“The Crown patrol,” I said, needing to shift to something tactical, something less personal. “Tomorrow. What are our real chances of getting out of this intact?”
“Slim.” He didn’t soften it, didn’t dress it up. Just truth, stark and honest.
“That’s it? Just ‘slim’? No percentage, no strategic assessment, no contingency planning?”
“We’re outnumbered, you’re still learning control, and they have resources we don’t. We might get lucky. Probably won’t.” He stood as well, and I was suddenly very aware of how tall he was, how the firelight cast shadows across the sharp angles of his face. “But we’ve survived worse odds before.”
“Maybe a little encouragement wouldn’t kill you. Just a small amount of false hope to get through the night.”
“False hope gets people killed. I’d rather you go in scared and sharp than confident and careless.” His voice was harsh, but I was starting to understand that was how he showed he cared—brutal honesty instead ofcomfortable lies. “Fear keeps you alive. Hope just makes the disappointment hurt more.”
“You’re impossible.”
“So I’ve been told. Frequently.” Almost a smile, there and gone. “Usually right before people try to kill me.”
I started back toward my tent, exhaustion finally winning over anxiety. But at the entrance, I paused, looking back at him silhouetted against the firelight.
“Why did you save me today? Really? Not the tactical answer about me being the marked one and strategically important. The real reason.”
He was quiet for a long moment, and I thought he wouldn’t answer. Then: “Because watching you die would have been unpleasant. I’ve seen enough people die badly—didn’t feel like adding you to the list.”
“Right. Of course.” My chest tightened in a way that had nothing to do with the marks. “How considerate of you.”
“Elle—”
“No, it’s fine. I get it. Good night, Kaelren.”
“Get some sleep. Tomorrow’s going to be brutal regardless, but it’ll be worse if you’re dead on your feet.”
His tone had that familiar edge of dismissal. I went back to my tent without another word, because what else was there to say?
The marks at my collarbones warmed, spreading with intensity through my chest but not actually expanding their territory, and I didn’t fight it. Whatever I was becoming, at least I wasn’t facing it alone.
Even if my protector would kill me without hesitation if needed.
Morning came with Nimor’s quiet report during breakfast. The camp was shrouded in Wynmire’s perpetual morning mist, which clung to everything and tasted faintly of copper. Above us, the canopy filtered the dawn lightinto moss and honey tones, and somewhere in the distance, I could hear the morning chorus of bell-birds—creatures that looked like sparrows but sounded like wind chimes.
“Crown patrol changed direction,” Nimor said, materializing fully for once instead of his usual half-there state. “They’re sweeping wider, but they’ll still find us by midday if we stay.”
“Then we move,” Kaelren decided. “Everyone ready to leave within the hour. We head deeper into the Wyrmwood.”
“That’s the opposite direction from safety,” Eltrien protested.
“Better than Crown territory.”
Peeble landed on my shoulder with more force than usual, antennae drooping. “I don’t suppose ‘deeper into the Wyrmwood’ means ‘toward a nice safe hollow with excellent moss beds and no one trying to kill us’?”
“Probably the opposite of that,” I muttered.
“Thought so. Just checking if optimism was warranted.” The beetle’s wings buzzed unhappily. “It never is.”
As everyone prepared to leave, the Sage approached me with a vial of liquid moonlight. Peeble’s antennae perked up with interest.
“Ooh, shiny. Is that for drinking or dramatic last-resort purposes?”
“Take this,” the Sage said to me, ignoring Peeble entirely. “When the time comes, you’ll know.”
“What time? What is it?”
