Freyja glanced at me, turning down a narrow road to reveal another stretch of nothing.
“Should I keep going?” she asked, but a different question colored her tone.
I nodded, gritting my teeth—wishing for a town or people or any sign of civilization to magically spring up out of the lowlands.
All I got was more empty countryside, more horses. More awkward silence.
“I think she lives near a lighthouse.” It was a bold move given the verbal gymnastics they’d done to suggest everywhere but that structure. I had to say something to keep us from driving in circles, though.
“Interesting,” Freyja said.
“Interesting,” Gunnar echoed.
Heat flashed along my upper lip.
A single bluff rose out of the flat coastal fields, like a gnarled hand reaching into the sky. If I peered hard enough, a small speck of white popped against the horizon.
Breaths turning shallow, I sank into my seat. The watchtower… we were already driving towards it. Interesting indeed.
Stacks of stone flashed past my window, littering the otherwise bare plain. Pockets of them seemed to be arranged in a somewhat orderly fashion. Demolished houses. Crumbling buildings. Grass jabbed through the rubble, telling a tale of life and loss.
Gunnar’s voice came from over my shoulder. “What’s left of an old elven village.”
“What happened to it?”
“It was destroyed,” Freyja gritted out. A gust of wind shook the windows. “Here—”she shoved a sweater at me. “You need another layer. It’s going to be cold out there. Wear this.”
Her tone could cut glass, but that wasn’t what made the goosebumps raid my arms.
I glanced at the long sleeves, rubbing the fabric between my fingers—blue, wool—exactly what I’d been wearing in the Pearl of Truth. I gulped, and it burned all the way down.
These weren’t just the ruins of some ancient settlement. These were the remains of war.
Rain and time had washed away the blood, but I swore I saw the stains between blinks. Swore I tasted the ash on the air between breaths.
The Pearl was right, something terrible had happened here. And now I couldn’t figure out if it was a history lesson or a warning of what might come. Or an even more disturbing idea: what if I wasn’t here to stop a war—what if I was here to start it?
Oh God.
“Does everyone know about this place?” It was one of those thoughts that happened to get spoken aloud, but I was curious about their way of life. About what got shown, what stayed hidden, who I might have seen in the Pearl.
“Yes,” Freyja said shortly as we reached the base of the bluff and started our crawl up the steep incline.
I stared out the back window, the wreckage growing smaller in the distance. “You aren’t afraid of mortals stumbling across it? Of finding out about you?”
She shrugged. “Half the population here already believes in the hidden folk. In elves. It’s not considered weird; it’s just part of life. Part of the culture.”
“Unless we’re using Galdur in the open,” Gunnar chirped.
“What’s Galdur?”
“Elven magic—” he started to say, until Freyja cut in.
“Which would be against elven law.” She gripped the steering wheel tighter, glaring into the rearview mirror to lock eyes with me. “Back to the point though. Most our quirks go unnoticed.”
Had to agree with her there. Regardless of the mental filter humans had that caused them to overlook most supernatural things, most were too distracted to put together the pointy ears, the grace and the stillness, the immortal glow to their skin, anyways.
Obviously, I was no elf.
