This alcove will be waiting on the way back,she reminded herself.You can rest then.
Orla had also left her a wooden comb. Picking it up, she gently teased out her tangled hair. She was still bone-weary, but being clean again made all the difference.
A short while later, she pushed aside the heavy curtain and emerged from the alcove, stepping out onto the rush-strewn floor. Her gaze swept over the shadowy interior. Carven oak pillars held up a vast conical roof. A hearth burned brightly in the center of the space while half a dozen curtained alcoves lined it—spaces many of their party would sleep in. The rest would find a spot by the fire.
Lara settled onto a low stool. Around the hearth, her companions were doing the same—arranging themselves in a loose circle, shoulders relaxing for the first time in days.
Two slaves moved among them, iron collars catching the firelight at their throats. They set down trenchers piled high: bread still steaming from the oven, cheese with a rind like old leather, and cured sausage glistening with fat. They filled wooden cups to the brim with ale, foam sliding down the sides.
Lara’s mouth watered. She grabbed a piece of bread and tore into it. The taste exploded across her tongue—oats, yeast, and salt. She almost groaned. When had food ever tasted this good?
Around her, the others had bathed and changed. With clean clothes and skin, the transformation was startling.
Mor wore plain charcoal—a tunic that should have looked austere but instead clung to her lithe frame like a second skin. She’d let her black hair down, and it fell past her shoulders, still damp at the ends.
Lara’s gaze drifted across the fire and stopped.
Alar’s hair hung dark and wet across his shoulders. He’d traded his black leather for a fawn-colored tunic and breeches. She’d never seen him wear anything but black. The lighter color suited him; it made his pale skin glow warm in the firelight and contrasted with his dark hair.
She realized she was staring. Heat crawled up her neck. She jerked her gaze away, focusing hard on her trencher.
A woman had joined them. She was of middling years, with curly black hair, and she wore scarlet robes that seemed to drink the firelight. Mairead. A sacrificer. She’d declined to join them on their mission when they met her earlier, yet she agreed to travel south with them on their return from Darkmere. By then, Cailean would need the blood-letting. He’d have to wait until the full moon, but Mairead would be ready.
Cailean helped himself to some sausage, his gaze flicking to the sacrificer. “How did you escape Cannich?”
The question landed softly, but the air shifted. A subtle tightening.
“I was visiting family here when the Shee took the fort.” Mairead’s voice stayed steady, but her eyes slid toward Mor and her Ravens. A veiled glance. “I couldn’t go back.”
“There were many druids living there.” Annis set down her bread, half-raised to her mouth. “What happened to them? Did any others escape?”
Mairead’s face twitched. “I—”
“We executed them,” Mor replied, cutting the woman off.
The warmth died.
Just like that. As if someone had thrown a bucket of water over the fire. Everyone went rigid. Breaths caught and held. The convivial ease of earlier shattered.
Lara’s spine went rigid. Of course, they had. She’d known that. But Gods, did Mor have to put it so bluntly? Right now, when they’d finally started to relax in each other’s company?
Vyr cleared his throat, the sound too loud in the sudden quiet. He shot Mor a look—pained, almost pleading. “Earth magic is dangerous to us. We couldn’t let them live.”
Around the hearth, jaws clenched. Brows drew down. Lara watched her companions’ faces harden.
Heat pulsed in her own belly, anger rising. They’d killed druids. Her people. Executed them. And now they sat here eating bread and cheese like it meant nothing.
She forced herself to breathe. Forced herself to remember. The Marav weren’t innocent either.
“We’ve killed innocents too.” The words came out roughly. She didn’t want to think about Cannich, and all those who’d fallen there. But she couldn’t let their relationship fracture—not when they’d come so far. “My father hunted the Shee for years. Mercilessly.” Cailean’s shoulders went taut beside her, but she pushed on. “And when we took back Doure, we spared almost no one.”
“It’s war.” Mor's voice stayed flat. On her shoulder, Eagal ruffled his black feathers. “Blood has to be spilled.”
Lara’s chin lifted. Her spine straightened. “Then let’s end it.”
Silence crashed down on them once more.
Everyone stared at their trenchers. No one moved. No one spoke. Not a single voice—Shee or Marav—rose to agree with her.
