Rowan had commanded that the caravan stop just north of the village, Oar’s Rest, for the evening. We bathed in the River Rael, which flowed down from the Sacred Mountains to the Gulf of the Gods.
Even though the water was extremely cold, I relished the opportunity to be clean. The stench of travel was thick and suffocating in the air. I wondered if the Veilers were immune to it, considering they showed no aversion to the permeating odor. Meanwhile, the rest of us were practically choking on it.
There wasn’t any outright privacy while bathing in the river alongside everyone else, but there was an unspoken rule to focus on oneself instead of peering about. However, at one point, I caught Rowan watching me. When I saw him staring,he immediately moved his gaze elsewhere, and I swore a flash of pink flared in his cheeks. He had seen nothing explicitly indecent, but he saw enough that it raised the hairs on my arms.
That was a week ago, and now I had returned to smelling and looking putrid once again. I guess I was lucky that there were no mirrors for me to see just how vacant and disheveled I truly appeared.
Winter was closing in, and I worried just how far we still had left to journey. The temperature had dropped low enough that our breath lingered in the air. The nights were icy, and I found myself in my tent, clutching hard onto my wool blanket to preserve as much heat as possible. My bones still rattled, but at least I could feel and move my toes. A few days back, a boy named Reston had three of his toes go black. One Veiler had to cut them off. All I could do was sit on the opposite side of the camp and try to ignore his shrill screams.
I thanked the gods again for the shoes.
We had traveled to the edge of the Great North, where very few leaves remained on the trees, and mountains spanned the entire northern horizon. The Sacred Mountains stretched up toward the heavens like glorious monuments to both Anam and Aeta, closing the gap between Ground and Sky. The snowy peaks made me shiver, thinking of just how far north we had truly ventured.
The Great North was the common name for the barren tundra that stretched from the Sacred Mountains to the northeastern edge of the continent. It was a frigid place filled with apex predators that rivaled humans in their ruthlessness. Out there, we were not the only ones to be feared.
The Sky was growing dark, and the stars were twinkling into existence. The view of the stoic mountains mixed with the starry night was a vision to behold. The entire atmosphere was scattered with brilliant constellations that shone clear as day. I looked for the star from before that had shone brighter than all the rest, but it was no longer there.
In the far distance, at the base of the mountains, I saw torches flickering. My stomach dropped in realization.
It was a village.
I knew exactly what the Veilers did when they entered villages. If I had to witness another Culling, I didn’t think I could sit idly by as people were rippedfrom their homes and subjected to what I had been through. I reached for the knife in my pocket.
“Easy,” Rowan breathed into my ear. I stiffened at the light contact. “You won’t be needing that here.”
I tentatively pulled my hand back and flattened my palm against my leg. It was a warning, but it wasn’t threatening.
The Veilers rode into the village as if they were welcome. And maybe they were, because as the villagers left their homes, they seemed curious, not afraid. I soon realized that the villagers weren’t looking at the Veilers at all. They were looking at us, the culled.
“Where are we?” I asked Rowan.
“Summit’s Ridge. It’s an outpost for the Order.”
“That explains why people aren’t running in fear.”
Rowan snorted.
Our horse slowed as we entered, coming to a complete stop when a woman stepped out in the middle of the road. She was dressed all in black, like a Veiler, and was blocking our passage. However, unlike the Veilers, she wore no mask. Rowan quickly dismounted, leaving me atop our horse. The rest of the Veilers and culled remained seated, watching intently.
The woman was petite, with straight midnight hair that fell to her chin. Her skin was warm beige with swirls of red ink tattooed on both her hands. Her dark brown almond eyes flicked up to me and narrowed in careful assessment.
It was Rowan who broke the silence first.
“Lieutenant.”
His voice seemed strained, but his back was turned toward me, so I couldn’t make out his expression.
“Commander,” the woman said, turning to him and giving a small bow of respect. “We have been expecting you.”
Her accent caught my attention. It had been a long time since I’d last heard it. The accent was native to Northwestern Ethorians. I found it interesting that she was a soldier for the Ravaryn Crown, the very kingdom her people supposedly despised.
My eyes traced the intricate red tattoos on her hands, which swirled up and underneath her long-sleeved tunic. The markings were a tribute to her Northwestern ancestry, ones I’d only ever seen etched in faded history books. They were incredibly rare, and those who bore such ancient markings were loyal warriors.
“We would have arrived earlier, but unfortunately, we ran into a band of Rebels on the way. We lost five of our own.”
“I assume they lost more?”
“Yes.” It wasn’t an enthusiastic response, but it wasn’t somber.
