5
MAX
Baris grabs my elbow, jerking me to the side. “No need to watch her,” he comments, dragging me over to a stallion. My heels dig into the dirt to halt him, but it doesn’t work. “Everyone should get back to sleep, to rest and heal. We’ve a long journey.”
“And where are you taking her?” Reid asks, keeping an eye on Fenrir. The bastard goes back to his bedroll, staring at us with fury lining his expression.Great. “Probably not a great idea to go off into the woods with bloodthirsty wolves.”
Baris throws me into the saddle, the horn stabbing me as he straps me in. I look over the camp, watching as my Fae guards continue to build pyres for the dead.
We’ve taken heavy loss. With not many soldiers to begin with, and most are still being vetted by Fee and the lords back home, we’re with a very limited number of guards.
How are we supposed to defend against another attack? What happens when Griffin finally comes? We won’t be able to withstand alone.
“That’s not a worry for you, muse.” He gestures to the Woodland heir. “Keep him in your sights. We won’t be gone long.”
He throws the reins into my hands roughly, climbing on to another horse. Oddly enough, Reid lets us go, moving his bedroll to block us. I keep my grumbles to myself—he could at least try to fight Baris.
Luckily, the Hadeon leaps to my side. Since the wolves, he’s stuck to my side instead of following my mate. It’s odd. He protects me from creatures, or attacks that result in my getting injured, but rarely interferes in anything else. It’s as if he has one task and will only keep to that specific job.
It’s not the first time I’ve wondered why he accompanies me. Being worthy is fine, but why me?
“Where are we going?” I twist in my seat. Between the charred bodies, the hateful glares, and the remnants of a dream that seemed too real, trotting off into the woods is the least of what I need.
“Home.”
Sometime later, through the dense woods, we come to an opening with a small grassy knoll. Covered in wildflowers, I recognize some species native to the Blackwoods Coven: moonvale lily, mint catnip, yellow daffodils, and bright lime ferns used for pain relief. In the back, there are larger trees, some hanging with fruit like bright green apples and orange peaches. At the base of the knoll, is a small pond, covered in lilypads and tall spears.
A frog leaps over the edge and I watch, fascinated. It’s peaceful here, surrounded in a warmth that’s hard to place.
On top of the hill is a small stone cottage, built from jagged rocks and old mortar. A small window with a wooden, broken window box has a tattered purple curtain flapping, and a large dome shape that serves as a door. Without looking back at me, Baris continues his trek, stopping just short of the cottage.
He sighs deeply, chest expanding as he looks at the home. The thatch roof has collapsed slightly from the elements and age, but it’s tidy and sweet. It’s a home that feels like love and safety. A home I wouldn’t have mind having in the Blackwoods Coven, instead of the small hut with no windows and despair.
Placing a hand on the corner, Baris leans heavily against it,soaking in the past memories. It’s not weariness from travel that weighs on him, but the weariness of time—of secrets, of a long life and long trials burdening his mind.
“What is this?” I ask, dropping from the horse. My words float away in the quiet night. I’m afraid to break this spell, this feeling that I’m on the edge of something important. “Who’s home is this?”
My father closes his eyes as if in pain. “My home, little one. Once upon a time.”
We enter and the scent of dust and old grass assaults my home. The cottage is tiny, with only one more room off the main living area. A hearth sits beside the window, a cauldron still in the center as if waiting for its master and the night’s dinner.
There aren’t many pieces of furniture. A lone table, and matching chair held together by leather straps are at one end. A twin chair lays in a pile beside it, broken down from age. There’s a rug in the middle, woven together by rough wool and black from dirt.
Peeking into the spare room, I see a small bed, handmade like the table and chair. Someone took great care to craft these things, to make this cottage a home, instead of simply a shelter.
“You lived here?” I try to see it from his eyes. The windows filled with fresh flowers in the barren boxes, the hearth crackling merrily. Honeysuckle and wildflowers tickle my nose as if the memory is real.
“I did,” he confirms. “Years ago. With my sister.”
He lights the fireplace, steps familiar. It catches easily, flames dancing and the shadows pull back to the corners. Tugging the chair over to it, he holds up his hands to bask in the heat.
My father looks like a man—a simple one. Not a High Priest ofSeti.
“What was she like?”
He grunts, easing back into the chair. “To know that, you must know me. And that is a very long story.”
Carefully, I sit down, crossing my legs, and let the warmth soothe me. This feels good—listening to my father’s words, the fire a guiding companion. It’s a long distant memory that doesn’t surface, but Iknow we’ve been like this before. “You brought me here for a reason. What was it?”
