“What?” she says innocently, turning to Therion. “Tvira was quite willing to help me out, actually.” Her grin is all teeth and trouble.
Therion mutters something savage under his breath.
“Tvira was the one who gave you brask?” I repeat, blinking at her like she’s conjured it from thin air.
“Oh, Tvira gave melotsof things, if you know what I mean,” Rubi says with a conspiring wink, wagging her eyebrows like a complete menace.
“Weallknow what you mean, Rubi. Now put the fucking brask away,” Therion snaps, exasperated.
But I can’t stop laughing. None of us can. It’s the flavor of laugh that catches in your throat. The kind you get as a child when you’ve just gotten in trouble but can’t stop the laughter from exploding.
“Excuse me,” Rhyven cuts in, his voice too tight, too formal. Embarrassed, perhaps? Or something else? His cheeks are flushed, jaw set like he’s holding something in. “I’ll go scout ahead. Ensure our travels back to Thornewood are safe.”
Kael gives a curt nod, the smirk still playing at his lips. Rhyven doesn’t wait for further approval—he turns and disappears down the slope in a flash of silver steel.
“I think we should get Rhy drunk on brask when we return,” Ronyn muses. “Or what about those mushrooms, Rubes? I’dpayto see Rhy act like a duskprowler.”
We descend the slick, slated rock face in single file, boots skidding, fingers clutching at twisted vines and slippery edges. Water drips from our clothes, hair flat to our skin, every breath dragging in the thick, misty air. The waterfall roars behind us like a reminder of everything we’ve just traversed.
At the base, Therion halts so abruptly that I nearly run into him. His head tilts, his nostrils flaring. That stillness wraps around him again—the way it always does when he’s listening to something the rest of us can’t hear.
“Someone’s coming,” he murmurs, voice like steel.
He draws his axe without ceremony, and Kael mirrors him, blades whispering free from their sheathes. In an instant, we shift from wet, exhausted travelers to a pack of warriors ready for battle.
Branches rustle. Tension tightens.
“It's me, my prince. Just me.” Rhyven emerges from the trees with his hands raised, breathing hard, his pale hair damp and clinging to his forehead.
We all exhale as one, though the unease still lingers like mist.
Kael lowers his swords an inch, eyes narrowing. “All clear?”
Rhyven nods, but it’s too fast. His gaze flicks from Kael to the treeline and back again. His shoulders twitch like he’s about to bolt.
“All clear,” he says again. “Though... the river’s flooded. We’ll need to loop around, hit the western ridge. It’s a short detour.”
“That ridge is exposed,” Therion says, already scowling.
“Only for a moment,” Rhyven insists. “Then we cut back through the stone glen. We’ll be sheltered again before anyone even knows we’re there.”
Something in his tone makes the hairs rise on my arms.
Too eager. Too rehearsed.
I open my mouth, the warning forming in my throat?—
“We’ll do it,” Kael says, sharp.
“Kael,” Therion warns, the edge of his axe glinting.
“We’ll scout ahead at the crest,” Kael adds, firmer now. “If it’s not safe, we pull back.”
Therion doesn’t like it. That much is obvious. But he nods, tight and reluctant.
So do we all.
Even though the air tingles with warning.
