Page 56 of Ravenrose

Ayer finishes putting up his horse, not bothering to look my way again before going to join a few of the others gathering wood. He shakes his head at something they ask him.

The moment his eyes are off me, I move.

A few insistent steps, and the nearest tree has my weight as I lean hard against it, sliding down to sit at its roots. It’s the same one Ayer tied his stallion to—the horse whose rear I have become well acquainted with along the journey.

I curl in on myself, pulling my knees to my chest. It’s cold and I’m freezing, unable to hold warmth with my bare feet against the icy dirt.

I fight the urge to bury my face in my arms atop my legs, despite my firm resolve. I also fight a war with tears as I lose another battle with exhaustion. I distract myself by inspecting the rough condition of my feet, unable to do much for them aside from picking out any stray pricks of wood or thorns.

A soft nicker sounds above me.

I freeze.

Right. I’m sitting at the feet of a war beast.

Slowly, my gaze lifts.

The stallion above watches me, curious but calm. Not afraid of the little fae at his feet.

Gods, he’s beautiful—stunning, truly. I’ve always loved horses, though I’ve never been permitted to ride one. What do you need to ride a horse for if you’re forbidden from venturing past the castle walls? And this horse is breathtaking. His coat is as black as night, feathery around his hooves and ears, shining in the moonlight slipping through the trees. Unlike my father’s horses, whose manes are usually cropped short, his silken mane has been left to grow wild, but is still free of any tangles or burrs. Ayer, it appears, at least takes good care of his horse.

A lock of that silken mane falls down over his forehead, giving him a rough, untamed look. On a battlefield, he must be terrifying: broad chest, powerful, with deep lines of muscle rippling under his skin.

Cautiously, I raise a palm, reaching for his nose but pause halfway, leaving my hand midair when I notice him tracking the movement. So I stop, holding it there, letting him decide whether or not to close the gap.

He watches me, and I can see the whites of his eyes as he paws at the earth before throwing his head up in a sharp toss, pulling away from me, suspicion winning out over curiosity.

A small smile tugs at the corner of my lips, and I concede, lowering my hand. “Smart horse.”

Sighing, I go back to assessing the day’s battle scars; besides the atrocious state of my feet, there are cuts and bruises all up and down my legs, and both of my knees are bleeding—skinned from the many, many times I tripped and fell. Worse than falling was that each time I tripped or lost my footing, I was dragged several feet before Ayer noticed. Each time, he reined in his horse just long enough for me to get my feet back under me before starting forward again.

I suppose I should be at least a little grateful. A tiny, minuscule, itty-bitty bit.

He could have just dragged me the entire way.

But every time I fell, I learned. As the day wore on, I kept as close the rear of the horse as I dared, keeping hold of the extra slack of rope in my hands so as not to trip on it. Once I fell, if I recovered quickly enough, I could be back on my feet before the slack in the rope caught and dragged me forward.

The extra slack also gave me precious seconds to pick around tricky roots or rocks along the path.

But inevitably, as the hours passed and the day stretched on into evening, the exhaustion weighed heavier on me. And the more tired I became, the more I hit the ground.

I kept my focus on Rusic’s back, making silent promises.

The first chance I get, I’ll make him pay.

I just have to find a way around the cursed rune burned into my wrist. Sitting here in the quiet, I can feel it pulsing faintly—mocking me. The dark ink is a constant reminder of how helpless I am. Whatever Ayer chooses to do to me, I won’t be able to fight back, not against him. And no matter how hard I try to reach down inside myself and drag my magic up, the rune absorbs it, and I swear the ink itself almost grows darker the more I pepper it with power. Not that magic ever really was an option anyway—it’s not like I know what to do with it even if I could access it, but it’s frustrating all the same.

I sigh, giving up and turning my attention back to the makeshift camp the men have thrown together. While my battle with the road took up most of my time today, I’m still trying to pay attention to the men—what they do, what they say. Maybe I can learn something.

There are just short of twenty of them, and they all wear black leather armour, like their captain. A mix of ages—young and old.

So far, all I know is that we’re headed southeast. Closer to Daekhar but also—I sit up a little straighter, feeling a light spark to life inside me—toward Skye.

Toward Kane.

For the first time today, the heaviness lifts, my spirits rising at the thought of my fiancé.

If I can escape… If I can make it across the border…