He lifts his hand, beckoning someone just out of sight. A moment later, Seren emerges from a nearby tent, then vanishes into his. Her hair flashes amber in the darkness.
I inhale sharply. What thefuckis she doing here?
To our left, acracksnaps through the trees. Two soldiers move through the undergrowth. One holds a bow while the other carries a sword. They scan the forest, relaxed but clearly on watch.
Taliesin’s mouth brushes my ear. “We should go.”
I nod. I don’t understand what’s happening here, but if we stay, we’ll soon be discovered. Taliesin’s magic might protect us, but this is not the Order, and there are too many innocents here. The healers, the bards, the cooks travelling with the king’s army…they don’t deserve a brutal end.
We slip back through the trees, retreating from the camp as quickly as we can without drawing attention. Even when we reach the path, we don’t speak. We keep moving, pace quickening, like we’re both ready to escape this forest, where everything feels warped and wrong.
I rack my brain. Seren said nothing about joining the king’s army. It’s the kind of news she’d share, even with me. The few times she’s left Caer Draen, it’s always been with ceremony. An evening ball in her honor, the halls dressed in banners andflowers for weeks afterwards. Her assignments have taken her south to the king before, but for feasts and councils. Not for the actual war camp.
Which begs another question. Why are the king and his army so far north?
They should be in the borderlands, fighting the Kingdom of Gelyn.
At last, we reach the end of the path, and the ruins spread before us, their hazy silhouettes etched across the dark sky. In the distance, a figure glides through the night on wings spread wide. A firebird.
A shout rings out as we approach, and the gates groan open. Rhian jogs toward us with the firelight haloing her from behind. The hour must be late, but she wears her leathers and her sword all the same.
Relief shudders across her face. “You came back.”
“Not with good news, I’m afraid,” Taliesin says.
Her lips press into a grim line. “Tell me what’s happened.”
“A chair, a fire, and a warm bowl of stew for the Swynwraig first,” he answers in a voice that brooks no argument.
“Done.” Rhian nods. “Come inside at once.”
With every step, my exhaustion settles deeper into my bones until it feels as though I’m trudging through mud. The gates slam hard behind us, and suddenly Gethin is there. He takes my pack without a word and presses a hot, damp cloth into my hands. I lift it to my face.
The moment it touches my skin, the world loosens. Soothing heat curls through me, melting the ache in my forehead, the hours spent on the road, and the gritty feel of dust and wind-battered skin. I close my eyes and sigh.
Stars…there’s little else that’s ever felt like this.
A chair appears behind me. Someone gently pushes on my shoulders, guiding me down, then replaces the cloth in myhands with a steaming bowl. I vaguely take in the braided brown hair, the scent of flour.Arianell. With a word of thanks, I shovel the warm, rich food into my mouth and nearly moan as the potatoes melt on my tongue.
Rhian paces beside the fire, arms crossed. The moment I’ve finished, the questions start.
“What happened out there?” she barks. “What did you find?”
I look around. Taliesin sits across the fire, his eyes locked on me. He arches his brow, then dips his chin, as if to say,go on.
But where do I begin? From the empty tomb to the rogues, to the king’s army hidden in the forest…it feels like we’ve had enough discoveries to last a year.
So I start slowly—haltingly. Rhian balks when I describe the ruined sarcophagus, then turns thoughtful when I mention the empty depression in the wall. When I reach the rogues, Gethin and Brioc suddenly appear, along with another I’ve yet to meet.
She towers over the others, standing at least a head taller than any elf I’ve ever seen. Her sleek brown hair is wound into a low knot at her nape, amplifying the severity of her hawkish features. A rich green tunic hangs to mid-thigh, swirls of golden thread embroidered along the hem, and loose linen trousers flutter around her legs. She carries a bow and quiver of arrows on her back, and something about the way she carries herself tells me her aim is near perfect.
“This is Gwenydd,” Rhian says, introducing the newcomer. “She’s our best scout and knows the rogues well. The wounds they inflict are sometimes…”
“Like wild animals,” Gwenydd answers in a voice that sounds like the murmur of water over stones. Her eyes sharpen on my face. “How many did you see?”
“Dozens. Maybe a hundred. They seemed—”
“Driven by a reckless rage,” Gwenydd finishes. “I’m assuming you know little of them.”
