Even in the stag's wounded state, he still fought to live. Why shouldn’t I?
…
Far above, almost impossible to see, a pale owl watched from the branches. Its feathers shimmered like mist in moonlight, eyes reflecting not the fire but the girl beside it.
It only observed, still as bark, old as the hush between heartbeats.
He had watched many pass beneath his perch; knights, wanderers, wild things with teeth and flame. But no one like her.
The glade had seen many things, but it had not seen this.
Not a spell. Not a prophecy.
Only a beginning.
The seed of fire the owl had long waited for began, at last, to glow.
Chapter Eight
Erindor
Graymere emerged from the mist as we left Emberwood behind us.
Wyn shifted in front of me, her slight frame pressed against my entire front. Every time her hand brushed my thigh or adjusted her balance, it sent a jolt of heat through my skin, leaving a phantom sizzle where she'd touched. I gripped the reins harder, swallowing hard.
It wasn’t supposed to be like this.
Her horse had vanished into the woods after the flare. We searched and whistled, but we had no choice. She had to ride with me.
She was quiet about it. Blushing, yes, her voice a murmur when she asked, “Is it all right?” But no complaints. Just her soft intake of breath when I pulled her up and settled her down before me.
Now she sat within my arms, and every movement of the horse shifted her closer. Her hair brushed my jaw, and her back pressed against my chest.
She fitted perfectly.
And that was the problem.
I told myself it was nothing, that it had been a longtime since I’d ridden with anyone like this. Since I’d touched anyone with any softness to them. That the heat I experienced wasn’t from her, but from the proximity. Just the cold of the Emberwood wearing off.
But I knew better.
I wasn’t supposed to notice the way her shoulders tensed when she was nervous, or how her breath hitched slightly whenever the horse stumbled.
And yet.
There she was, all stubborn and warm.
Too close in every way that mattered.
Graymere crouched at the edge of the Emberwood, a town half-swallowed by its own decay. Worn stone and crooked roofs leaned into one another like drunkards clinging to old stories. The muddy road narrowed as we entered, flanked by shuttered houses with sagging porches and broken steps.
Lanterns burned low behind cloudy windows, their glow casting long shadows through the mist. Doors opened only an inch, long enough for someone to fetch water or chase a chicken, before slamming back into place with a sharp thud.
It was nearing midday, but the damp and haze made it feel like twilight.
At the town’s center, a cobbled square pulsed with movement. Crates of root vegetables and smoked fish crowded the market, and hawkers shouted half-hearted deals under drooping canvas tarps. The clatter of carts and clang of pans echoed in the stillness of surrounding streets, as though the town permitted joy only in one small corner.
Everywhere else looked starved of warmth, color, and hope.
