When Sam finally drifts into a restless sleep, his body still tense with worry, I uncork the mysterious vial. The liquid inside seems to pulse with its own inner light, swirling with colors I’m certain don’t exist in the normal spectrum. Before I can overthink the decision, I tip the vial back and swallow the contents in one determined gulp.
It tastes like nothing at first, then like everything all at once, then like nothing again. I blink slowly, waiting for some dramatic transformation or vision, but I feel no different than before.
With a soft sigh, I settle back against Sam’s warm body, trying to quiet my racing mind enough to allow sleep to come. Tomorrow, I face the first trial. Tomorrow, I begin the journey to reclaim what was stolen from me or die trying.
As I drift toward sleep, I swear I hear a voice, not Galin’s, not anyone I recognize, whispering my name. Not Esme, but Soraya.
Daughter of stars and water. Rise and remember who you were always meant to be.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
ESME
We stand outside Galin’s cottage, the air thick with mist and tension. The twisted trees he calls home rise behind us like something out of a Tolkienian fever dream, branches curling and contorting in impossible angles, leaves whispering secrets to one another in the gentle breeze. Morning dew clings to the moss-covered stones at our feet, reflecting the pale light that manages to filter through the canopy above.
Rue stands in front of us, saddling his horse, lost in thought. His usual flamboyant self, quiet and pensive. The silence feels wrong coming from him, like a bright painting suddenly drained of color. His normally immaculate appearance shows signs of strain, a loose thread on his otherwise perfect sleeve, a slight crease in his brow.
“I hate this,” he mutters, yanking the strap tight with more force than necessary, the leather creaking in protest. “I hate being the one who has to report back. I was growing rather fond of our merry band of crusaders.” His voice carries a weight I’ve rarely heard from him, the usual theatrical lilt subdued.
“You’re not leaving,” Locke replies, his tone firm but gentle. “You need to check in. There’s a difference.” He adjusts his ownweapons belt, shoulders squared with the determination that is unique to him.
Rue raises a brow, a flash of his usual self breaking through the solemnity. “So now I’m your messenger bird? Shall I caw dramatically upon my return?” He makes a half-hearted fluttering motion with his fingers.
“You’re the only one who can do this without raising suspicion. Tell the King about the assassination attempts by the queen and my father.” Locke’s voice drops lower, his eyes scanning the tree line as if expecting shadows to be listening.
“You think he doesn’t already suspect his favorite lapdog?” Rue’s fingers tap nervously against his thigh.
“I think,” Locke says tightly, muscles in his jaw visibly tensing, “he needs confirmation from someone he trusts. Which means you. Plus, I’ll feel better knowing you’re looking out for him.”
The admission of concern seems difficult for him, each word carefully measured. I appreciate it. I don’t want anything to happen to my father, he’s just come into my life; I need more time. I need all the time I can get with him and my mother.
Rue turns to me and his whole demeanor changes, gentler, warmer, like sunlight breaking through storm clouds. “Trials, smiles.” He tsks, waving his hand in the air. “If anyone can do this, it’s you, my dear Esme.” He takes my hands and presses a kiss to my knuckles, his touch lingering. “Go be the badass queen you were born to be. If you die, I swear I’ll throw a very dramatic funeral and look stunning in black. I’ve already picked out the fabric; tears will be shed over my outfit alone.” His eyes gleam with unshed tears that he masks with a smile too bright to be genuine.
I snort despite myself, the laugh feeling foreign in my tight throat.
He moves to Locke next. Their foreheads press together for a brief, wordless moment. There’s history there, years of brotherhood that need no explanation, a language of loyalty understood only by them. Rue’s usual mask slips completely, revealing raw concern.
“Be safe,” Rue murmurs, his voice barely audible over the rustle of leaves. “Don’t do anything foolishly heroic without me there to witness it.”
“You too,” Locke replies, gripping Rue’s shoulder. “Keep your wits about you. The court will be watching.” The unspoken danger hangs between them.
Rue pulls away, composing himself with a visible effort before winking at Sam. “Take care, wolf. Try not to brood yourself into oblivion. I’d hate to return and find you’ve developed permanent forehead wrinkles.” His smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
With a wave that’s more subdued than his usual theatrical flourish, he mounts and rides into the forest, his usual flair dampened by purpose. The early morning light catches the silver threads in his cloak, making him shimmer briefly before the trees swallow him whole.
We watch until he’s gone. I feel a pang of sadness as he vanishes out of sight. Rue is a whole mood, and he made the journey here interesting, his sharp wit cutting through tension like a well-honed blade. The forest will feel emptier without his presence.
“It’s time,” Galin calls out as he emerges from the door of the cottage, his deceptively youthful face creased with something between excitement and concern. His eyes, those unsettling pools of knowing, fix on me with an intensity that makes my skin prickle.
We follow him down a steep trail through the undergrowth, the forest growing thicker, older, stranger with each step.Ancient trees loom overhead, their trunks wider than three men standing shoulder to shoulder. Roots break through the earth like grasping fingers, forcing us to watch our footing. The air smells of moss, dank earth, and my growing anxiety. A metallic taste that coats my tongue and tightens my chest.
Eventually, the trail ends and only a dense copse of trees remain, their trunks pressed so tightly together they form what appears to be an impenetrable wall. The air here feels charged and expectant.
Galin steps closer, raising his hand for the three of us to pause. His long delicate fingers move with grace and surety. As he lifts his other hand, he begins to chant softly, a lilting melody of a language I don’t understand, primordial syllables that seem to hum in the air rather than simply exist as sound. The chant rises and falls with each inhalation of his breath and to my utter astonishment, the trees shift and part. There’s no sound, no cracking of wood, or breaking of branches one would expect from such an ordeal. It’s just a quiet parting, like the world itself is pulling back a mysterious curtain, revealing a path shrouded in mist and shadow.
I automatically take a step forward, drawn by an inexplicable pull, but Galin stops me with a gentle yet firm hand on my arm. “You will go with nothing. No weapon, no satchel of supplies, you have no use for crutches.” His eyes bore into mine, searching for something. “Everything you need is already within you, whether you recognize it or not.”
“She can’t go in unarmed,” Sam snaps, his protective instincts flaring. His hand tightens on my shoulder, warm and secure. “We don’t even know what’s in there.” His eyes flash with barely contained panic.
