She pressed a trembling hand to her side, where a fresh bruise already throbbed.

Sela’s voice cut through the haze. “Again,” she rasped, coughing from the dust. Her hair hung loose, undone by the impact, and she had a trickle of blood at her temple. “We must not have said it in order.”

Tobin moaned from where he lay. “I will definitely immortalize you in my next ballad, dear sisters,” he gasped. “If I survive.”

The group picked themselves up, wincing and dusting off. Castian rushed to Maisie’s side, carefully hooking an arm behind her back to support her as she struggled upright. His worried gaze roamed her face. “You need to be more careful.”

She mustered a weak smile. “I’m fine,” she breathed. “But the spell doesn’t like that order, apparently.”

Sela brushed a dirt streak from her cheek. “The runes might need a different sequence. Tobin, are you still capable of writing?”

Tobin waved feebly from the ground. “My hand still works. I am happy to write anything you wish.”

Though dizzy and pained, Maisie and Sela bent close to the etchings once more, deciphering variations. They compared the sizes of certain runes, re-checking how the archaic letters lined up. Drakthar might need to come later in the phrase, or Haldreth might be the final word of power. The lines blurred in Maisie’s vision, but she persisted.

She tried a second time: “Kyrlan Haldreth Sareth Drakthar.” Each word matched a symbol, each symbol glowed with the taste of her blood. The reaction was immediate and harsh. Another brutal wave of power hammered into them, rattling the stone ledge. Maisie was flung sideways, saved from cracking her skull only when Castian flung an arm between her and the ground. The shock reverberated in her bones. She could not catch her breath.

By the time the aftershock faded, she realized her head was spinning worse than before. Her lungs burned, and her hands shook. Castian grabbed her by both arms and hoisted her up before she could protest. “Stop,” he growled, voice tinged with alarm. “You keep getting thrown around. Enough.”

She stared up at him. His usually guarded face was raw with fear, and her heart gave a heavy thud. For a moment, illusions of his own past scars seemed to creep into his eyes. Then he let go, turning away lest the others see how close he had kept her.

Sela coughed, gesturing for them all to try once more. “We’re close, I feel it. We just need the exact order.”

Tobin squinted at his notes, huddled on a flat stone. His quill threatened to slip from his sweaty grip. “We have four main runes: Drakthar for dragon, Haldreth for passage, Kyrlan for incantation, and Sareth for blood or sacrifice. The correct order might be Drakthar first, or last. Sela?”

Sela hesitated, studying the wall. “Let’s try Drakthar Haldreth Kyrlan Sareth.”

Maisie forced her body to move. She pressed her still-bleeding hand to the runes again, each symbol lighting in turn, each syllable rolling off her tongue. “Drakthar Haldreth Kyrlan Sareethe,” she chanted. Her blood pulsed with her heartbeat, droplets smearing across the carved stone.

Again, the air shuddered as if the cave itself growled in resistance. Everyone braced as best they could, prepared for another harsh blow. The magic built to a peak, then shattered in a flurry of golden sparks that rained around them, forcing them to shield their eyes. The ground trembled underfoot as if straining to maintain balance.

At first, Maisie feared another violent push would send her sprawling. Her muscles tensed and her ribs screamed at her to stop. Yet the wave of force that followed was gentler, more like a sudden gust of wind than a colossal slam. She staggered but did not fall. The invisible barrier flickered in front of them, cracks of light forming as though a transparent wall was breaking under unimaginable pressure.

Spell-laced energy hissed around them. Then, with a sound like splitting glass, the barrier dissolved. Shards of light fell away, evaporating before they touched the ground. The path inside Balrûth Dûm stood open and unguarded, shadows curling beyond the threshold.

No one spoke for a heartbeat, as if terrified that a single word might reverse their success. Then Sela broke the silence by stepping forward cautiously. She raised her hand. Instead of meeting a solid wall, it passed into the darkness. The barrier was gone. She let out a breath. “We did it.”

Tobin looked as though he might collapse from relief. He dropped his quill and cradled his face in his hands. “Thank all the gods that I can rest my battered backside.”

Sir Edric cracked a weary grin, though his watchful gaze swept the perimeter. “We should be careful. Magic powerful enough to toss a person around like a poppet is usually protecting something dangerous.”

“Where’s Garran?” Tobin asked, looking around?

Castian frowned, straightening. “I thought he was bringing up the rear.”

Sela shook her head, her expression tightening. “I haven’t seen him in at least half an hour. I assumed he stopped to check something behind us.”

Before anyone could speak, the sharp crunch of boots on loose stone made them all turn. Garran emerged from the treeline at that moment, running a hand through his cropped hair. The look in Castian’s eyes was dark.

“Where’d you go? It’s not safe to wander off by yourself.”

“Can’t a man take a piss in peace?” he said, eyeing them all like they’d overreacted.

“That was an awfully long piss,” Castian replied, crossing his arms. “You were gone a while.”

Garran stepped in closer, close enough that Castian had to lift his chin slightly to keep eye contact. “I kept my eyes open,” Garran said, his voice low but firm. “I’m not some wet-behind-the-ears squire. I can take care of myself.”

For a beat, no one spoke. Castian held his gaze, then gave a slight nod, his expression unreadable. “Fair enough,” he said.

Clearly Garran had no intention of explaining further, though Sela looked at him with narrowed eyes, too.

A mixture of pride and dread hollowed Maisie’s chest at the knowledge that the entrance to Balrûth Dûm was now open. She lifted her head, scanning the blackness beyond. Subtle drips of water echoed and scuttling sounds suggested the presence of creatures hunkered deeper inside. Torchlight would be necessary soon, but for now, streams of natural light from the late afternoon sky illuminated the first few feet of stone floor. Soon that light would vanish, and they would rely on torches or simple mage-lamps.

Castian appeared in front of her again, silent as a wraith. He gently placed his hands on either side of her face, tilting her chin. She knew it was mostly to check for fresh scrapes, but the warmth in his touch carried concern that rooted more deeply than bruises. She could feel the slight tremor in his fingertips.

“You sure you’re alright?” he asked.

Her breath caught. “I’ll live,” she managed, though in truth, every piece of her body felt battered.

Castian exhaled and brushed a thumb near her cheekbone, where she suspected a small cut had opened. She hissed quietly but did not pull away. He lingered a heartbeat longer, his gaze locked with hers, until the heavy awkwardness pressed on them both. He cleared his throat, dropping his hands as the others gathered.

When he spoke, his tone sounded gruff. “We should head inside before nightfall.”

Sela passed by, her earlier annoyance at the repeated failures overshadowed by relief. She nudged Maisie’s shoulder lightly, giving a wry, knowing look. Maisie felt warmth flood her cheeks. Then Tobin muttered something about wanting both a soft bed and a stiff drink, though no one quite heard him over the crunch of shifting gravel beneath their feet.

Maisie watched Castian track Garran’s movements with his usual wariness. Despite the tension, no argument flared. But there was something wary in Castian’s gaze as he looked at Garran. Maisie glanced at Sela and realized she was looking at Garran with the same kind of suspicion, and she didn’t understand why.

Finally, Maisie inhaled and turned to face the open path. Balrûth Dûm beckoned, silent and immense. Moist air seeped from its depths, carrying a faint metallic tang that made her wonder if ancient water systems or hidden metals laced the stone corridors. Shadows coiled and stretched beyond their line of sight, an unspoken warning that the hardest part was yet to come.

Castian watched her with that enigmatic concern etched across his face. The quiet in his expression left her heart feeling strangely exposed. She held his gaze for a moment longer, recalling the gentleness in his touch when he checked her injuries. Then she let out a slow breath and stepped forward.

He said nothing, only dipped head in a short nod, unreadable as ever, before following her. As she drew closer to the dark threshold, she felt each heartbeat resonating in her ribs. Balrûth Dûm had demanded blood, and she had given it. Now it would reveal whatever it sheltered behind centuries of carved runes and old spells, and they would have to be ready.

Maisie took one final glance at Castian, uncertain if her path forward would bring them closeness or heartbreak. He was still watching her, his face unreadable, before she walked toward the cave entrance.

Chapter

Thirty-One

Maisie paused at the threshold and took a steadying breath. The cave gaped wide in the gray light, a maw of darkness that invited them deeper into the mountain. Yet she found her thoughts lingering on the way Castian had looked at her only moments ago, concern etched in every line of his face. She remembered how his voice nearly cracked when he warned her to watch her step, how his posture vibrated with tension if she so much as brushed a jagged stone. His unease both warmed and unsettled her. She tried shaking it off, focusing on Sela’s order that they enter slowly.

Their party walked inside with their torches for light. Moisture slicked the walls, making the passage glisten like black ice whenever a lantern’s glow touched them. Tobin walked beside Sir Edric, hummed under his breath as though the melody might hide his nerves. Garran strode ahead, ever watchful, while Sela stayed close to Maisie. Castian drifted toward the rear, quiet as a shadow, but Maisie still felt the weight of his gaze.

They moved through the winding corridor, the only sounds their footsteps tapping rock and the faint drip of water from stalactites overhead. As they ventured deeper, gullies opened to either side, sometimes spanned by narrow ledges and half-crumbled rock bridges. Maisie’s arm prickled with nerves each time she peered over an edge into the blackness below. Only Castian’s calm presence behind her, and the occasional brush of Sela’s hand on her elbow, eased the rush of vertigo.

At last, the path emptied into an enormous cavern, so vast it reminded Maisie of an ancient cathedral. Pillars of stone reached up toward a high, arched ceiling, and pockets of luminescent moss cast an eerie glow across heaps of what looked like gold, armor, and random treasures scattered in haphazard piles. Tobin let out a breathy laugh of excitement, eyes wide at the glint of coins. Sir Edric let his torchlight roam across the stone floor, revealing battered scroll tubes and tattered books stacked precariously among the treasure. More unbelievable, near the far wall, a colossal shape sprawled in slumber.

Maisie’s heart pounded. She took a tentative step forward, jaw dropping as she made out the unmistakable curve of massive forelimbs and a ridged tail, each angled scale reflecting faint luminescence. A dragon. She had always believed dragons were the stuff of half-truth legends—dead or lost to time. Yet here, a living specimen loomed under a layer of ancient dust. The creature’s flanks expanded and contracted with each massive breathing cycle, as if it dreamed in ageless repose.

Then all at once, chaos burst across the cavern. Maisie heard a strangled shout, and when she whirled, she found Garran sprawled flat—a wiry old woman perched on his back like a furious bird. She pummeled him with both fists and a spindly broom. “Trespassers,” she hissed, voice echoing all around. The next instant, she leapt from Garran’s back in an impossible arc, landing at the far side of the cavern.

“Leave now or perish,” the old woman shouted, her tones amplified by a magic that made the walls quiver. She pointed her battered broom at them as if it were a fearsome staff. Her movements defied logic for one so ancient: she flipped backward, then lunged forward in a blur, cracking the broom’s handle against Tobin’s shin as he tried to scramble away. Sela and Castian darted in, swords half-drawn. Edric lifted his shield, unsure if they faced a genuine threat or a misunderstanding.

“Stop,” Maisie hollered, her voice tight with panic. “All of you, wait.” She raised her open hands. The old woman, breathing hard, glowered from beneath her tangle of silver hair. For a moment, Maisie feared another rush of violence, but she pressed on, swallowing nerves. “We don’t mean to harm anyone. We came here because—” She hesitated, hearing Garran’s pained grunt as he clambered to his feet. “Because it was part of our search. We found runes and believed this cave might hold answers.”

“Answers,” the crone repeated in a mocking tone. She spun the broom menacingly, though her watery blue eyes betrayed more cunning than madness. “What do a pack of meddling children know about my wards? My barrier should have kept every fool away.”

Tobin, either too eager or simply oblivious to the venom in her gaze, opened his mouth. “It wasn’t that hard to figure out, once we noticed⁠—”

“Shut it, boy,” Sir Edric hissed, catching Tobin by the sleeve. Both men faltered under the scowl the old woman shot them.

Maisie kept her arms lifted, palms facing out. She stepped toward the woman, ignoring the wild thrumming in her chest. “We’re not here to brag about how we overcame your magic,” Maisie said softly. “Truly. The barrier was powerful. It took blood runes and multiple attempts... Please, let us talk rather than fight.”

The crone’s scowl flickered. “Talking solves little,” she snapped, eyes shifting to the massive dragon. Her posture tensed, as though prepared to lash out if they so much as breathed wrong. “Leave this place at once.”

Castian set his blade gently on the ground, hoping the gesture might mirror Maisie’s plea for calm. One by one, the others followed his lead, lowering weapons or raising empty palms. The old woman’s eyes narrowed.

“I am Naeris,” she announced after a weighted pause. Her voice trembled with unspent fury. “I have protected this cavern and what sleeps here for centuries. And I will not let you, or any other puppets of that pretender king, rob me of my charge.” She twirled her broom again.

“We come at the order of King Rodmar’s mages,” Maisie said, exchanging a quick look with Sela. “They commanded us to discover what was in the cave.”

That drew a disdainful snort. Naeris jabbed the broom at the sleeping dragon. “The pretender’s mages know exactly what lies here, child. They are the ones who twisted King Aedric into... this.” She leveled an accusing glare at the group. Sela paled, and Garran exhaled in astonishment.

Maisie’s heart twisted at the mention of the cursed king. The stories from the temple carvings and the dusty texts at Dunvarrick Keep flooded her mind. “So it’s true,” she whispered. “King Aedric was cursed—turned into a dragon? And you’ve been protecting him while he sleeps?”

Naeris nodded. She gestured with a trembling hand for them to step closer to the slumbering behemoth. Hesitation rippled among the companions, but curiosity won out. They edged over until they stood near the dragon’s side. Maisie extended a cautious hand and felt the gentle rise and fall of its flank. Her lips parted in wonder.

“It backfired,” Naeris croaked. “The necromancers wanted his strength, but the spell warped him instead. Queen Calindra escaped. She and Ysara have hidden themselves from the king’s mages ever since.” She used her free hand to steady herself against a rock. “I’ve guarded him, hoping one day we could restore him. Hoping they wouldn’t find a way to finish their foul purpose.”

Their disbelief felt nearly tangible. Garran pressed a hand to his diagonal scar and looked thoroughly shaken, while Tobin’s usual grin vanished, replaced by open-mouthed awe. Castian, his storm-gray eyes reflecting sorrow, touched Maisie’s shoulder. She swallowed hard.

Sela frowned. “Why not kill him if the magic failed? It would have been simpler for them than letting a dragon roam—assuming it ever woke.”

Naeris’s mouth grimaced, the wrinkles around her eyes deepening. “They needed to bind him. A living, breathing fountain of power—just locked behind scales. And though they botched the spell, they still fear what he could become. As long as they aren’t certain how to break his curse, they do not want to risk him regaining his human form.”

The old woman faced them, voice thick with weariness. “But I have spent centuries studying the runes that twisted him. I believe the curse can be undone. If only I could find Queen Calindra, or any other living mage skilled enough to attempt it.”

Before Maisie could respond, an alarmed caw from above drew all eyes to the cavern’s entrance. Both magpies, Whisper and Glim, soared overhead, screeching. Black shapes, eyes gleaming with demonic light, cut through the gloom. Wraith Beasts sprinted past the threshold. Without hesitation, the monstrous creatures lunged at the group, claws scraping the stone floor.

They came in hard and fast, and Maisie barely had time to register what she was seeing. The creatures were massive, taller than any man she’d ever faced They were an odd mix of black bear and human. Their torsos were shaped like men, broad-chested and powerful, but the skin was pale and stretched, broken in places by thick patches of dark fur. Their arms were long and muscular, ending in hands that still looked vaguely human, though the fingers were too long and tipped with curved, black claws.

Their faces were the worst of it. There were hints of what they might have looked like once—sunken eyes set too deep, a mouth that could almost form words if not for the jagged teeth crowding it. Some had torn ears flattened against their skulls, and more than one still had scraps of old tattoos or paint on their skin, now faded and warped.

They moved upright, hunched and heavy, but with a purpose that made them feel more like soldiers than animals. When one dropped to all fours, it charged like a bear. There was no grace in their movement, just raw power and the kind of relentless drive that only came from something already dead.

“Who left the door open?” Tobin yelped as he scrambled to retrieve the sword he had dropped moments ago. Chaos erupted. Armed with her daggers, Sela met the first Wraith Beast, steel ringing off phantom-like fangs. Garran and Castian rushed to intercept two more as they bounded forward with unnatural speed. Maisie heard Naeris utter words in a language that scraped the ears like broken glass, arcs of pale magic flaring around her frail figure.

Clinging to the momentum of her training, Maisie took a stance behind Sela, heart hammering. One of the beasts—a hunched silhouette dripping malevolent shadows—circled them. She smelled the faint odor of sulfur, and her skin prickled with the sense of necromantic influence. The creature hissed, then sprang. Maisie ducked, slashing upward, scoring a shallow wound across its flank. Sela lunged to hack at it again, but a second beast drew her attention with a vicious lunge, forcing them to separate.

A burst of magic erupted from Naeris, who stood in the center, broom forgotten, hands raised. Two of the Wraith Beasts staggered and howled as her spell lanced them, twisting dark flesh into cinders. But Naeris herself wavered, breath ragged. Edric lunged forward to protect her from another beast that tried to flank her. The blasts of arcane light, though effective, clearly cost the old mage dearly.

Whisper and Glim dove at one of the creatures, cawing in a flurry of wings. It snarled and clawed the air, missing them by inches. Maisie’s attention snapped to movement near Sela—a scuttling shape with blazing eyes, primed to pounce. A rush of horror seized Maisie. The Wraith Beast was behind her sister, who was locked in combat with another monster and had no chance to see it.

Maisie hurled herself forward. She crashed shoulder-first into the beast, knocking it off balance. A blaze of pain tore through her upper arm as its claws raked her. She gritted her teeth and slashed with her sword. Warm blood slicked her fingers as she and the creature grappled on the cold stone. She realized dimly that shouts and spells rang out around them, each cry echoing off the vaulted walls.

At last, Maisie felt her blade sink deep into the beast’s chest, even as her vision blurred from agony. The Wraith Beast’s hiss died to an ugly rasp. It collapsed in a heap, and Maisie crumpled beside it. Throbbing pain flared along her ribs, and distant voices blurred in her ears.

A strangled cry split the air. “Maisie!” Castian’s voice. She forced her eyes open, focusing on the strain in every muscle as he tried to hack down the final Wraith Beast with Garran. When the monster finally fell, Castian spun and sprinted toward her.

She felt his arms slip under her shoulders, gingerly lifting her from the floor. “Stay with me,” he gasped. There was raw panic in his eyes. “Don’t you dare slip away again.”

Sela, panting and bloodstained, crawled over. She yanked out Maisie’s small healer kit, rummaging for a tiny vial of restorative salve. Edric knelt on Maisie’s other side, pressing a cloth to her wounded arm. Yet Maisie’s own healing powers had already begun to knit the gashes closed, guided by the faint hum of warmth pulsing in her blood. She carefully swallowed back a wave of dizziness, feeling Sela’s salve help the process along.

Maisie exhaled a shaky breath, letting her gaze lock on Castian’s. His eyes still looked terrified, as if he refused to believe she was all right until she convinced him otherwise. “I’m still here,” she murmured. Her throat felt raw, but she managed a small smile.

He lowered his head. “Thank the gods.” His lips nearly brushed her bruised knuckles as he bowed his forehead, relief flooding his features.

Around them, quiet moans confirmed the Wraith Beasts had been slain. Garran and Sela rushed to check on Naeris, who sat slumped near a half-destroyed pillar. The old mage’s complexion looked ashen, and she gripped Sela’s shoulder to keep herself upright. After a moment, they helped her to a corner of the cavern where a small cot lay. Garran and Sela exchanged words that Maisie couldn’t make out, but their grim expressions spoke of how fragile Naeris now seemed.

Sir Edric puffed out a long breath. “Those brutes tracked us somehow. Weakening the barrier must have invited them in.” He turned to Naeris as she drifted in and out of consciousness. “I’ll stay to protect you,” he offered, voice husky with concern. “Someone needs to make certain no other beasts barge in.”

Naeris nodded faintly, her eyelids heavy. “Yes. I must recover my strength if... if I am to attempt more spells. If we want to keep Aedric safe, we need the shield reinforced.”

After a brief discussion, the group reached a consensus: Naeris was too vulnerable to be left alone, and Edric, with his seasoned calm, would remain to guard her. Her only request was that the barrier blocking the entrance be renewed and locked. She passed them a set of runic etchings on worn parchment, along with a handful of small carved stones. “Place these around the entrance in each cardinal direction,” she wheezed, “and speak the incantation. If done properly, no new threat will force its way in.”

Sela touched Maisie’s uninjured shoulder. “Ready to go?” she asked, voice raw. Maisie answered with a weary nod, pushing aside the ache in her limbs. She took the runes and parchment from Naeris’s trembling fingers.

They retraced their steps up the long, winding path until they arrived at the cave mouth. Whisper and Glim perched near the opening, as if standing guard. Maisie’s heart still pounded, but she forced her hands to steady as she and Sela placed the carved stones in the spots Naeris had indicated. Garran helped scratch the precise runes into the rock, guided by the instructions scrawled on the parchment. Tobin hovered nearby, wincing at his bruises but ready to supply an extra pair of eyes.

When the final symbol was traced and the last stone set, Maisie drew on the memory of Naeris’s instructions. Though Maisie and Sela could not perform magic, at least not in the traditional mage sense of casting spells, they possessed a sensitivity to magic they both shared, likely from their Shadowslayer lineage. In their world, blood was always used to connect runes with magic. And Sela and Maisie’s blood, like their enhanced strength, speed, and agility, seemed to unlock magic in a way ordinary mage blood could not.

She shut her eyes, focusing on the latent magical resonance that pulsed in the mountain. In a subdued voice, she chanted the incantation. Sela echoed the words with firm conviction. A flash of pale light flared along the invisible threshold. Small sparks flickered, then died into a faint shimmer that rippled and faded. Maisie felt the crackle of power settle, leaving an odd vibration in the air.

She glanced at her sister. Sela’s face conveyed cautious relief. Tobin let out a breathy laugh of triumph, then quickly quieted himself as Garran reminded him they should remain alert. Castian stepped up to Maisie’s side. Though he said nothing, he brushed his hand across her uninjured arm in a gentle, lingering touch that made her pulse trip.

The barrier was active once again, hopefully stronger than before. “That should keep new monsters out,” Maisie breathed, her voice trembling with the enormity of what they had learned and what they had done. A wave of exhaustion coursed through her, yet beneath it fluttered something else: the quiet, powerful certainty that King Aedric’s story was far from over—and that her own story was now entwined with his fate.

Chapter

Thirty-Two

Maisie pressed her palm against the cool stone wall of the cavern, still feeling faint tremors of magic from the runes she and Sela had placed outside. The shield they reactivated now pulsed with pale energy, invisible to the naked eye unless one looked closely for the faint ripples. It stood as the first layer of protection around Balrûth Dûm—protection that Naeris insisted was vital.

They had returned to find Naeris slumped against a makeshift cot near the dragon’s immense flank. The old mage’s breath came in shallow puffs, and the quiet of the cavern seemed to magnify every fragile sound. Maisie’s heart twisted. Naeris looked even weaker than earlier; the spells she had unleashed against the Wraith Beasts had taken a toll. Sir Edric hovered beside her with a concerned expression.

When Naeris waved Maisie closer, she obeyed, stepping softly across uneven stones. The sleeping dragon—King Aedric in cursed form—continued to breathe in measured waves. His massive side rose and fell, each movement dislodging bits of dust from the rocky floor. The warm, softly metallic smell of scales drifted over Maisie, mingling with the lingering odor of old torch smoke and centuries of stale air.

Naeris beckoned Sela forward as well, though Sela had been lingering by the far wall, sword within easy reach. Garran, Castian, and Tobin stayed a respectful distance back, ready to jump in if anything stirred the dragon.

The old mage cleared her throat, wincing at the effort. “You… you have activated the new runes? The barrier is sealed?”

Sela nodded, speaking with a subdued, reverent calm. “Yes. It should keep further trespassers out. Will you manage better with such wards in place?”

The mage’s weathered lips curved in a faint smile. “Better, yes… but there is more yet to do.” She lifted trembling hands, reaching into a hidebound satchel at her side. She withdrew a slender roll of parchment. “I asked you to stay for this.”

Sir Edric leaned in and offered a waterskin so Naeris could sip. She drank a little, coughed, then mustered enough strength to keep talking. “I cannot awaken King Aedric alone. Most of my power has been spent guarding him from worse fates. The necromancers who cursed him would seize the chance to turn him into a mindless weapon if we break the spell without the proper precautions.”

Pity and fascination warred inside Maisie. She had faced monstrous creatures before, but never a creature bound by such ancient magic. This was no ordinary dragon; this was a cursed king, trapped in a scale-clad body. Every glance at the dragon’s massive head made her wonder if a he still had memories from his human time, or whether he could return to being human at all.

Naeris set aside the parchment and ran an unsteady hand over it. “You must gather certain things if we hope to free him.” She pressed her lips together, glancing at Sela. “I know this is not a small request. But the longer we wait, the more the necromancers watch and weave their plans. We must gain the advantage.”

Sela gave Maisie a quick look, then folded her arms. “We can handle ourselves on the road. Tell us what we need.”

Naeris inclined her head. Her voice emerged in a whisper still laced with authority. “The Gilded Hourglass.” She let the words hang. “It dictates the moment—down to the breath—when the final words of the incantation must be spoken, or all of this is for naught.”

Tobin’s eyebrows shot up. He tucked a stray lock of hair behind his ear. “Where in the high heavens do we find such a thing? It sounds expensive.”

Garran shot Tobin a faint glare, but Naeris only shook her head. “Finding it will be one trial among many. It is rumored to be kept under lock and guard in a place where time has special meaning. Where that is, I cannot say with certainty.” She paused to catch her breath. “Next: the Ashen Crown. Crafted from the remnants of King Aedric’s own regalia, it must sit on his head before he becomes fully conscious, or his mind might remain scattered in the dragon’s shape.”

Maisie fought a shiver. She pictured golden crowns adorned with rubies, not something called an Ashen Crown. But every part of this curse was older and darker than any simple enchantment.

Naeris’s tone worsened, rasping with exhaustion. “We must also find Queen Calindra. Her blood is tied to Aedric’s true self. Without her presence, the curse will not fully lift. There is no one else in this world who can anchor him.” Then her thin lips pressed together. “Ysara, the mage who fled with Calindra, will know how to unify the ritual. If she can read these runes and add her power, we may succeed before the necromancers intervene.”

At that, Sela’s eyes flicked sharply to Naeris. “You are sure Queen Calindra is alive?”

“I believe she is. I have felt a connection to Ysara through the years.” Naeris pulled a second parchment from the satchel. “You must draw certain sigils on his dragon scales using her blood. Only her lineage can force the transformation to adhere to its original design. We cannot let necromancers corrupt him at that vulnerable moment.”

Maisie’s heart pounded. She imagined pressing a brush soaked in spilled blood onto the dragon’s thick scales. It sounded impossible, but something in Naeris’s eyes dared them to see hope.

The mage unrolled the parchment. Shadows from the torchlight flickered across its intricate scrawl. “This incantation is in Old Draconic,” she said, voice trembling. “It seals his mind from outside control while he reverts to human form. Without it, they could snatch his consciousness and turn him into a puppet. You cannot imagine the danger if a once-great king, now a beast, is enslaved by dark sorcery.”

Sir Edric exhaled sharply. Garran pressed his lips into a grim line. Castian shifted, his stance reflecting the tension coursing through everyone. Only Tobin was brave enough to speak. “And you need Ysara’s help to confirm the final details?” he asked. “But you⁠—”

Naeris cut him off with a tired gesture. “I have studied these runes for centuries, but some lines remain incomplete. Ysara comprehended certain arcane nuances that I never fully grasped. Together, we wrote the initial version of this ritual long ago. Alone, I might fail.” Her voice lowered. “And if I fail, the necromancers will have their chance.”

Silence settled around them for several heartbeats. At last, Sela set a hand on the hilt of her sword. “We find Queen Calindra,” she declared, voice firm. “We find the Gilded Hourglass, the Ashen Crown, and gather whatever else is required to finish this ritual. Then we come back here and break this curse.”

A spark of fierce pride lit Maisie’s chest. She saw the unwavering resolve in Sela’s profile—her sister was not going to back down. “We will do it,” Maisie murmured, more to herself than anyone else. And in that vow, she recalled all the times they had risked their lives to save strangers from monsters. Now, they faced the possibility of restoring a king to his rightful form.

Naeris’s shoulders sagged in relief, though her voice carried a final warning. “Necromancers will watch you. They may send illusions or worse to hunt you. Their grip on the land stretches far beyond the king’s court. They will not let you succeed.”

Maisie felt Castian’s gaze on her. When she glanced his way, she noticed the worry etched into the lines of his handsome face. They had glimpsed the necromancers’ cruelty before, but this next step sounded more perilous than anything they had done. She offered him a slight, reassuring smile.

Naeris tried to straighten. “You must leave soon. Every passing day tips the balance in their favor. I will remain here, guarded by Edric, until you return. Protect that scroll. Study it. Prepare for the battles yet to come.”

Sela nodded. “We will.”

Tobin, Garran, and Castian echoed quiet acknowledgments. Sir Edric cleared his throat and gently guided Naeris to rest. “Save your strength,” he said softly. “We can see how worn you are.”

That evening, they shared a simple meal prepared over a small fire near the cavern’s entrance—the last of some dried meat, vegetables, and a sprinkling of herbs from Maisie’s own pouches. Sir Edric added a few pinches of salt. The warm aroma soothed jangled nerves, and the act of sitting in relative peace felt strangely surreal after all they had endured. Balrûth Dûm’s darkness pressed around them, but the low crackle of flames provided a semblance of comfort.

Maisie tore into a slice of crusty bread that Naeris had baked in an iron pot over the open fire in the cave. She ignored the dull ache that still lingered in her side from the recent fight. Her healing abilities meant the worst of the pain faded quickly, but fatigue lingered. Across the circle, Garran checked the sharpness of his blade, while Tobin scribbled lines on a small parchment, possibly drafting a new ballad about their upcoming quest. Only Sela sat quietly, eyes flicking between the dragon’s sleeping form and Naeris’s subdued silhouette.

Once dinner ended, everyone shifted their bedrolls around to settle in for the night. Despite the wave of exhaustion weighing on Maisie, her mind buzzed with everything they needed to do. She finally stepped away to where the dragon’s massive hind leg rested against the stone floor. In the soft torchlight, the scales looked like layered metal, each shining dully with hints of bronze and emerald.

She stood there a moment in hesitant awe. She had never believed she would stand this close to a full-blooded dragon. Tracing a fingertip across one ridge, she felt the coarse surface rasp against her skin. Perhaps it was her imagination, but she thought she sensed a hum of magic beneath that living armor, as though something within Aedric recognized her presence.

“Marvelous, isn’t it,” came Castian’s low voice behind her.

She turned to find him close, expression soft despite the tension carved in his brow. He rested a hand on her shoulder, careful not to startle her. “I forget, sometimes,” Maisie admitted, “that dragons existed beyond children’s tales. Now here we are, about to wake one who has been a king for centuries.”

He studied her face with an intensity that quickened her pulse. “You wear that awe in your eyes,” he murmured. “Though I suppose we should both be terrified. Maybe we are.” A rueful smile curved his lips.

She felt the warmth of his hand through the fabric of her tunic. The memory of their past intimacies—secret moments stolen in a remote cabin or amid swirling mountain winds—flickered in her mind. She had come to crave his closeness, though it frightened her how much she wanted it. “I’m more afraid of the necromancers,” she admitted. “I want to protect everyone, but sometimes I think… what if we fail?”

Castian’s gaze darkened with an emotion she couldn’t fully name. “We will not fail,” he said, quiet but sure. “Not when you’re part of this.” She caught a faint note in his voice that sounded like an unspoken confession. He opened his mouth as though to say more, but a sudden interruption came from behind them.

“Castian,” Garran called. “A hand here, if you please. We need to check the packs to ensure no holes. We leave early.”

Castian blinked, frustration flickering over his features. Maisie nodded to him, still feeling the warmth of his presence. She half expected him to say something else, share more of that private intensity glowing in his eyes. Instead, he gave her a final, meaningful look and turned away to join Garran.

Maisie let out a soft exhale. She lifted her hand from the dragon’s scale, lingering one last moment before returning to the group. The subtle tension remained, stirring inside her like an ember. She wanted him to finish that thought, to say aloud the words hiding behind his guarded expression. But she would wait. They still had a long road ahead.

The night passed in relative quiet, save for the occasional rumble of the dragon’s deep breathing. Maisie drifted in and out of uneasy dreams. She thought she heard faint scraping noises outside the cavern, but each time she sat up, there was only silence. The barrier, after all, was meant to keep intruders at bay.

Dawn arrived with a dim glow that seeped through the distant corridor leading outside. Though the dragon had been silent most of the night, now a resonant snore echoed from his parted jaws. Tobin yawned and soon burst into a muffled laugh. “He snores louder than my uncle after a feast,” he whispered to Maisie, which coaxed a small grin from her.

Naeris cracked a weary grin as well. “Sometimes he snores. It is rather… comforting,” she mumbled. Then she sobered. “Today, you depart?”

Sela stood, stretching stiff joints. “Yes. We will not waste any time.”

Sir Edric had risen earlier, rummaging through the supplies they would leave behind. “Naeris and I have enough here for some weeks. If you fail to return in that time, I will find more help for her.” He nodded at Sela in a meaningful way, but his gaze also lingered on Maisie. “Travel safe.”

Maisie’s cheeks warmed. Perhaps Sir Edric worried for them all more than he let on. She swallowed the tightness in her throat and offered him a hug. He accepted it with a gruff chuckle and tousled her hair like she was still a little girl. “We will be back as soon as we can,” she promised.

They packed quickly, rolling up blankets and checking rations. Garran distributed dried fruit among their pouches, while Tobin announced he had stashed a meager handful of sweets—enough for morale boosts on the road. Castian inspected his sword, then helped Maisie strap on her gear. His hands lingered on the buckle near her collarbone, a quiet moment that spoke volumes. She felt her heart stutter but said nothing.

When they were nearly ready, Maisie sighed, pressing a hand to her tangled hair. “I wish we had time for a proper bath. We must smell worse than rancid fish.”

Sela gave a wry snort. “The moment we find a safe river, we will dunk ourselves. Until then…hold your breath.”

Naeris, propped against a rock, nodded in approval as they lined up to depart. “Go. The fate of King Aedric—and all of us—may rest in your hands.”

No one spoke for a breath. Then Tobin forced a small, theatrical bow. “We shall return triumphant,” he declared. “Or at least in one piece. But I do prefer triumphant.”

A small, tired laugh spread among the group. Maisie felt tears prickle behind her eyes. It all felt bigger than anything she had done before. But she took comfort in the steady presence of Sela, Garran’s calm composure, Tobin’s jesting grin, and the strength in Castian’s posture. The magpies, Whisper and Glim, fluttered from a high ledge and settled on Garran’s pack, as if they too insisted on accompanying them.

Sir Edric clapped a hand on Garran’s shoulder, then turned to Sela. “Light be with you.” His tone was husky.

Sela responded with a firm nod. “And with you,” she said, glancing protectively at Naeris. “We will come back.”

Maisie inhaled, then exhaled slowly. The six of them stepped forward, gathering at the mouth of Balrûth Dûm. The barrier pulsed as they crossed out of its protective boundary, sending a subtle ripple across the open air.

Together, they left the cave behind, trading its stillness for the low, steady sound of wind sweeping through the mountains. Far below them, on the opposite side of the mountain from where they had made their ascent, the terrain unfolded in rocky slopes and drifting clouds, a vast expanse of crags and winding, hidden paths leading toward Sindall. Somewhere out there, Queen Calindra dwelled in secret. Somewhere, a Gilded Hourglass and an Ashen Crown awaited discovery. And somewhere, the necromancers lurked, ready to strike again.

The Story Continues

The story continues in book two, The Dragon Queen’s Oath, coming soon to Amazon

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