But it came anyway. The word. The thought I kept swallowing back.
She wasn’t beautiful—no, that word felt too shallow, too fragile for what she was. She was luminous. Like something forged from kindness and wildfire, soft and steady, but dangerous to look at too long if you hoped to keep your footing.
I raked a hand through my hair, then muttered under my breath, “You’re not supposed to matter this much.”
She stirred again, murmuring something I couldn’t catch.
I stood and backed away slowly, returning to the fire. But I didn’t sit. I didn’t close my eyes.
I stood there watching her and wondering what it would feel like to matter back.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Erindor
The trail thinned beneath our boots as morning broke over the lower ridges. A gray veil clung to the rocks, stirred by the wind like breath over cooling embers. The trees here grew sparse, bark dark as charcoal, limbs like reaching fingers. We had been climbing for hours, the slope gentle but steady. The kind of terrain that crept into your legs and made them ache without you realizing it.
Alaric walked ahead, humming absently under his breath. His lute was lazily slung over his shoulder, despite the incline, and Bran padded faithfully at his side. Jasira and Gideon followed closely behind, whispering to each other about the rock formations, some of which resembled half-melted pillars or ancient statues overtaken by stone.
Wynessa walked beside me, quiet. She had pulled her hood low, wisps of her hair escaped in the breeze, her hands clutching the leather strap of her satchel. Every so often, her eyes would lift; not to the path, but to the ridges, searching. Perhaps it was the dream still clinging to her. As ever since her fire tore a path through the thorn maze, she had spoken very little.
She kept her distance this morning. I tried not to notice, but failed miserably.
“So,” Gideon called out, loud enough to break the hush, “we’re heading toward the place locals call the ‘mouth of the mountain,’ yeah?”
Alaric snorted. “Only if you want to get swallowed.”
Jasira glanced over her shoulder. “There’s an old collapsed temple near here, isn’t there? One records don’t name?”
“There’s always a temple the records don’t name,” Alaric replied.
“Sounds like a perfect place to poke around,” Gideon muttered. “Significant history, maybe a deadly trap or two.”
“I’d bet on both,” I said.
A crooked grin touched Wyn's lips, and the glimpse, barely caught, was enshrined in a quiet chamber.
A few more minutes of careful descent brought the structure into view: half-buried beneath a rockslide, its once-grand columns snapped like bones, its frieze worn bare by time. The stone bore the markings of a temple once dedicated to the gods. A familiar crescent pattern across its broken lintel suggested it had honored Tharn before it fell.
But something was wrong.
“It doesn’t look like this collapsed naturally,” I said, stepping closer. My voice lowered on instinct. “See the clean edges? It’s like someone shaped the rock.”
Wyn stooped down, brushing moss from one of the fallen columns. Her fingers lingered. “These symbols are unique. Not decorative. They’re functional. Protective runes, maybe?”
The wind shifted. Gideon turned in a slow circle. “What delights have been encountered now?”
Bran barked once, low and uncertain.
That’s when we saw the sigil.
Painted in dark ink, not old nor ancient, smeared fresh on a nearby stone: a jagged mountain over a broken chain. My breath hitched.
Blackreach.
I stepped in front of Wyn without thinking.
Alaric drew his sword halfway. “That’s not just old mercenary work.”
