Bree shook her head slowly. “No shrieking. Not yet.”
“It’s The Gaulas again.” Mor approached the fire, her boots crunching on the sparse grass. She’d just finished tethering Dorka—Lara could hear the clag-doo’s low growl behind themas she tore into a hare carcass. “Look north. The sky’s turned pink.”
She was right. The raw cold that had been flaying their skin all day had pulled back. The air felt wrong now. Too mild.
Lara twisted around to see for herself.
The northern sky had gone dusky rose, bruised at the edges. Beautiful, but beneath that beauty, voices tumbled over each other, worming their way into her ears.
You’re pining for him, aren’t you?
Her stomach turned to stone.
You’re playing straight into his hands.
Her spine went rigid. She forced herself to turn back to the fire, to the circle of faces watching the sky with varying degrees of dread. “Aye,” she said. Her voice came out flat. “It’s The Gaulas.”
Bree muttered something—a prayer or a curse, Lara couldn’t tell. Beside her, Cailean’s face had hardened. “We’ve got a rough night ahead then.”
“I’ll take my turn warding the camp.” Vyr dumped an armload of dusty whin next to the firepit.
“As will I,” Ren assured them, her sharp-featured face tight with determination.
Lara nodded, relief washing through her chest. She felt brittle tonight—stretched too thin, ready to snap. The fever had come back at dawn. She’d spent the morning caught between shivering and sweating, her body unable to decide whether to freeze or burn. By noon, it had receded, leaving her wrung out like a wet cloth. Then she’d lost time again. Most of the afternoon on this occasion—just gone, swallowed by a blank space in her memory.
Dread sat like a boulder in her belly. The last thing she needed was poison being poured into her ears all night.
You’re falling apart!The voices crowed, gleeful.You will fail. You will burn. You will—
No. The word formed sharp and hard under her ribs.No, I won’t.
She lowered herself to the ground, legs crossing beneath her. The earth was cold through her tunics, but the fire’s heat washed over her face. Ruari and Annis were unwrapping food—oaten bread packaged in cloth, hard cheese, and apples that had gone slightly soft.
They’d made camp on a windswept hillside. Nothing grew here but heather, tough tussock grass, and clumps of thorny whin.
The food made its way around the circle. Bread torn into chunks. Cheese cut with daggers. Ale skins passed from hand to hand. Voices rose and fell—quiet conversations and forced laughter, the sounds people made when they were trying to pretend everything was fine.
Lara ate slowly. Or tried to. The bread turned to glue in her mouth and stuck in her throat. She chewed doggedly, her mind drifting, snagging on the flames that danced and flickered before her.
Gold. Orange. A core of white so bright it hurt to look at it directly.
She leaned forward. Just slightly. The bread in her hand forgotten.
The fire called to her. Whispered. Not with words—not like The Gaulas—but with something deeper. A pull in her chest. A hunger that had nothing to do with food.
Come closer. Give in. Let go.
Her fingers tingled. Heat bloomed under her skin, spreading up her arms, settling in her chest like coals banked for the night.
The urge to reach out—to touch the flames, to let them consume her, to stop fighting and just surrender—crashed over her like a wave.
She couldn’t look away.
Around the fire, conversation continued. Someone laughed—Roth, maybe. Someone else asked for more ale.
Lara barely heard them.
And then her attention drifted to Alar. She didn’t mean to look at him—she’d been so careful not to—but her gaze found him anyway.
