Alaric cursed under his breath. Gideon muttered something about keeping matches away from royalty. Erindor offered his hand.
“We’ll find her,” he said. But he spoke in a clipped, tight tone. “Next time, leave the fire to us, Princess.”
Next time.
His words stung sharper than they should have. I brushed his hand aside and stood on my own.
“I’m fine.”
“If you say so,” he muttered, clearly unconvinced. His eyes lingered on mine for a moment longer before flicking away.
I turned away before he could see how right he was.
I didn’t sit.
It was impossible.
…
I walked. Alone.
No one noticed, not right away. The morning’s chaos had left the camp in disarray. Gideon was helping Tyren to his feet, muttering something about bruised ribs. Jasira knelt by Kellen, checking the bindings on his leg. Someone had gathered the scattered supplies. Somewhere behind me, Erindor gave orders in a raised voice.
It was easy, really. One step. Then another. Then gone.
A silly thought, certainly, but I was unable to stand the idea of my terrified mare alone in this blazing forest. The mist was thinning, but the sun only made the wrongness more vivid—the silence too sharp, the trees too watchful.
She had bolted because of fear. And part of me understood that all too well.
With every step, guilt gnawed deeper. I should’ve remembered the spores and the warnings about them. Thepages I had studied for hours on end, whilst bent over my desk with ink-stained fingers and just candlelight, were now useless. How did I miss something so basic, so critical?
Under my breath, self-directed curses formed an endless loop. My cheeks burned, not just from the cold, but from a flush of embarrassment. How foolish I was. How reckless.
I pictured their expressions: Erindor’s tight-lipped disapproval, Alaric’s forced calm masking worry, Jasira’s concern morphing into unspoken judgment. Out here was not where I belonged. I never had. And now I had proven it to everyone.
The mist thickened the deeper I went, swallowing the path behind me. The trees loomed taller here, closer together, their trunks dark and slick with dew. It was as if the forest had drawn a breath and forgotten how to let it go.
My boots sank deeper into the moss, muffling every step. A branch cracked nearby, and I spun, heart thudding, but nothing moved. Shadows clung to everything. I imagined claws in the dark, eyes watching from the hollow of every tree.
Still, I didn’t turn back.
There was a pull now, subtle but sure. Not panic. Not instinct. Something quieter. A thread wound through the trees, tugging gently at my ribs, not quite commanding, yet pleading to be followed.
So, I walked on.
Beyond where the moss grew thick enough to drink sound, the hush deepened into something reverent. The world slowed. Every breath was loud. Every heartbeat, magnified.
Then it registered with me—a rustle too pained to be wind.
I parted the ferns with cautious fingers and saw it.
A stag.
The stag lay half-curled in a nest of twisted barbed wire and rusted iron teeth, a trap more fitting for warthan wilderness. Blood seeped into the moss beneath it, dark and slow, pooling like ink in the fading light. The trap mangled one leg so severely that it was beyond recognition, with bones jutting where fur should’ve been.
Its sides heaved with shallow, rapid breaths. A visible tremor running through its weak frame.
And yet, even broken, it was beautiful. Its antlers rose like a crown, wide and sharp, catching what little light filtered through the trees.
