“Are you all right?” Concern roughened his voice.
“Aye.” The word came out too husky, too raw. “Fine. Thank you.”
Releasing her arm, he stepped back, putting distance between them.
Lara walked on, legs unsteady. She made her way to the back of the cave, where Ren and Annis had dumped their grass before joining the others. Alone now with just the horses for company, she added her grass to the pile. She then brushed stalks off her tunic with hands that trembled slightly.
She didn’t go to the fire. She couldn’t. Not yet.
Instead, she moved to Bracken’s side and pressed her cheek against the mare’s warm neck. The horse’s solidity anchored her. Everything was piling up—the fever, the lost time, the fear of what the fire was doing to her. And underneath it all, threading through every other worry: him. Always him.
“Enough,” she whispered into Bracken’s mane. “No more doubts. I must stop worrying about things I can’t control.” Her fingers curled into fists against the mare’s shoulder. “Just let me get through the next few days. I’ll face the future then. I’ll facehimthen.”
She lifted her head. Straightened her spine. Pushed her shoulders back.
Something fluttered in her chest—not nerves, but determination clawing its way back to the surface. She’d survived the Heather Path. Survived the Slew, The Grey Ghost, and a deadly rockfall. Survived seeing herself clearly for the first time and not breaking under the weight of it.
She could survive this too. They were making good time. If they kept pushing on, they’d reach The Shattered Crown for Gateway. They wouldn’t be able to slow their pace though.Tonight’s waxing gibbous moon was a reminder that time was running out.
The task ahead was too important. The rift wouldn’t seal itself. The dead wouldn’t stop pouring through. And if she failed—if she let herself get distracted by old wounds and inconvenient feelings—everyone she’d ever loved would pay the price.
She couldn’t let anything distract her.
She couldn’t fail.
Even if it meant ignoring the part of her that still ached when Alar looked at her. Even if it meant burying the treacherous warmth that bloomed in her chest every time he steadied her fall.
Especially then.
Seated by the fire, Alar watched Lara take her place.
On the far side. As distant as possible from him. He marked it, yet he didn’t blame her. It didn’t help that he kept staring at her like a lackwit. Kept helping her. Kept stepping in where he wasn’t wanted.
Irritation twisted in his chest. He needed to pull back, to give the woman room to breathe. But the truth of it was that she consumed his thoughts—she had for a while. He’d made a choice a year earlier and had been on the wrong path ever since.
His gut clenched.
He might as well admit it to himself. It was time to stare the truth in the eye. Justice for his wulver brothers and sisters had meant everything to him, but his decision had been about more than that. He’d wanted revenge against the people who’d spurned him, hunted him, and turned him into an outcast. He’d been as bitter as wormwood, unable to see past it.
But he did now—only now it was too late.
Mor handed him some grouse then. Nodding, he took it, even though his current thoughts had just killed his appetite.
Across the fire, Cailean was ribbing Roth about something. Both men’s faces were drawn with fatigue, yet Roth’s gaze gleamed with amusement as he replied.
Alar envied them both.
Neither of them had grown up knowing they were a mistake. They were proud Marav men. He would never be accepted by them. Once, he hadn’t cared. He’d have spat at their feet rather than try to befriend any of them. However, tonight, tiredness had lowered his defenses.
A hollowness filled him.
Worse still, those two men had Lara’s respect. Her trust. Yet, he’d cast it aside like it hadn’t mattered.
“Aren’t you hungry?”
Alar dragged his attention from Cailean and Roth and glanced at where Mor sat, cross-legged, Eagal perched upon her shoulder.
“Not overly,” he admitted, looking down at the greasy hunk of grouse he held. His stomach had firmly closed.
