After I makeit back to camp and wash off all the ash, blood and vomit, I head for the Healer’s Tent and drop heavily into the chair beside Ezzy’s bed. The smell of herbs and damp cloth fills my nose as I draw in a long inhale.
I’m desperate to stay longer, tell her everything that happened today, how badly it all went, but when I start, the healer comes in to change her dressing. She’s hopeful that Ezzy will wake in a few days but is also concerned that her fever has spiked and has to run some tests.
Worried, I offer to stay, to help, but she shakes her head, already working, and says I’ll get in the way.
So I smooth Ezzy’s hair back from her face before turning to give the duck a quick pat, thinking of Finn, then I pick up my things and head over to find Neeve’s wonky tent. Doesn’t take long. She’s right; it’s pretty obvious. Dragging back the canvas, I step inside.
The tent’s darker than I expected. No candles are lit, and it takes my vision a moment to adjust. Then, as the flap falls shut behind me, shapes slowly emerge from the gloom—four basic single beds, two on each side, each with a chair, a basket at the foot, and an upturned crate serving as a side table.
The two nearest beds are free, so I head for the one on the right, dumping the clothes Neeve lent me onto the chair andthrowing Talen’s jacket on top. Ahria, of course, wastes no time flying over, curling up and making herself at home in the soft leather. I, on the other hand, drop onto the hard mattress, the wooden frame groaning beneath me as I drag a hand over my face.
My knees are scraped raw, my stomach still sore from heaving, my nerves burnt out—though the physical pain is nothing compared to the ache in my chest.
God, she saw everything today.
Every stumble. Every failure. Every moment I wasn’t enough.
Still, just because I failed today doesn’t mean I will tomorrow. I’m not giving up that easily. I can’t. I’ve never felt this before—this pull, this desperate longing to connect. It’s like my Threads have sunk into hers, tangled in so deep I couldn’t pull them free without ripping them apart.
Turning onto my side, I glance down to the foot of the bed, to the chair where Ahria lies curled up in Talen’s jacket, her violet eyes finally closed, and my throat closes, vision blurring as I imagine not bonding with her?—
No. I’m not doing that. Not here.
Before Ahria can see, I whip my arm across my face, forcing the tears, the feelings, the weakness, back down.
I’m just tired, that's all. I need to think about something else—anything else that keeps me out of my head.
Sitting up, I reach over for my pack and start digging through it for the last of my mum’s journals—the one with the missing entry—but my hand hits something cold and hard instead. Closing my fingers around it, I slowly pull free the contraption Talen left for me and place it on the upturned crate beside me.
It’s strange, some kind of candle holder, though it looks more like a folded-up flower. I shove my hand back into my pack forthe notebook and pencil he left with it, and my breath catches when I open the first page and see his handwriting.
This is a Letter-threader. It’s an ancient way to communicate. I have the other in my chamber at the Citadel.
They were outlawed after the Treaty, most were destroyed, so handle it with care and keep it hidden.
I don’t expect anything from you, though if you would like to message me, simply follow the instructions on the next page.
• T
P.S. Please let Ahria see the real you. And remember what I said in Ravenscross, find a way to let everything out.
Tracingthe words with my thumb, I read it three, perhaps four times. The writing is so elegant—each letter shaped with the same care as one of his sketches. It should calm me, it should feel familiar, yet it doesn’t. Because now, looking at it, I realise I’m not sure I ever knew him at all.
My hand stills against the page.
God, I thought I could avoid this, avoid him, for a bit longer. Avoid thinking about all the things he’s done.
All the things I’ve done.
Maybe I should shove the device under the bed, forget about it, keep things simple and focus on the anger.
Because if I use this… if I write to him, I know I'll start to understand, I'll start to forgive, and then I'll have to look at myself?—
Rowan’s face flashes through my mind. Then Finn’s. Ezzy’s. Followed by everyone in Ashvale. Every wrong decision I made. Every choice that led to blood and pain and people I love getting hurt.
I don’t want to go there, not yet. But sitting here staring at his writing, I can’t stop thinking about how much I still don’t understand. And I need to, I need to know, even if it drags up everything else I'm trying to avoid with it.
Letting out a slow, controlled exhale, I turn the page and start following the instructions.
