“You’re doing better than I thought you would,” she whispered.
“I’m just pretending not to be terrified.”
“That counts as better. Do they have my horse ready yet?”
I blinked, surprised. “Wait…you’re coming with us too?”
Jasira gave me a look. “Of course I am. Did you think I was going to let you travel halfway across the continent with nothing but guards and your brother for company?”
“But you said nothing!”
“You were already worrying yourself breathless,” she said with a shrug. “Besides, someone has to make sure Alaric doesn’t insult the wrong kingdom, and you don’t fall off a horse.”
The cobbled path led us to the looming gates, where the small company had already assembled.
Three guards awaited us: Corren, an older man with sharp blue eyes and a weathered face. He looked like he’d survived more battles than were countable. Lark, barely older thanme. His fingers constantly adjusting his grip on the reins, his hands never quite still. Tyren was tall and silent, with a jagged scar stretching from his jaw to his ear. He looked like he’d seen one or two things I’d rather not imagine.
Then there was Sir Gideon.
He had a lopsided grin, armor slightly mismatched, and a dent in one pauldron like it had seen more tavern stools than swords. His skin was rich brown, and his eyes sparkled with warmth and mischief beneath a head of cropped black curls.
He bowed with exaggerated flair. “Sir Gideon, at your service. Hero of one tavern brawl, three broken chairs, and at least five unintentional insults to nobility. But I ride true and fall with flair.”
Jasira raised her eyebrow. “That’s...oddly reassuring.” A smiletugged at the corners of my lips, surprising even me. “I’m glad you’re coming.”
“Prepared and ready for the journey, my lady,” he said brightly. “Though I should warn you, my horse bites.” I was unsure whether that was meant to be a joke. Either way, I would stay clear.
A sliver of light caught the polished edge of a dark mare's saddle, then brightened,insistent,demanding attention.
Only then did I see him.
Erindor. He stood beside his black mare, armor catching the sunrise like old bronze. His hair curled slightly around his ears, wind-tossed and unbothered. He looked carved from storm clouds and silence, with broad shoulders, a strong jaw, and a sword at his hip that looked like it had never left him. There was something about the way he stood, still and steady, that made everyone else seem to fade into the background. I had seen him before, of course. Quiet in the corridors. Sharp at council practice sparring. He was always on the edge of things, like a shadow that obeyed lightbut never belonged to it. But I’d never spoken to him.
Now, facing him in the unfiltered daylight, a knot tightened in my stomach, stealing my breath.
A flush crept up my neck, scorching my cheeks with the raw memory of my humiliation in the stables just moments before.
When our eyes locked, for just a heartbeat, a single, sharp nod came from him. I forced myself to swallow, the gesture rough against my dry throat, and in an instant tore my gaze away, the heat in my face burning.
Bran trotted over to me, distracting me from myself. He nudged my hand, and I gratefully scratched behind his ears.
“At least someone likes me.”
Lark unfurled a folding map across the low stone bench near the gates and held it in place with a dagger and a crust of bread. Gideon crouched over it, brow furrowed in an expression far more serious than I expected from someone who had bragged about tavern chairs.
“So,” he said, pointing with the dagger, “we’ll follow the Eastwood trail into the Emberwood, then pass through the market village of Graymere. From there we’ll cut into the southern edge of Wildervale before reaching Caerthaine. That keeps us on the lowland route—safer, and past the flooded roads.”
The blade traced a line through the patch marked with clawed script and faint burn marks. “Avoiding Thorncross Ravine entirely. Last I heard, wolves nested too close to the pass. We’ll ride hard until Graymere, resupply there, and keep moving.”
Gideon leaned forward, tapping a finger to a jagged crease of the map. “There’s another way. Narrower path through the ridge—faster, but not one you’d take unless you had no choice. Landslides, old ruins, things in the rock that don’t like to be disturbed.”
Erindor’s mouth tightened. “We’ve both takenit before. Once was enough. If the rains don’t cut us off, we stick to the lowlands.”
Alaric leaned over his shoulder. “Tell me we’ve had scouts take this route recently. Any chance we’re not the first poor fools to ride into Wildervale this season?”
Gideon didn’t miss a beat. “Scouts passed through last month. No signs of ambush, but there’ve been murmurs of bandits trailing the outer reaches of the Emberwood. Nothing confirmed, but I’d rather we keep watch in shifts once we make camp. It’s safer to treat rumors like warnings.”
I stepped closer, studying the map. The road ahead twisted like a vein across the skin of a continent. I had little experience with maps, though not completely. Some names resonated with me. Emberwood, Graymere, and Wildervale, I had seen them written in the margins of old maps and scribbled in the pages of dusty histories. I’d read about them beneath the garden arbor in the fading light, envisioning what it would be like to walk the paths of those stories.
