The sun hung low,the temperature falling fast, when the cry pierced the air. Sudden. Sharp. It cut upward through the Eldermaze and curled into the sky.
Dorian’s arm snapped out, stopping me. We both froze, heads lifting as the sound twisted into something higher—shrill and long, like something mourning its own death. It came from nowhere and everywhere, building in pitch until it vanished, leaving only silence.
“A fae?” I whispered into the ringing quiet.
“Yes.”
We didn’t move. Didn’t speak. The silence pressed down, taut and watchful. When nothing followed, Dorian lowered his hand and straightened. “We’ll keep moving.”
I said, “Could you tell where it came from?”
“No.” His voice was clipped as we walked. “The hedge warps your senses.”
“So it isn’t just me.”
He didn’t answer. Words had become less frequent between us since the sun began to disappear.
By the time the horizon bled orange and shadows lengthened into the paths behind us, we reached another alcove. Dorian stepped in first, then turned back to me.
“This is where we’ll stop for the night.”
I followed. The space was small, no more than six feet across, and nestled at the crook of two branching paths. From here, you could see in both directions clearly.
He unclasped his cloak, hooked one edge on a thorn above the entry, stretched it to the other side, and secured it to form a curtain of shadow. The way the fabric blended with the hedge was uncanny, almost as if the cloak had grown from the thorns themselves.
As the light faded, the illusion deepened. It was clever.
“Did you just think of that?” I asked when we were enclosed.
He crouched to hook the cloak in place at more points. “In our court, children learn camouflage before letters.”
I shook my head, wryness curling my lips. “I should have liked that.” My mother had always pressed me to learn from Elisabet, to be traditionally schooled in every way possible. And yet I had always found more use—more delight—in ripping paper than reading from it.
Darkness crept in, the stars appeared, and the temperature dropped fast. Above us, the hedge allowed a view of a starscape unobstructed by clouds. It would have been beautiful if it weren’t so fucking cold.
We sat on the ground, our knees up, careful not to touch the hedge. I wrapped my cloak around myself and knew within an hour it wouldn’t be enough. But we couldn’t light a fire; for one, we didn’t have the supplies, and for two, the light would draw attention.
So we only had each other and the sky above to look upon.
In the semidarkness, the moonlight traced the sharp lines of Dorian’s face in silver. His eyes caught the light strangely, the carmine visible. Without a word, he reached into his cloak and drew out a small bundle that he placed between us on the ground.
“Eat.”
I stared at the shape. It was a dark, leather-wrapped lump, knotted with a thin cord. “What is it?”
“It’s meat.” Then, when I didn’t move, “I know you’re starving.”
The hunger in me howled at the word. I reached out and untied the cord. Inside was dried meat, rough and dark. Its scent woke a fresh ache in my stomach. I bit in. It was salty, tough, divine. “What kind of meat?”
“Rabbit.”
I swallowed too quickly. “Oh.” Rabbit was delicious.
“This might last us two days,” he said, watching me. “If you only eat a few pieces tonight.”
“And you?”
He gave a small grunt and turned his face upward.
