A heavy silence settled over the fire, thick with what had just been set in motion. Maeve’s eyes seemed older than they had a moment before, her mouth pressed tight, as if holding back more than words. Across from her, Mathias was quiet in a different way – the grim reality of the opportunity, and the challenge it carried, beginning to take hold.
“But a gap means nothing if I can’t move through it.” I straightened, already mapping out the road ahead in my mind. “I’ll need supplies. A horse. Provisions for at least a week if I ride hard – longer if I’m forced to go wide around patrols. Clothing that doesn’t scream exile. And none of those grow in the cracks of temple stone.”
Mathias exhaled through his nose, the sound dry. “Which means you’ll need to ask,” he said. “From the same people who still believe you belong at the end of a rope.”
I didn’t argue. There was no use pretending I could avoid them. We were too far from the Ironvein River, the roads would take too long to walk, and the sea could not carry me to where I needed to go. If I wanted to reach Irongate before the Queen’s eyes caught up with me, I would have to ride. And if I wanted to ride, I would need the townsfolk to look me in the eye and see something worth sparing. Even if it turned their stomach to do it.
Maeve let out a slow breath, her hand finally releasing its grip on the edge of her apron. “Then we’d best not face them looking like drowned rats.” She rose stiffly, brushing her palms against the worn fabric of her skirts. “You’ll have better chances with a full stomach and clean clothes. No one listens to reason from anyone with chattering teeth.” She gave the pot one final stir, then began gathering what little remained of her things. “We’ll sleep at mine tonight. It’s not far. Still standing, last I checked. Warmer than this ruin, and dry.”
Mathias rose with the rest of us, but there was a weight to it that pulled at something beneath the surface. Nothing overt, nothing pronounced – just a coat shrugged into place and a glance toward the door that lingered a moment too long. His movements were steady, measured, but something in them felt… resolved. As if the decision had already been made hours ago, and now his body was simply catching up to it. I watched the line of his shoulders as he stepped to Maeve’s side, brushing a hand lightly against her arm, and I felt the air shift with the kind of still momentum that comes just before a tide breaks.
The path to Maeve’s cottage curved along the rise, narrow and worn, flanked on one side by brittle grasses and on the other by the long breath of sea wind tugging at the cloaks on our backs. Maeve walked ahead with the pot bundled in her arms, her stride steady despite the slope, while Mathias lingered closer at my side, his shoulder brushing mine each time the trail narrowed.
We reached a bend where the old well-post came into view, and the ground beneath us softened with loam and ashwort. The wind shifted, sharper here, as if drawn in by the trees that leaned too close together. And it was there that Mathias stepped in, his arm easing around my back in a single, practised motion, pulling us close enough that his voice could reach only me. “I’m coming with you,” he murmured, the words low and even, his lips and his warm breath just at my ear.
Something in me stirred – not surprise, not relief, but a heavier pull, unfurling through me, steady as a tide. Before I could respond, before I could gather the thoughts beneath the words, he was already moving, stepping ahead to unbar the gate and lift the latch from Maeve’s door.
She ushered us in with mutters about dust and disuse, then moved toward the hearth with the surety of someone who could navigate the room in darkness. Mathias followed, casting a glance over the room and checking the shuttered windows as the door clicked shut behind us. The warmth of the room gathered slow, the scent of lye soap and old cedar rising from the floorboards. I reached to unfasten the brooch at my throat, the clasp stiff with salt, the wool of the cloak clinging like a second skin. My fingers fumbled at the pin – once, twice – and caught.
Then, heat. Sharp and sudden. A burst that flared up my forearm and through my chest, so fierce I staggered back a step. The clasp fell to the floor with a metallic crack, glowing red-hot where it landed, the scorched fabric around my throat curling inward in thin black tendrils. I stood frozen, heart thundering, breath caught in my throat. The cloakfell off my shoulders, and from the peripheries of my vision, I could see the wool still held a flame, and my hands, my wrists… the veins in them were almost glowing red hot – and painful. I felt the same pain in my neck, rising fast towards my cheeks.
Mathias was there in a heartbeat, crossing to me in two strides, and his hands found my face, steady and certain and gentle. His eyes searched mine, and whatever he saw there made no room for doubt – not about what had happened or who had caused it. I felt the fire still dancing in the corners of my vision, a ring of light curling inward, not hurting anymore but burning all the same. His forehead rested against mine, his breath anchoring me in the dark. My pulse slowed. The flare ebbed. And as the last curl of flame at our feet flickered out with a soft gasp of smoke, I reached up and laid both hands over his, holding them to my cheeks as if that alone might keep whatever lived in me from bursting free again.
Chapter Twenty-Seven: Frejara
The room held its breath around me. Linen creased beneath my shoulder where I’d curled onto one side, the coverlet drawn snug across my hips, warm where it held and cool where it had slipped. The air was thick with sleep and the slow ember-glow of the banked hearth, and the dull ache behind my eyes told me I had slept longer than I meant to.
A sound stirred beyond the door – a footfall, muted but certain, followed by the soft click of a latch easing open. I shifted only slightly, opening my eyes the barest slit. The crooked beams above swam into view through the morning haze, and a chair came into focus—drawn close to the bed, and slouched in it, Mathias. One arm draped against the frame, his chin tipped toward his chest in the loose abandon of someone who had fought sleep until it won. His hair had dried in tangled waves, the lines of his face gone soft. I watched the curve of his throat as he stirred, the flick of lashes before they stilled again. The floor creaked outside – once, then again. A careful tread, familiar with every board. The door opened just wide enough to allow presence, notlight. A pause followed – and then a voice, hushed and low, threaded through the quiet.
“Come, boy,” I heard Maeve murmur, her tone worn smooth.
Mathias shifted beside me, and though I kept my face turned into the pillow, I felt him rise – first the lift of his arm, then the slow push of his boots against the floorboards. He moved like someone unwilling to disturb the air too sharply, and I wondered for a moment if he believed I might still be sleeping. But then his hand brushed lightly against the line of my shoulder, fingertips skimming the blanket as if in passing – and a moment later, the backs of those same fingers caught gently against my cheek, tucking a stray strand of hair back from my brow. He leaned in close, and I felt the warmth of his breath at my ear with his words.
“Whenever you’re ready.”
He knew I was awake. Had known, perhaps, from the moment my breath shifted as he stood. But he let me linger for as long as I needed, as if holding still could make the hours wait their turn.
The latch clicked again, softer this time, followed by the dull thump of boots meeting timber and the sweep of a coat being drawn back over one shoulder. I stayed as I was, eyes closed, the blankets still gathered at my collarbone, listening as their voices settled just beyond the door—muddled by wood and distance, but still clear enough to follow.
“I’ve spoken to the Elders,” I heard Maeve say, followed by a heavy huff and a ruffle of her skirts. “They’ll be at the square by midday, and half the town with them if the gossips keep their pace.”
A breath from Mathias – not sharp, but laced with vex. “Well. That should go smoothly.”
Maeve made a sharp, wry sound that landed somewhere between a sigh and a scoff. “You’re far too calm for someonewalking into a den full of teeth.”
A rustle followed, the scrape of boots finding firmer footing. “Oh, I’m not calm,” Mathias said. “I’m resigned.”
She paused a moment. “That’s worse.”
“Probably.” His voice shifted, a little closer to the door now, as though he’d leaned back against it. “But they’ll bare their teeth either way. Might as well give them a reason.”
Outside the bed’s cocoon, I imagined her arms folded, the set of her jaw turned toward the window, counting shadows that hadn’t yet arrived.
“No, they’ll come alright,” Mathias said, and there was a steel in his voice I hadn’t heard before. “They’ll come with sharpened tongues and old grudges polished up like heirlooms, competing to prove theirs cost the most.”
“I’ve known them since they had knees scraped from running barefoot on dirt paths and cobblestone,” Maeve sighed. “And I can’t tell you which frightens them more – what she’s done, or what they now owe her to survive what’s coming.”
Their footsteps moved off down the hall, slow at first, then swallowed by the hum of wind curling at the corners of the old house. I lay there a moment longer, feeling the warmth of the blankets fade inch by inch from where his hand had rested. The room felt thinner without him in it – not emptier, just different, as though the air itself had changed its shape around his absence.
