The world shifted back into focus, the forest giving way to the present with grudging reluctance. She pressed her thumb into her palm—steadying her heartbeat—until the wildflowers weren’t so wild anymore.
The fire crackled, low and steady, but Elora barely registered it.
She sat still, hunched and trembling slightly. Her breathing was shallow. She wasn’t looking at the flowers anymore, but their color still pulsed in her mind like bruises behind her eyes.
Rell didn’t speak right away. Didn’t ask questions or apologize again. She heard his footsteps retreat, then return.
Something warm was pressed gently into her hand. A tin cup. She didn’t move.
“Don’t have much that helps in a place like this,” he said quietly, settling down in front of her. “But heat grounds you. It tricks your body into thinking you’re somewhere safe.”
She still didn’t respond. Her fingers tightened around the cup without lifting it.
Rell shifted moved slightly to block her line of sight—to block them. The flowers.
He sat cross-legged, resting his elbows on his knees, gaze distant but steady.
“I’ve been through these woods a dozen times,” he said, voice low and steady. “Doesn’t matter how many times I try to brace for it. The whispers always find a way to crawl under the skin.” He didn’t look at her, just stared into the fire. “I still hear my sister. Her crying. Calling for help.”
Elora said nothing. She couldn’t—not with her throat tight, her jaw locked from the aftershocks. But her eyes lifted to his face, searching.
“I don’t talk about her,” Rell added with a faint, humorless smile. “Never really saw the point in dragging old ghosts into the present. But this place doesn’t give you a choice, does it?”
She shook her head, slowly.
“You don’t have to tell me what it was,” he continued, more gently. “Just know—I know the look. When you can’t tell what’s memory and what’s real anymore.”
The warmth of the cup seeped into her fingers. She focused on that—just that. Heat. A texture. A temperature. Something real.
He glanced at her. “You’re not alone out here. Not while I’m with you.”
Elora didn’t nod. Didn’t speak. But her grip on the cup loosened, her claws retracting just slightly. Enough to hold the metal without warping it.
The fire crackled on.
And though the woods still whispered, she didn’t hear Gerard’s voice this time, only the quiet hum of the flames and the steady rhythm of Rell’s breathing across from her.
Elora’s hands steadied more with each passing moment. The warmth, the smell of smoke and leaves, even Rell’s presence—each grounded her in different ways. She took a small sip from the cup, its heat scalding her mouth. But at least it was a real pain, a here-and-now pain.
Chapter 30
Sym0ond
Symond’s leg twitched. He inhaled, chest tight as he tried to ignore the smell of raw wood and Violette’s faint, minty scent. She sat across from him, calm as a sleeping cat, which only riled him up more. How could she be so damn composed when he was hanging on by a thread? He shifted, arms folded, trying not to explode into a million pieces right there in the wagon.
"You're fidgety today," Violette said, head tilted slightly, an eyebrow raised.
He forced his attention to the wooden crates stacked around them, their rough edges catching the weak midday light as the wagon bumped and swayed beneath him. It was cramped in here. Cramped and hot, with the heat of the summer sun seeping through the boards. He and Violette hadn’t paid for this ride, but she always had ways of making things work. One moment they were crouched behind barrels, listening to a patrol march past; the next, they were buried in this pile of planks and dust, the driver none the wiser.
"Still brooding?" Violette's voice cut through his thoughts.
Symond clenched his jaw. "I'm not brooding."
"Seething, then."
He glared at her, the fire in his eyes daring her to push harder. But she just sat there, inscrutable as a stone. He hated that about her—the way nothing ever seemed to scratch her surface. She was a constant reminder of everything he wasn't: composed, controlled, competent.
He looked away, staring out a slit in the boards where streaks of gray and green rushed by. A wagon jostled past in the opposite direction, the drivers mumbling pleasantries that made Symond roll his eyes.
