Dapple tossed his head in greeting.Where’s my treat?His warm muzzle pushed her shoulder, and Trisha laughed.
“You’re no more horse than you are a bee,” she teased, extracting a few lumps of sugar from her purse. He tucked them into his mouth. She stroked his head. “Now, be a good boy and behave.” Beyond, the tethered horses moved restlessly, their stoic eyes gleaming in the deepening dusk. “Rest well.” She patted him one more time. “But be warned, if today’s any indication, tomorrow’s going to be another long ride.”
A long, resigned puff followed Trisha as she turned.
The campfire burned between the torsos of her companions; its warm light scattering across the murky ground. Trisha stopped as a shape broke away from the main group, moving toward her in long, steady strides—Daworth. Sighing, she waited.
He reached Trisha, this tall figure draped in shadows, eyes catching the muted light of the dimming evening.
“My lord?” she said, finally.
He didn’t speak, but his attention was like a gentle touch. Trisha’s magic whisked inside her, warming her skin before it settled. A branch snapped under his foot.
“You’d best choose a place near the fire.” An undercurrent of his voice was chilling. “Don’t stray far from others. Don’t leave the campsite.” He drew a deep inhale, releasing it. “Not if you don’t want to vanish entirely.”
His gravity served as a fresh reminder about the king’s soldiers, the afternoon’s fraughtness, and the casual way he’d prepared for trouble. “What are you expecting to happen?” Trisha asked. “If you suspect danger, I deserve to know.”
Around them, shadows thickened, and the cracks and snaps of unseen animals sounded louder.
“I suspect danger every day,” he said. “But here, I know it’s certain.” Daworth looked into the blackness between the trees. “I’d be a fool not to.”
“But why?”
His smile was more felt than seen, the heaviness in him yielding to sudden amusement. “Curious and sings in too many tongues. You’ll be my Starling.”
Trisha’s jaw locked. “I’d rather not, my lord. I quite like my own name.” Before he could evade yet another question, she added, “The merchant mentioned ghosts. Was she right?” Against herself, she sought the trees where evening had hidden the ancient stones.
“Right,” he said. “Who decrees what’s correct? The historians? Sagas told by a fire?” he paused. “Demons, ghosts, fae in their vanished, mystical land—they are myths our bards sing.”
“So, she was lying?” She wasn’t sure whether to feel relieved. Daworth appeared to see more than he let on. She didn’t forget how he’d witnessed her playing at the inn, and yet he now dismissed what others feared. Could she believe him?
The wind eased, the smoke’s tang growing stronger.
“Myth is but a truth too old to be remembered,” he said quietly. “And perhaps for all, it’d be better if it remained so.”
“You make no sense,” she spat. “Why are you certain of danger here? Did something happen with the Baron?”
“Nothing happened,” said Lord Daworth, his voice turning sour. “But that gives me every reason to expect something will.” He hesitated. “Fly back to the light. But for the rest of the night, keep your voice low.”
Daworth passed her toward the forest. With each step, the shadows seemed to sway, gathering closer to him. The farther he walked, the more completely they draped him. Until, at last, he was gone and only darkness remained in his wake.
Trisha returned to the campsite, unsettled by their conversation, by the way the air had seemed to stir and shadows had pooled at his feet.A trick of the light,she told herself, yet the vision of him vanishing into the dark refused to leave.
Some nodded to greet her arrival, some continued their tasks and prepared for rest. Even so, the somber mood lingered. Fjorten was giving quiet orders, setting the watch rotation. As he spoke, his hand strayed to the hilt of his sword and remained there. So, he knew of whatever trouble Lord Daworth expected to find them. The others accepted his words without dispute, confirming her suspicion that he was one of Daworth’s most trusted men.
“Why did your lord leave the campsite?” Trisha asked once he was finished.
Fjorten tugged at his beard. “Scouting.”
“And that’s a duty of his? Seems rather bold to venture into a dark forest alone.”
“M’lord is skilled,” Fjorten said slowly. “I’d be more worried for those he finds.” He grinned. “I hope he comes to fetch us to help finish the job.”
She tilted her head. “What makes him expect trouble? And why?”
“He has his reasons. M’lord is a private man. I’d be too, if I—” He cut himself short.
That little tell, of the man stopping himself, caught her interest. But she didn’t press for more answers; it told her enough for now. She opted to set her bedcover instead. Around her, others performed similar tasks, the fire’s glow dwindling to near embers.
