I turn my back on the farmstead, the first real home I have known in this cursed land. I do not look back. I cannot. Aurora’s hand tightens in mine. She takes a single, shuddering breath, smelling the woodsmoke and safety one last time, and then she walks with me. We cross the cleared yard, the repaired gate groaning a farewell as I push it open.
The sun is a brilliant, golden lie, a sharp, clean gold that spills over the open fields of Rach. It feels wrong. This peace feels like a trap. We walk for hours. The beautiful, open fields, vibrant with the false promise of safety, slowly give way to taller, denser trees. The sunlight, once so bright, begins to dim, cut off by the thickening canopy. The air grows colder, damper.
The clean, sun-baked earth of the farm is gone, replaced by the true scent of the northern wilds: damp, sulfurous rot. The ground here is not firm dirt; it is a black, sucking mire that tries to steal my boots with every step.
This is the real Rach. The farm was an illusion.
Thesoundof our passing is too loud. Thesquelchof my boot in the mud. The snap of a twig. But the woods themselves are silent. Oppressively, unnaturally silent. No birds. No rodan chittering. The familiar tension returns, a cold knot in my gut, the need to scan every shadow.
My hand rests on the hilt of the human sword. It feels clumsy. Wrong. It has no balance. I miss my axe.
I hold up a hand, and Aurora freezes behind me. I squat, my eyes narrowed.
There, in the mud, is a footprint.
My blood runs cold. It is not a worg. It is not an elf. It is massive, far larger than my own boot. It is humanoid, but thetoes are splayed, tipped with claws that have dug deep into the mud.
What in the hells...
I scan the trees, my heart hammering a sudden, heavy beat against my ribs. Nothing. Just shadows and the pale, sickly glow of fungus on black bark.
I kick a pile of rotting leaves over the print, covering it.
I will not tell her. Not yet. Her fear is a scent that will draw predators.
22
AURORA
We do not stop until the sky bruises into evening and the sulfur stench grows stronger.
No fire. He orders it without speaking. Just a look, a tightening of his jaw. We settle into a hollow between two weeping roots—thick as pillars, slick with moisture that drips in slow, rhythmic taps.
The cold sinks into me immediately, sharp as needles. I curl against Othic’s side, trying to leech warmth from him. He is a furnace—burning from some core I will never understand. My shaking eases only because of him.
Then a new smell threads through the air.
Rank. Musky. Oily. Wet fur left too long in a dark room. Hair damp with sweat and blood. The kind of scent that hits the back of your throat and refuses to leave.
“What is that?” I whisper.
Othic goes still. Not the restful kind. The statue kind. And when a warrior like him goes statue-still, it means something is terribly wrong.
His growl rises—not loud, but so deep it seems to vibrate the earth. The last time I heard a sound like that, slavers died.
He stands. Silent. Sword drawn.
I press myself deeper into the roots, dagger trembling in my grip.
My breath fogs faintly in the cold. His does not. He is too keyed up, too taut.
I try to sleep. I fail. My eyes stay open, locked on every flicker of shadow.
Suddenly, I see them.
Two red pinpricks. Low to the ground. Unblinking. Not animal eyes; those dart, reflect, move. These… watch. Fixed. Intelligent. A patient, sinful red.
They study us.
