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Feedback encouraged in the comments--ruthlessly, if needed.
Trigger Warnings: This work explores sensitive themes such as slavery, abuse, and sexual trauma (non-explicit). There is combat violence, but minimal gore. Reader discretion advised.
This should have been uploaded for publishing a few days ago, but I got distracted playing a videogame that sucked up all my attention. Sorry.
If anyone can guess the game in the comments below, I will name a future character with a name that you provide. : D
Hope you enjoy the next four chapters. The next upload will be the last two chapters of this particular story arc, albeit longer chapters.
Pronunciation Guide for anyone curious
Marcus= Mar-Kus
Seleana= Suh-lay-na (Its not like Selena Gomez)
Liora= Lee-Or-Uh
Cara= Kare-Uh
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Personal Diary Entry 1425
Trust isn't a gift. It isn't something you earn, either. Not really.
It's a gamble. A foolish, beautiful gamble.
You take the fragile pieces of your past--your grief, your regrets, your bleeding hopes--and place them in someone else's hands. Not because they've proven themselves. Not because it's wise.
But because you're tired of carrying them alone.
We say we're afraid of being betrayed, but that's not the full truth.
What we're really afraid of is being seen. Fully seen--and left behind anyway.
The irony? We take bigger risks every damn day.
We trust that bridges will hold. That strangers won't poison our food. That the roof won't collapse while we sleep. We believe the gods will bless the rains and punish the wicked.
We even trust bureaucrats with our futures. That's madness if you really think about it.
So why is it that when someone finally offers us a hand--steady, honest, maybe even kind--we flinch?
Why do we call it danger, when it might be salvation?
Maybe the scariest thing isn't the fall.
Maybe it's the possibility that someone might actually catch you.
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Chapter 3- Runner Up
Day 1/2 of Freedom. Day 66 since a bath house.
Somewhere out in the fucking woods
---Cara---
I can't stop giggling.
Not loud enough to get noticed, just those strangled little snorts that slip out when your brain's started chewing on its own sanity.
Our Esteemed Mistress--aka Queen Seleana--is rummaging through the bandit camp like a noblewoman judging peasant crafts at a roadside market. Blankets are being sniffed, examined, and dramatically rejected. One gets rubbed against her cheek like she's hoping it'll magically reveal itself to be spun elvish silk. She hunts hopelessly for a proper pan, soft boots to fit Liora and curses the lack of a proper sewing needle.
If I see her snort in disgust at another pair of male undergarments, I may actually die.
Our meal situation is hilariously grim. They seemed to take all the good supplies from their victims and waste them on charred deer meat. Unfortunately, you can't disguise poor cooking by dumping salt and spices on it.
The rest of us are heedingHer Majesty's commands and taking inventory of this pitiful camp. Anything we can't use, barter, or eat is being buried or burned. There needs to be as little of a trail as possible so that the evil bad guys don't come following us through the woods.
The rest of us are as useful as the servant of true nobility. Meaning that to say, Not at all.
Tusky--or Brosha, if I want to stay alive--is circling the perimeter like a warhound in heat. She's all tight muscle and bad attitude, glaring at the trees like they insulted her ancestry. She's probably in her head trying to justify how easily Marcus dropped her yesterday.
Liora is buried in the recovered documents like they're sacred scripture. Cool eyes flicking, fingers turning pages like she's reading the bones of the future. She reminds me of the Commissary from the arena--smarter than everyone, colder than winter, and probably hiding way too much. Elves.
And me? I'm doing crucial work. Fire maintenance. Food rationing. Also some casual ogling of our handsome Sentinel.
Marcus.
Damn him. He's over by the horses, strapping gear and organizing supplies with those efficient hands and unfairly fitted trousers. I mean, really. How does someone look that good doing menial labor?
One minute we are dreaming about escape and revenge, and the next we are rescued by the kind of guy that old spinsters read books about. It makes you wonder--at what point does this story become a tragedy?
Which of us dies first?
Will he cradle her in his arms, whispering vows through bloodied lips?
Burning blood. I hate that I'm even thinking like this.
This is the penalty for being locked away for far too long, by men who only could see your body as a source of temporary pleasure. The first nice guy comes along and I'm fawning all over him.
He brought me berries... Real ones. Hand-picked. Arranged like a gift. I asked about it this morning, and he didn't say a word. No smirk, no leering grin. Apparently he just... left them there like it was nothing.
And he doesn't flirt back. Doesn't laugh at my jokes. Doesn't even look.
Did he ever hear ofCarnage, The Champion of Halpon Ring? Did he ever cheer from the stands?
Did he know who I was before they put this collar on me?
Would he prefer the crowd-favorite gladiator? Or plain, unimpressive Cara?
I'm doing it again. Thinking too much. Getting caught in the echo of lonely thoughts.
FOCUS.
I know better to believe in pretty men with sad eyes. I can't fix him and hedamn sure can't fix all that's wrong with me.
...
I miss the first call. The second one cuts through the trees like a blade. We gather by the fire without hesitation.
Marcus isn't loud--but his voice carries. Itcommands. Not like a barking soldier. More like the mountain air shifting before a storm. Weighty. Unyielding.
The others are gathered by the fire. Liora is already seated, legs folded like some ancient oracle and her face a mask of serenity. She could be meditating or preparing strange magics.
Tusky isn't sitting. She hovers behind the group, watching Marcus like she expects betrayal with every breath. Ready to pounce if he even twitches wrong.
He's laid out maps, paper and useful bits of gear. Seleana stands beside him, her posture regal despite the dirt and ash. A queen, broken but unbent.
But here's the thing nobody else seems to catch:
Marcusflinched.
When we moved to his voice, when we obeyed without protest--his shoulders tensed. Like he didn't expect it. Like he hated the sound of his own command.
He expected resistance. Rejection. Fear.
He didn't expecttrust.
And somehow, that broke my heart more than anything else.
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---Seleana---
"Alright," I said, raising my voice just enough to quiet the camp. "Here are our next steps."
Three pairs of eyes turned toward me. Cara looked like she was suppressing a yawn. Liora sat with straight-backed poise, clearly listening, though her expression gave nothing away. Brosha remained by the treeline, tense and unreadable.
Marcus stood beside me, arms folded. A silent mountain of leather and weariness. His presence helped, even if his thoughts were still locked somewhere far behind his eyes.
I drew a line through the dirt with a stick. Simple enough to follow.
"We'll head north, along the river, until we reach the stone bridge on the edge of the Wildwood. From there, we cross into the outskirts of Mableton and follow the road into the southern gate."
I paused, letting the names settle in the air. Cara wrinkled her nose like she'd just been asked to walk barefoot through pigshit.
"We'll travel under the guise of prisoners. Collars on. Hands bound loosely. Marcus plays escort."
"If anyone sees us, they'll think a sentinel is delivering his charges. Not fleeing with fugitives."
Marcus added quietly, "I have a contact in Mableton. She may be able to remove the collars." He gave the group a small glance, voice grim. "After that, you're all free to go your separate ways."
A beat of silence passed.
"Any questions?" I asked, though I already knew the answer.
Cara raised her hand like a schoolgirl. "Yes. Why are we not taking all the horses?"
"Because," I replied, already regretting this exchange, "a full party of collared captives riding on stolen horses would invite questions. Suspicion. Possibly arrows."
"We walk," Liora confirmed serenely. "As nature intended."
Cara pouted. "What if I ride side-saddle and call himMaster? That feels on theme."
Marcus didn't even blink. He turned back to sorting weapons, clearly immune to her games. Cara groaned in protest and flopped dramatically across a nearby log.
"I'll be fine," she muttered. "Eventually."
"Right," I cut back in, before the whole meeting derailed. "Liora, Cara, and I will pack what we can onto two of the horses. Brosha and Marcus will search the sentinel camp. Any useful provisions, weapons, maps--they grab it."
"Assuming they don't kill each other," Cara added under her breath.
A few nods, some mumbled affirmations, and the camp began to stir with movement again.
I watched the group scatter. Cara wandered off, muttering about boots and blisters. Liora was already halfway through organizing the packs by weight and travel priority. Efficient. Distant.
And Brosha...
Brosha stood near the trees. Still. Silent. Waiting for Marcus.
She hadn't looked him in the eyes since the duel. Her hands rested at her sides, but her shoulders were pulled taut, like rope strung too tight across a bow.
The fight hadn't been long. Fierce, yes. But quick. A blow, a break, and then healing in a burst of light. She should've walked away with nothing but soreness and bruised pride. But something had cracked deeper than her bones.
Was it cultural? Traditional? She'd spoken of the "lineage." Perhaps her people didn't separate strength from self-worth the way others did.
I'd heard of it before. Ritualized combat used as both a trial and an offering--fight, fall, then rise remade. The moment Marcus healed her arm, he might've unknowingly stepped into a sacred rhythm. One he didn't even know he was dancing to.
What if she didn't feel defeated?
What if she felt like shejust exchanged masters from Peter to Marcus?
That thought made me uneasy.
I shook it off. Too many guesses, not enough facts. There was still work to do.
From behind me, Cara's voice rang out with theatrical flair:
"Brilliant plan, Seleana. No chance whatsoever that some lonely traveler or sleazy merchant decides four gorgeous women and one moody sentinel make for a tempting roadside prize! Nope. Can't imagine what could possibly go wrong."
I sighed. Loudly.
"Just pack the horse, Cara."
She grinned. "Yes, General."
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---Marcus---
She's been watching me all morning.
Not just glancing. Not just curious.
Watching. Like she's waiting for something to crack.
Brosha's stare burns a trail between my shoulder blades as we hike the narrow path through the underbrush. The morning sun pierces through the canopy in broken shafts, and every time it catches me in the light, I feel her eyes narrow.
She hasn't said a word since the duel.
I thought she might've been angry. Maybe humiliated. But this feels... deeper. Heavier.
Most sparring matches end with a slap on the back, a bruised ego, and a quiet nod. That's how I learned. You fight. You lose. You learn. You get better. Eventually, you stop losing.
But I'm beginning to realize that whatever yesterday meant to me, it meant something else to her.
I've been trying not to overthink it. We're on a tight clock, and I need her steady. Strong. Focused. Not brooding over a friendly brawl. Not letting it fester.
But every step forward makes me feel like I'm walking backward into a storm I don't understand.
Then her voice cuts through the quiet.
I pause mid-step, glancing back. "Earlier?"
"After the fight. When you said that thing. 'Stumble, but do not fall.' What did that mean?"
Ah. That. Right.
I rub a hand across the back of my neck, suddenly very aware of how much tension I've stored there.
"It's something my mentor used to say," I reply. "Back when I was training. We weren't expected to win every fight. Just survive them. Learn from them. You didn't fall. You stumbled."
She frowns.
"I hit the ground, Marcus. I lost. I yielded. That's a fall."
She stops walking.
I turn to face her fully, leaning against the nearest tree. Her arms are folded, but her hands keep fidgeting--thumb tracing the tally marks on her biceps. Her expression is tight, but the heat in her eyes has dulled. She looks... not angry. Wounded.
I take a breath.
"Your first mistake was hesitation."
Her eyebrows rise. "I didn't hesitate. I struck first."
"Clap."
"What?"
"Clap for me."
Confused, she claps.
In the space between her hands parting, I move. Fast.
I step forward, hand slicing toward her throat. Not enough to hurt her--just enough to trigger instinct.
She jerks back on reflex, eyes wide, breath caught.
Recognition flares. Her stance adjusts on its own. A warrior's memory.
"You hesitated," I say softly. "You moved after your mind decided--not before. Against someone slower, you'd win. Against someone faster, you lose."
She's breathing harder now. Not from fear. From frustration.
"Why would you teach me this?" she snaps. "Why help someone who might use it against you?"
"Because you'renot my enemy, Brosha."
That lands. Her shoulders rise. Tighten. Then slowly fall.
"You're under my protection now," I add. "Whether you like it or not, you're one of my responsibilities."
She goes still.
Stone-still.
Her lips part slightly. Her eyes flick to mine. She opens her mouth--
And then the fire returns.
"I... have become your responsibility?"
"Uh. Yes?"
She screams something in Orcish--words so loud and fast I can't understand--and stomps off through the trees, muttering curses at the undergrowth and cracking branches underfoot like they personally offended her.
I blink. Watch her go.
Whatdid I say?
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---Brosha---
Foolish. Arrogant. Unblooded. Human.
He dares claim me with no offering, no rite, no circle of ash. No threefold vow under the sky's witness.
He speaks the wordresponsibility like it's a kindness--like it's something I should be grateful for. My mother would have drawn steel at such audacity. A mantakes nothing from an orc woman unless she permits it, unless he proves himself with actionand tradition. You don't just speak a bond into being.
You earn it.
But no. This one walks through life with blood on his boots and sorrow on his breath, and believes that's enough.
One spar. One healing spell. One half-gentle word--and now he thinks I belong to him?
I should fight it.
I should demand the rites that my mother taught me. Stand by the structure of tradition.
If I were to stand by his side--if I were to raise a shield next to his sword--he would need to earn it. Properly. Fully. Completely.
And Yet... something in me does not wish for him to adhere to these traditions. There is great strength in him.
His soul burns with a quiet heat. Not the wild blaze of a young fool, but the steady inferno of tempered steel.
He held me. Defeated me. Healed me.
The Strength of a potential mate matters, but... Honor matters more.
He didn't gloat. He didn't laugh. He offered me his hand without demand.
Perhaps... the ancestors do not make mistakes.
Let the others try to tame him. Let them warm his bed, share his burdens.
I do not need to own him to walk beside him.
I do not need tolike him to stand at his back.
We are women forged by fire and chained by fate. Maybe he is the flame hot enough to melt the chain--and bind us to something greater.
And Marcus, for all his foolishness, may yet prove worthy ofmy name.
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---Liora---
Have you ever tossed a piece of food into a pond and watched as nature devours it? The fish swarm---a frenzied multitude---each one desperate for a mere crumb of bread or sliver of meat from the giant, unseen caregiver above.
Have you evertruly looked at that swarm? Assessed it? Tried to pick out which fish are male? Which are juveniles? Which are dying?
Elves practice such observations casually. Reflexively. It sharpens our ability tosee---not just the body, but the soul beneath it.
And today, that discipline bore fruit.
While sorting through these scattered documents, I discovered something curious.
This ragged band of malcontents was better supplied---and better informed---than we were led to believe.
There was a cipher hidden in the letters of someone named "Peter." A basic four-shift substitution. Crude. Obvious. The sort of code a bored apprentice might scrawl in the margins of a schoolbook.
Fools.
But the contents were anything but childish.
This "Peter" had been planning the capture of specific prisoners. This wasn't some random ambush on an imperial transport.
He laid a trap.
Now I wonder---
What was he after?
More pressingly---
Which one of us?"
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---Marcus---
I kneel beside the shallow graves of my former companions and whisper their names under my breath. There's no grand farewell, no ritual pyre or banner-draped farewell. Just dirt. Silence. And the vague hope that someone, someday, might remember they lived.
The bandits? I left them for the wolves. A different kind of justice. One that doesn't waste prayers on the wicked.
When the grim work is done, I wash my hands at the edge of the river. The cold water stings--but I let it. It's a clean pain. Real. Grounding.
Brosha waits in the camp clearing, her stance militant, as if I'm inspecting her unit. Around her, everything's been neatly sorted: salvaged weapons, clothing, armor, tools. Boots lined toe-to-toe, cloaks folded with care, gear organized like she's prepping for war.
But she hasn't claimed anything.
"You didn't see anything you wanted?" I ask.
She meets my eyes for a second, then quickly looks away. "You didn't say I could take anything."
"... Huh?"
There's tension in her jaw. Her voice is calm, but behind it--something tight, something unsure.
"Everything here is your responsibility," she says, as if repeating instructions. "It's yours to give."
Ah. Damn.
I know that phrasing. Not in Standard. In Orcish.
I mentally flip through my training--Codices Inhumano Populo, the obscure parts that barely made sense when I first read them. The parts that are now pointing out my stupidity.
I've made a critical mistake.
One of those tricky linguistic slippages between tongues--"responsibility" as in "care for," but also as in "claim." Cultural connotations loaded like a crossbow bolt. When I told her she was my responsibility, I didn't just offer protection.
I claimed her. We've accidentally completed the important parts of a traditional orcish courtship ritual.
In essence, a proposal.
I grimace and switch into her tongue, trying to smooth this over. "Brosha, I think I misspoke earlier. I didn't mean to... claim you. I meant you were part of my team. An equal."
Her eyes flare. Not just with surprise, but with something wounded--betrayed. Her lips pull tight, and her posture shifts. Rigid. Furious.
"I challenged your power," she growls. "You broke me. Then you mended me. You claimed me. And now you seek todiscard me?"
I freeze.
That's not just anger. She believes I rejected her.
Not the ritual. Her.
"I know I am not your kind," she continues, voice low and trembling. "You'd rather chase the elf, joking runt or the fiery girl. You look at me like a warrior--but not as a woman."
She turns, pulls her braid over one shoulder, and lifts her jerkin slightly. Inked tally marks line her back and shoulders--each one carved with pride.
"Sixteen victories in single combat," she says. "Sixteen suitors I turned away. I am not... unworthy."
I take a moment to really look at her.
Brosha is raw power rendered feminine--broad shoulders, sculpted arms, a waist cinched by muscle rather than fashion. Her green skin gleams faintly in the filtered sun, a living canvas of scars and strength. Her breasts rise and fall beneath the tight binding that barely contains them, the fabric stretched just enough to leave imagination clawing for more. Her hips are bold, warrior's hips, and her legs... Gods, her legs are a warpath.
She is all fury and function--nothing dainty, nothing delicate. Beautiful not in spite of her strength, butbecause of it.
"No," I murmur."You're not."
She freezes.
Then, slowly, she turns. Her expression softens--just a little. Her eyes roam over me, searching for deception, and when they find none, she steps closer.
"You stare at me," she murmurs, "like you hunger for the taste of me. And yet you speak as if you fear it."
I feel heat climb my neck. "We just met... This would be very unwise."
"Would it?" she asks, tilting her head. "Or are you just afraid I'll break you?"
I bark a short laugh, more nervous than amused. "It would take a lot to break me."
She steps forward again, and this time her fingers graze my forearm. Rough, calloused fingertips trace my skin with surprising gentleness.
"I do not need the light of a hundred moons to pass for my mind to know I want something," she says, voice like crushed velvet, "You could be... worthy of me."
I swallow hard.
"We shouldn't do this," I mutter. "We have days before we never see each other again. And I didn't mean to claim you, Brosha. I didn't mean to... hurt you."
She studies me for a long, tense second.
Then, to my surprise, she nods.
"Okay," she says. "At least you do not lie. I would have made you bleed on this dirt for lying to me."
I cough. That's... fair.
She gives a half-smile, something more amused than flirtatious, and crosses her arms. Her stance has softened. She's no longer furious--just disappointed. But under that? A slow, simmering interest.
"And if you ever do decide you want me," she adds, "you better mean it."
She paces a few steps toward the river's edge, her arms folded, her broad shoulders rising and falling with uneven breath. It's not rejection that bothers her--it's confusion. Her culture gave her clear steps: a path to power, to partnership. And I've just defied them, unintentionally declaring myself... and then immediately retreating.
"I didn't mean to offend you," I say, keeping my voice soft. "I don't understand your ways as well as I should. But Ido understand that you deserve respect."
Her laugh is dry--sandpaper over stone.
"Respect? You speak to me like a child who broke a ritual vase. This is not a festival mistake, Marcus. You stood on dirt and broke my pride with your bare hands. Then healed me. Then spoke the words."
She turns to face me again, this time slower--her anger restrained but present in every line of her frame. And yet... something else rides beneath it.
Wounded expectation.
"You touched things no one else desires to touch."
I take a step toward her. Carefully. Not as a warrior, but as a man trying to steady a crumbling bridge.
"I was rash in the way that I handled things."
She tilts her head. Her tusks catch the sun like curved daggers. "And now?"
"Now..." I hesitate, then let out a slow breath. "Now, I understand what that means to you. I am sorry for the misunderstanding, but I am still here. I just want to help you and the others."
Silence grows between us, laced with the wind. Her noses sniffs the air as it passes over us.
Then, her eyes narrow again--not with fury, but curiosity.
"You still look at me. Your eyes, theylinger. I see it. I smell you." Her lips curl. "You're drawn to me, but afraid. Why?"
"Because you're overwhelming," I admit, not bothering to lie.
Her laughter echoes this time, not cruel--delighted. She closes the space again, until her chest nearly brushes mine, her face mere inches away.
"You look at me like I am the Rising Dawn," She chuckles. "I will not burn you away, Sentinel."
My pulse drums hard enough that I can hear it in my ears.
"We need to get back to camp," I whisper. "We need to focus. We don't need distractions."
"Distractions? From what, a partially completed ritual of mating? We are not going to fall in love under the moonlight Marcus. We could just share... a moment. Together."
The way she says it--it isn't cheap. It's earnest and raw.
Something primal in me stirs at the invitation. But the other part--that wounded part, the one still shaped by blood and regret--backs away.
"We shouldn't... I shouldn't. Not now."
She studies me, long and slow, then nods her assent.
She starts walking again, brushing past me, her hand lightly grazing my chest as she passes.
"If you change your mind... I will be ready."
And with that, she steps away to gather up bundles of gear.
I stand alone with the wind, my skin still tingling where she touched me. There's no mocking in her retreat. Just patience.
The bag over my shoulder suddenly feels heavier..
Heavy with the weight of everything I don't understand--and everything I want to.
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---Brosha---
Hmmm.
The scent of his desire clung to the air like stormclouds before the lightning--hot, wild, ready to split the sky.
I caught it easily. No effort required. It poured from his pores, coiled around his skin like heat off sunbaked stone. He tried to hide it--tried to speak in soft tones and avert his eyes--but his body betrayed him.
Especially his trousers.
It was... satisfying.
He had resisted me, yes. A lesser male would've folded the moment I touched his arm. A weaker man would've begged for more or boasted of his prowess.
But not him.
He stood. Rigid. Tense. Quivering like a bowstring drawn taut--but unbroken.
That pleased me more than I care to admit.
He is strong. Strong enough to challenge me. Strong enough to touch my soul without flinching. Strong enough to fear what I offered...
I gather my share of the supplies and sling the bundle over my shoulder. I will follow him--for now. He does not yet understand, but the initial steps are complete.
Whether by accident or instinct, he made me his.
He has broken and mended.
He has claimed responsibility.
He has seen me--and not turned away.
Soon, we will return to the others. North to Mableton. North to freedom.
When this cursed collar is finally shattered, and I am no longer bound by imperial chains...
Then I will claim what is mine.
He will take me--not just as companion or comrade--but asHis Woman.
Let the others eye him like wolves in heat. Let them flutter and blush and wonder what it would feel like to have his hands on their skin.
I've seen the way the elf watches him when she thinks no one's looking. The horned one's flames flicker every time he speaks. And the human? That little fox is already sizing him up as if he's a treat she hasn't tasted yet.
But they are late to the battle.
I was first.
Let them come if they dare. Let them try to best me.
But I will not be second.
Not to them.
Not to anyone.
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Chapter 4- Through the Looking Glass
Mid-Afternoon, 10th of Aelon
---Seleana---
Marcus returned from his former camp just before the sun reached its peak. His expression was unreadable, face carved from stone, movements precise and efficient. He didn't speak at first--just nodded for us to finish packing and be ready to move. No speech. No orders. No grief.
But something haunted his eyes. A shadow beneath the surface, restrained but not buried.
Was he mourning the Stalkers he'd buried?
Behind him, Brosha followed like a silent stormcloud. Her crimson eyes burned low and watchful, nostrils flaring as if testing the wind for danger--or blood. I watched her closely, trying to decipher her body language. Was she still bristling from the duel? Or something else?
Whatever it was, I sensed it had little to do with tactics or survival. It was personal.
While Marcus inspected the horses and re-mapped our route toward Mableton, we busied ourselves with last-minute tasks. Weapons selected and the rest hidden on the horses. Cloaks cinched tight against the wind.
Cara strutted about in boots half a size too big, a shortbow slung across her back, cloak wrapped around her in theatrical flair. She looked more like a wayward tavern girl than an escaped prisoner, but the illusion might serve us well. If needed, she could pass for a merchant's mischievous apprentice.
Liora, ever the iconoclast, refused to disguise herself. Her silver-blonde hair shimmered in the sunlight, her collar left in plain view like a badge of defiance. She accepted only a walking stick for her injury and a hidden blade she slipped into her boot with casual elegance.
Brosha... adapted. A thick tunic and loose overshirt helped mask her formidable build. She secured blades at her calves, thighs, and hips, and slung a curved sword across her back. She moved like she was still deciding whether this was a journey--or a hunt.
As for me, I claimed no weapons. I didn't need to. Instead, I found a travel chest in the bandits' supplies--simple but well-built--and packed it with salves, herbs, spare cloaks, and dried fruits. I also found boots that fit. A small mercy.
When Marcus finished his preparations, he gave a soft, two-toned whistle. The sound cut cleanly through the air, a practiced signal. We followed, no questions asked.
...
The forest welcomed us grudgingly, its canopy fractured by pale afternoon light. Birds rustled overhead. Distant water whispered from the east.
Marcus led the way, weaving a path that skirted well-trodden roads and suspicious trails. He moved like he belonged to the wild--feet sure, eyes sharp, ears attuned to things I couldn't even sense.
Brosha patrolled the rear, every step like a coiled spring. She was clearly on edge, scanning the shadows with practiced aggression. I tried to mirror her vigilance, but failed. My senses--though heightened--weren't meant for tracking. My talents lie in other directions.
Liora remained near the center of the group. When she wasn't quietly observing us, she pointed out curiosities--mushrooms that glowed faintly under shadow, birds with feathers like flame, or ancient mosses she claimed could absorb toxins. Always the scholar.
And Cara...
Cara had apparently decided the day was meant for frolicking.
She darted between trees, testing her balance on roots and fallen logs. She tripped early on a thick knot of bark--Marcus caught her easily, arms steady, expression unreadable.
She"tripped" again a few minutes later.
The third time, he let her fall.
I nearly bit my lip trying not to laugh.
The first time Marcus halted our group, Cara groaned--until we all watched a bear and her two cubs emerge from the underbrush, cross the path ahead, and vanish into the woods.
No one questioned his instincts after that.
The second time, a shadow passed overhead--a young wyvern. It swooped, seized a deer with barely a sound, and vanished skyward in a rush of wind and blood.
We walked closer together after that. Not by command, but instinct. Without speaking, we gravitated around Marcus and... strangely, around me. Like I was a hearth they sought warmth from.
It unsettled me.
More so becauseI enjoyed it.
The third stop came for a different reason.
Liora's limp had grown more pronounced. She was trying to hide it, but the pain was catching up. Her foot had never fully healed from the guard's boot weeks ago.
Marcus knelt beside her with no hesitation. No show. No ceremony.
Just care.
He took her foot in both hands, rolled up her trouser leg, and began massaging in a soft, green salve that smelled faintly of pine and crushed flowers. His fingers worked with deliberate pressure, slow and steady.
Liora's breath hitched. Then escaped her lips in the faintest of moans.
Not pain. Something else.
Pleasure.
There was nothing lewd in it. And yet--everything about the moment felt charged.
The air around us thickened. My skin flushed beneath my cloak. The marks on my arms warmed--faint, pulsing light that glowed with restrained power.
I pulled the fabric tighter around me, hiding the flare of color. I couldn't let them see. Not now.
Marcus didn't react to Liora's soft sounds. He simply applied the balm, flexed her ankle gently, and nodded for her to try walking again.
She did. And smiled.
She never smiled.
And I...
... I needed to get myself under control.
For their safety. And mine.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
---Cara---
Leana yelled at me again. Something about "discipline" and "not straying from the group" and "this isn't a damn meadow frolic." Whatever.
I just... wanted a few flowers. Yellow Tears. Jemma's favorite. They grew in clusters by the riverside, catching the light like little golden stars.
Yes, I know it's dangerous. Yes, I should've said something before wandering off. Yes, I have a bit of a wandering streak. But it's not like I meant to cause trouble.
People do things to honor the dead. Candles, chants, food offerings. I just wanted to do something quiet. Something of mine. Tuck a few petals into my hair, maybe toss one into the fire. A kind of farewell.
I don't know what I expected. Closure? Peace?
Instead, I just felt... stupid. Like a child playing grown-up.
I tossed the flowers in the bushes and didn't look back.
My mind kept wandering for a while afterwards so I sought a distraction.
Luckily, moments later Marcus decided to squat down again to check the trail. Ancestors help me--those leather pants should be illegal. Tight in all the right places. Ridiculously unfair. Every time he bends down, it's like the gods themselves are daring me to lose focus.
Honestly? I'm two seconds away from starting a petition to buy him looser trousers in Mableton. You know. For everyone's safety. Especially mine.
But that's just it, isn't it?
I keep staring at him, thinking about boots and banter and smirks, because if I stop and think about what comes next--whatfreedom actually means--I get scared.
Where do I go when there's nowhere left that wants me?
Maybe I can guilt Leana into letting me tag along. Be her annoying little sister. Carry her books. Guard her tent. Make her laugh. Something.
Or maybe I'll keep walking. Until the road ends. Until the noise in my head quiets down.
Until somewhere finally feels like home again.
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---Brosha---
The Old Father sinks low behind the jagged branches of the thinning Wildwood. Shadows stretch long across the trail as we press forward into the open pockets of tall grass and fading sun. The trees are sparser here, and I do not like it. Too much sky. Too little cover. It makes the world feel brittle--fragile in its vastness.
Marcus presses onward, relentless. Perhaps he fears pursuit. Perhaps he simply doesn't know how to stop.
But I do. And I know we should.
Liora is faltering. Her steps shorten with each rise in the path, and though she pretends otherwise, the stiffness in her gait is growing more pronounced. Her breath is sharp, strained. She won't last much longer.
I should speak up. For her sake. For all our sakes.
But still I hesitate--my pride still tangled in the memory of the morning.
I was rash. Reckless. I mistook Marcus's concern for something it wasn't. Or rather... for something it was, but not fully. A soft tone. A lingering glance. Words spoken with unintended meaning. He didn't reject me. But neither did he claim me, not truly. Not yet.
And the shame of it settles uneasily on my tongue.
These marks on my shoulder? They're not trophies of valor. They're not blood-won victories. They are records of pain. Of fights survived because I had no other choice. Because no one else came for me.
No one ever has.
No courtship. No rites. No true bonding. My mother taught me the rituals, the meanings behind touch and vow and battle--but I was not made for those traditions. Too strong to be cherished. Too gentle to be feared. A half-blood too orcish for humans and too human for orcs.
And yet this morning, I threw myself at him like a spring-struck sow, desperate for heat and heedless of dignity.
I should be ashamed. But instead... I wonder.
I wonder what it might feel like--his body braced over mine, breath hot and ragged in my ear. I wonder if his voice would crack with pleasure, if he'd curse in Imperial or Orcish when I pull his hair and dig my nails into his spine.
Perhaps I would let him think he won. Pretend to pass out first.
Perhaps I wouldn't need to pretend.
He smells of Old Iron. That scent does not bend. Does not break. It endures. It stays.
I glance toward the elf again. Her pace falters. Her breath is uneven.
It's time.
Even if I must swallow my pride, I will speak. I will ask him to stop. Not for me--but for them. For these women who trust me now.
If I am to be his second, his shield... then I must carry more than knives.
I carry their pain. Their fear.
And if he forgets, I will remind him.
I will bare my teeth if I must.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
----Marcus---
Brosha looked uncertain when she quietly asked me to stop for the night. I saw the hesitation in her eyes--soft where fire usually lived. I don't know why. I'd made a point to reassure her that she's allowed to correct me if needed.
Still, she seems to believe I hold some power over her beyond reason.
I may need to be firmer. Not in command--but in clarity.
I chose a site nestled into the earth, a shallow natural bowl surrounded by fallen logs and raised roots. The terrain would shield our campfire and muffle light from passing eyes. Enough room for two small tents, three at most.
The horses are tired--more than usual. They weren't made for cutting through dense woods, but I imagine they'll do better once we hit the road proper tomorrow.
Seleana shooed me away once we finished unpacking. Her exact words?
"Go bathe, sentinel. The lingering odor of death caresses your skin."
Charming, as always.
But the words weren't barbed--not really. They landed softer than her tone tried to suggest. There was a pause between her sentence and her breath, like she considered saying more. Something gentler.
I didn't argue.
How could I, when her amber eyes glimmered with that quiet worry she pretends not to own? I may wear leather, but her concern binds tighter than anything I know. That look--brief, guarded--felt like a hand reaching out and then pulling back before it could be seen.
She reached for something else, too. As I turned to leave, I caught her adjusting the angle of a log near the fire. Just slightly. Just enough to offer better back support, or maybe a clearer line of warmth. She circled the fire twice, checking the stones, testing the tension on one of the tent ropes. Not because she needed to. Because it mattered to her that things were just right.
Before I left, I lingered a moment at the edge of the clearing.
Liora had arranged her pack like a priest setting ritual offerings--each motion precise, almost cautious, as if afraid of knocking something sacred loose. Her lips moved in silence. A prayer? Self-rebuke? The air around her seemed cleaner. Safer.
Cara was perched cross-legged on a log, fiddling with her dagger and singing softly under her breath. Something bawdy, probably.
Even Brosha, her arm still stiff from the sparring match, had sat down nearby and begun sharpening a blade. Her eyes didn't leave the tree line.
Seleana was still by the fire, brushing ash off a pan with the corner of her sleeve. She held it with both hands like it was polished gold instead of dented tin. Her movements were automatic--but not mindless. Intentional. Controlled. She adjusted the placement of a pot that hadn't yet been used. Shifted a second blanket to the tent Cara and Brosha shared. Her hands didn't stop moving.
"Leana if you fluff those bedrolls one more time, I'm going to assume that you're laying an egg tonight," Cara croons. "Can we help pick out a name?"
The others snorted, but Seleana didn't rise to the bait. Her hands moved faster.
There was something in that picture--uneven, unguarded, alive.
One of my previous squads had sounded like that once.
Before the frost. Before Varo's voice disappeared. Before I stopped waiting for laughter in the dark.
I thought I could stay above it. Stay useful. Professional. Deliver the cargo and move on.
But sometimes... I forget to walk away.
I strip near the river, keeping my distance and shielding myself behind a curtain of willow branches. There are things I do not wish for them to see.
Still, I'm not far from camp. Voices carry. The river's burble doesn't quite cover the sounds of their conversation.
As I wash, I use a mix of oil, ash, and crushed herbs. It's a sentinel's cleansing solution--designed to kill scent trails and leave a hint of wild thyme.
I rinse the soap from my hands, but the scent clings--thyme and iron and something sharper underneath. The same blend Varo used. Gods, he loved that stuff. Said it made him feel like he still had a place in the world, even when everything around us rotted.
I remember the night before he died. The way he tried to crack a joke around the fire, voice still ragged from frostbite. I laughed. I remember that. I laughed and told him to shut up.
It was the last time I heard him speak.
My jaw tightens. I push the memory down, grind it under heel where it belongs.
And still... the soap lingers. The scent, the sound of women laughing through the trees--too close, too normal. Like this is a life I might belong in.
I shove my head beneath the water, scrub hard, and stay under just long enough to chase the thought away.
When my head emerges from the water, voices drift to me, soft through the leaves.
...
Liora's voice filters through the forest, soft and steady beneath the din of the camp. There's a rhythm to her that most don't catch--ritual precision in how she moves, how she speaks. I can't see her from behind the trees, but I know she's checking our water rations, measuring smoke drift from the fire, realigning packs with surgical efficiency.
Cara, by contrast, is the noise to her quiet. She chatters without pause, her voice rolling like waves over stone.
"Silver Lady..."
A theatrical sigh. "Yes, Cara?"
"Where exactly does your magic come from?"
"You ask me this every few days, child. I'm beginning to wonder if your memory was damaged in the Arena."
Even from where I'm bathing, I can practically hear Seleana's disapproving inhale.
"Liora. That wasn't very kind."
Another sigh from the elf, laced with reluctant apology.
"Very well. As you all should know, each living being has a unique magical signature--an energetic imprint tied to their soul. The gods embed it in us at our first breath."
"Like... magical fingerprints?" Cara pipes in.
"Yes. That is an oversimplified but adequate analogy," Liora sounds impressed. "That signature manifests itself as a color. Colors are not as unique as our souls."
There's a pause. I lean into the water, letting it cool the rising heat of my heart.
I lean back into the current of the river, letting the cold water sluice over me. Their voices drift like smoke.
"My energy is silver," Liora continues. "Rare, but not unique. There have been others. When I tested you all, Cara's was pink, Seleana's was red, Brosha's was a deep blue."
"Pink?" Cara sounds scandalized."Seriously?"
"Accept your fate, gladiator."
A pause.
"I heard once that people with golden energy were criminals," Cara says.
"Old superstition. A cultural scar rooted in historical trauma. Not based in magical theory."
Seleana's voice sharpens--not aggressive, but laced with curiosity.
"And Marcus?"
Liora hesitates.
"You said his soul felt darker... but his energy manifested as pure white. That's a contradiction."
A shiver runs up my spine. My heart slows, listening.
"I'd like to know as well," Brosha adds. "You are the expert."
Another beat of silence. Liora's voice lowers.
"I... don't know. It could be tied to his training. Sentinel rites are old. Their minds are guarded by purpose--by tattoos, wards, scars on the soul."
She's not wrong. But that's not all of it.
My magic isn't white. They didn't just make us warriors--they built coffins inside our minds and called them sanctuaries. They inscribed spells onto our bodies so that we could destroy our enemies, and protect the nobility.
Her voice always cuts through me. Not soft. Not cruel. Measured, like a scalpel.
Liora's eyes see people the way scholars read prophecy--dispassionate, but not uncaring. Her skin glows under starlight, runes dancing at her collar. Her hair gleams like spun frost, silver and moonlight woven together, often knotted behind one ear in the same quiet way she moves through the world: precise, intentional, untouchable.
When she looks at me, it's never with lust or affection. It's something more dangerous. Analysis. Calculation. Like she's unraveling the mathematics of my being.
But there are moments... when she hums to herself, unaware she's doing it. Moments when she plucks a stone from the trail and stares at it like it's a message from the gods. In those moments, she seems... real. Less Elf. More Woman.
"That white light?" she says. "It isn't natural. Not for him. It's a shell. A layer wrapped around his essence. Something old. Protective. Possibly prison-like."
"Go figure. A man shows up with a haunted stare and glowing soul, and finds us: Horny Tusky, Anxious Korthari, Know-it-some Elf, and one human full of loser energy."
"I did say pink," Liora replies flatly.
"Tell that to my Arena sponsors," Cara scoffs. "I'm sure they'd say I radiated loser energy."
I sink deeper into the water, lips just above the surface.
I hadn't meant to reveal so much when I healed Brosha. I didn't want them dissecting me. Not yet. Not like this.
But these women--these strange, resilient, maddening women--are already too close. Already asking too many questions.
And worst of all?
I don't know how to answer them.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
---Liora---
They say some orcs can track a scent weeks old across borders. That Therians can spot a dragon before it breaches the clouds. Elves, however--we listen. We hear.
Not with our ears alone--though they're finely tuned--but with our spirit. We hear the world hum through layers others forget to notice. The wind speaking in leaves. The truth hidden behind a heartbeat.
Marcus was listening, even now. Still by the river, half-shielded by trees, pretending he couldn't hear us. But I felt it. Every word we exchanged struck something inside him. His tension radiated like heat on stone, steady and slow--but present. A steady drum beneath the hum of the camp.
We needed to ask these questions. If his soul is truly veiled in arcane protections, we must know what we're working with. What if the lattice lashes out during battle? Or confuses my touch for harm? What if his magic is old, twisted, or worse--alive?
Cara, either sensing the tension or fleeing it, had begun spinning a tale about her childhood dog--Sausage, of all things. I let her run with it. Mirth makes good cover.
Then I heard it--the shift of gravel, the rustle of wet fabric. Marcus was returning. He'd bathed. Clean, yes--but wary. There was a feral tension to the way he stepped back into camp. An alpha returned to its den, uncertain if the other wolves had grown teeth in his absence.
I rose slowly, favoring my left foot. Seleana met my glance.
"I'm going to inspect him," I whispered. "Try to stop him from running if he panics."
Seleana arched her brow. "This better not be dangerous, Liora."
I offered a faint smile. "Only to me. And I accept the risk."
Marcus caught my gaze. Our eyes locked. I kept my voice soft.
"I know you heard our talk," I said. "We don't mean to pry, Marcus. But your soul--your magic--it's not... normal. If I'm to help you, I need to understand."
He stiffened. His jaw clenched. The instinct to run flared in his eyes. But Seleana stepped forward, a silent anchor. Her presence steadied him, like a tree offering shade to a flinching animal.
Marcus nodded once.
I gestured toward a tent on the edge of camp, near a wide oak that curved like a protective shell. A place of quiet. He followed.
Cara made to trail us, but Seleana intercepted with some nonsense about modesty. Brosha didn't move. I think she knew this was sacred.
He sat, cross-legged. His eyes were distant, fingers twitching. I took a slow breath and knelt across from him, knees brushing the edge of his.
"To examine your energy properly, I need a deeper link," I murmured. "Take off your shirt."
His brows lifted. Hesitation flickered through his posture. But he complied.
What was revealed stole my breath.
His chest was corded muscle--scarred, weathered, brutally alive. This wasn't a body forged in vanity. This was purpose, carved in skin and strength. But it was the lattice that held my attention.
A net of glyphs radiated from his heart--runic lines like spiderwebs pulsing with pale magic. It shimmered faintly, responding to my gaze.
And at the center, just above his heart, a scar. A brutal, jagged puncture. A wound from long ago--too precise to be random. A blade. A ritual. A memory, carved in blood.
"May I touch it?"
"Go ahead."
I let my fingers trace the glyphs. They pulsed faintly, resonating with my own magic.
This was no standard ward. The mesh interfaced directly with his soul. It wasn't just shielding him--it was binding, anchoring, reshaping.
"Healing augmentation," I murmured. "Defensive layering. Thought suppression? Gods. This wasn't meant to protect you. It was made to remake you."
He was quiet. I searched his expression.
"Who placed this?"
"I don't know."
"You don't remember?"
"I have... gaps. Holes in my memory. I don't remember receiving it."
Cognitive warding. The kind the old mages warned us about. The kind used in war. And in control.
"I want to look deeper."
He flinched, subtly. I raised a hand, brushing his cheek gently.
"You don't need to fear me. Think of me as part of you--just for this. Let the ward know I'm not a threat."
He hesitated. "I don't want to hurt you, Sparkles."
The nickname almost made me laugh. My ears flicked.
"You won't. I'm not as fragile as I look."
I pressed both hands against his chest. The lattice glowed. My silver magic pulsed in response.
"Just breathe," I whispered.
He hummed again. That same low tune--ancient and sorrowful. A focus. A guide.
The glyphs reacted. They shifted--just slightly. Admitting me.
I reached.
And slipped past the veil.
...
This time, it was sharper. The veil lifted.
The soulscape had shifted. No longer the vast, overwhelming wasteland of my previous attempt--this time, it took shape. A gravel path stretched before me, winding through a dead grove. Trees clawed upward like broken bones, their leaves stripped by unseen storms. The air held the scent of old fire and older sorrow. I heard whispers--faint, layered like echoes from different lifetimes, folding in on themselves.
This was Marcus's inner world.
He felt me here. I could sense it. His defenses were active--alive. Watching. I would not have long before they reacted.
I focused my thoughts, molding intention into shape: Show me your truth.
The road curled, answering.
Eventually, I came to a structure nestled at the end of a fading hill--a greenhouse made entirely of shattered glass, every pane held together by strands of glowing runes. The building trembled with every breath of wind. Magic surged around it, coiling and pulsing like a beast in its sleep.
Pain flared in my ankle as I limped forward and pushed open the door with my shoulder.
Inside, the temperature dropped.
Memories manifest differently for every soul.
My mother's appeared as gently breathing mannequins--emotion given form, eyes that could hold grief without words.
My mentor's took the shape of paintings in motion--impossible scenes blurred by the passage of time, always slipping just out of reach.
Marcus?
Books.
Hundreds of them. Leather-bound tomes, pages gilded with gold and stained with something darker. The shelves were perfectly aligned. The volumes indexed by memory, moment, pain. Each spine was sealed by runes. I could feel their weight. Each book, a piece of him--each lock, a silence kept far too long.
I touched one at random and it warmed in my hand, trembling slightly. Impressions of memories flood through my mind.
A child alone on the stone steps of a monastery. Cold wind howling. No name spoken. No hands reached.
A teenager breaking skin on dock ropes, bloodied from work and poverty. Salt crusted in every wound.
A man, masked, his eyes pitch-black. He held a still-beating heart in his hand, chanting in a dead tongue. Blood boiled on a blade carved of obsidian, and he etched those runes--the lattice--into Marcus's chest while he screamed and thrashed against restraints.
This was not a ward. This was a seal.
Wrapped around his soul like chainmail dipped in memory and flame.
Then came the howling.
The wards had activated. Not metaphorical--but sentient. Guardians of a prison long forgotten.
They took the form of hounds--bone-thin, too many eyes, black ichor dripping from their maws. They emerged from the corners of the greenhouse, through cracks in the floor and air. Soulbeasts. Echoes of a defense mechanism from an era before written history.
I turned to run. But the door was gone.
No escape.
The growls grew louder--deeper. My skin burned with the coming bite of magical retaliation. I prepared to shield my soul--to take the pain and sever the link--when a rope fell from above.
It wasn't a rope.
It was silk. Black silk, woven with veins of silver, like a spider's thread touched by moonlight. And it pulsed--not with threat, but with calm. With comfort.
It wasHim.
Marcus reaching back.
He was pulling me free--not as a defense, but as a choice.
I grabbed the thread.
The world snapped apart.
I slammed back into my body like a diver breaking the surface of a black ocean, lungs aching, chest shuddering.
And then I saw him.
Marcus was staring at me--not in confusion, not in anger--but in awe. Silver sparks shimmered in the violet depths of his irises, dancing like reflections on water.
And I felt it.
A thread wrapped around my soul, connecting it to his. No--a bridge. Something deeper, older.
Sanqari.
The Binding of Threads.
Impossible. Impossible.
Sanqari were fables. Stories told in temple cloisters and whispered in childhood lullabies. My mentor dismissed them as poetic nonsense--romanticized metaphors for intimacy or soul-aligned companionship.
But I could feel it.
The thread did not pull. It did not demand.
It simply was--a presence of potential.
I looked up at him, breath still unsteady. "You... pulled me out," I said softly.
His brow furrowed. "I felt you slip. I didn't want you to get lost."
My voice trembled despite myself. "That wasn't a ward. That was something much worse. And something... very old is tied to it."
He nodded once. "I know."
A pause lingered. Then:
"You called meSparkles," I added, raising a brow.
He winced. "You didn't like it?"
I couldn't help but laugh--just a little. "I'll allow it."
He smiled back.
And in that moment, in that tent full of silence and history, I realized something both terrifying and beautiful.
The war inside Marcus wasn't over.
But he'd let me walk his battlefield.
And I was still standing.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Chapter 5- Washed Clean In The River
Personal Diary Entry 1426
There's an old story about a wizard haunted by his own shadow.
They say he stalked the halls of his tower, voices chasing him from room to room.
Whispers in his ears when he tried to cook--
accusing him of poison, of failure.
Mocking him when he tried to dress--
reminding him that no cloth could cover shame.
Even the pages of his spellbooks betrayed him--
each line casting thin, writhing shadows that laughed when his eyes lingered too long.
The man lived bathed in light. Magical torches on every wall. Candles in every corner. A tower filled with brilliance--so he could never see the dark.
But the shadows still came.
So he took a blade to his face and cut off his own eyelids-- terrified of the darkness between blinks.
They found him dead in the highest room, surrounded by light. His wife had been rotting for days in the basement--surrounded by shadow.
The visiting mages destroyed the tower. Buried it. Erased it. Burned it from every map.
Some say it was an act of mercy. Others say it was self-defense.
I wonder...
What if the wizard had just listened?
What if he had faced the shadows, instead of turning his back?
Would it have ended the same?
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Imperial Lands, Edge of the Wildwood, Amarnia River --
Early Afternoon, 11th of Aelon
---Selaena---
There was something different in the air when we returned to the fire last night.
Liora disappeared into her tent without so much as a word, her face pale and unreadable. Marcus didn't speak either. He took the first watch, but it wasn't just vigilance in his posture--it was distance. Like the night itself was safer company than the people who'd fought beside him. He sat at the perimeter, unmoving, eyes lost in something far behind or far ahead.
Cara, ever the foolhardy optimist, tried to tease him into a smile. She got a grunt in return. Not annoyance. Just... nothing.
Brosha offered to relieve him. She even spoke softly. But he declined, and something in his tone made her retreat without challenge. That was unusual enough to make my brows rise. Brosha doesn't retreat from anyone. Not willingly.
Still, she obeyed.
Progress?
Liora turned her back when I approached her tent. I didn't press. But I felt it--something had passed between her and Marcus. Not violence, but not peace either.
I tried to help them in the only way I knew how. Checked the tents. Straightened Cara's mess of a bedroll. Placed dried tack by Liora's blanket--she tends to forget to eat when she's brooding. Even tucked an extra roll beneath Brosha's shoulder.
Marcus tried to decline his blanket. I simply handed it over again, slower. He didn't fight me a second time.
They all slept, eventually.
I didn't.
I watched the coals die, dreams crawling across my skin like ash-borne ghosts.
...
At dawn, we ate in silence. Hard tack and river water. Nothing more.
Marcus didn't speak. He just whistled, turned, and began walking without even glancing back. The rest of us fell in line, quiet shadows in his wake.
He didn't notice--or ignored--my attempt to catch his eye as we passed. A nod. A silent still with you.
Nothing.
I kept us steady anyway. Checked Cara's pack (half-unzipped), brushed a leaf from Brosha's braid, watched Liora murmur to herself with that strange half-present daze.
I held them together. As best I could.
But the strings are fraying. Tight at the knots. And I don't know how much longer I can keep them from unraveling.
When we finally reached the road again, I waited until Marcus was out of earshot before turning to the rest.
"Liora," I said, low but firm. "Tell me you didn't hurt him. Or do something reckless."
Brosha's head snapped to attention. Her voice laced with growl. "What did you do to him, Elf? His scent is different. Tainted. He reeks of anxiety."
Liora's ears twitched. She sighed--sharp and defensive at first, but then softer.
"I didn't hurt him. I saw him. That's all."
"Be more specific," I pressed.
"I saw.. Memories and things that should stay private to Marcus."
Brosha grunted, unimpressed.
Then Cara--of course--popped her head in like a ferret sniffing for gossip.
"Wait, wait, wait. Did you see his dick?"
Liora blinked. "What?"
"You said you saw his privates. Did you see his dick? Was it big?"
"Not that kind of private," Liora said flatly.
"Did it make you nervous at how big it was?"
"Cara."
"Fine."
Liora's tone shifted then. Quieter. Not defeated, but thoughtful. "There's a great deal hidden in him. Pain. Power. A kind of protective magic I've never seen before. His wards... they only lash out if they think we're enemies."
"And if they change their mind?" Cara asked.
No one answered.
After a long silence, Cara's voice lowered. Serious. "Next time you want to poke through someone's soul, maybe give it some thought. We all have shadows. And some of them... don't like being dragged into the light."
The silence that followed felt heavier than before. Like every one of us was remembering something we hadn't yet survived.
...
We moved through the woods like ghosts--quiet, cautious, uneasy.
Bird calls filtered through the canopy above, masking our footfalls, but even the natural music of the forest couldn't lift the heaviness pressing into our steps.
A pair of loggers passed us, nodding to Marcus but giving the rest of us wary glances. Later came a merchant caravan--too many guards, too few smiles. They barely spared us a look. Finally, two knights from House Rykan's retinue rode by with their heads held high and the stink of politics on their cloaks.
They stopped us. Questioned Marcus. Demanded to inspect our collars. Rank was brandished like a blade. Marcus didn't argue--not much. He let them look, let them believe whatever story they wanted.
"They were wandering near the river," he told them. "Collared, hungry, disoriented. Lucky I found them."
The knights exchanged glances, unimpressed. With him. With us. They didn't care who we were--only that we weren't the patrol they were hunting.
A patrol that never made it to Mableton.
One of the knights mentioned mercenaries in the Wildwood. Absorbing rogue bands. Killing soldiers. Disrupting trade.
Marcus didn't flinch. Not outwardly. But I saw his shoulders tighten, saw the flicker behind his eyes. Liora's ears twitched like a hound catching the scent of something rotten.
We moved on. According to our map, there was a bridge ahead--our path to Mableton.
Marcus led us off the road for a midday meal. A cautious move.
We ate lunch in silence. No fire. No words. Just cold tack and dried meat. Brosha kept sniffing the air. Cara forced a few awkward jokes that landed like stones.
I managed to coax the others into eating at least a few bites. They had no appetite--but empty bellies make travelers.
I just wish I'd had something--anything--to add to the cold bread. A pinch of spice. A smear of jam.
"Flavor feeds the soul," my father used to say.
I sat on a root beside Marcus. He didn't speak. His eyes were on the tree line, always scanning. The sentinel was on edge. The man inside him had vanished.
Then Liora broke the silence.
"Marcus. Ladies. I have something to share."
Marcus turned toward her slowly. His face was hard, but something behind it flickered--something strained.
Cara, desperate to lighten the mood, muttered, "Please say it's not more soul-spying."
"It's about the bandits," Liora said, her voice sharper now. "I found a cipher. In a letter, from a brigand named Peter."
Marcus's gaze narrowed.
"And you just now decided to say something?" Brosha snapped, bristling.
"I looked over it again this morning. I needed to be sure." Liora murmured. She toyed with a silver sphere of energy, black veins slithering through it like vines through crystal.
"Please Sparkles. Tell us." Marcus said, voice low but firm.
I can sense a retort brewing within Cara and cut her off with my eyes.
Liora sighed and met each of our gazes.
"They weren't just hunting travelers. They were hunting us. Each of us."
My blood went cold.
"Those bandits weren't improvising. They had descriptions of us in their bags. They came specifically for us. "
She pointed at each of us in turn, ending up on herself.
"The whole ambush--it was planned."
Cara, who usually bounced like a poorly balanced coin, had stilled into something sharper. Her bow rested against her back, but her fingers tapped a rhythm against the hilt of her dagger.
Liora whispered, "Someone is maneuvering pieces we haven't seen yet."
"You think there's more coming?" I asked.
Her response chilled me. "There's always more."
Marcus stood from his spot, towering over us. His eyes scanned us all--not unkindly, but with the weight of responsibility pressing into every breath.
I needed to hear him speak.
Because his involvement--this risk--was on me.
I dragged him into something far more dangerous than I ever meant to.
"Marcus..." I began.
"No, Firefly," he cut me off. "I knew the risk. I took the job. But that means we can't travel as passively anymore."
There was a heat in his voice now. Focused. Grounded. Commanding.
"No more passive movement," he said. "Cara, rear guard. Liora and Seleana with me. Brosha--you're my blade now. Take point. Stay twenty meters ahead."
Just like that, something shifted.
Gone was the soft-spoken protector. This was a Sentinel--hardened and ready.
We were being hunted.
And Marcus was preparing for war.
Brosha nodded sharply, then turned to face the rest of us, steel in her eyes and challenge in her stance.
The look she gave dared us to break rank. Dared us to question the command that had been given.
"Our Guide has spoken," she said, her voice low and steady like a war drum. "Keep your eyes wide, blades ready, and hearts steady. This is the storm we feared--now we face it together."
She paused, hand on the hilt of her dagger. "None of us will meet their ancestors today."
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
---Cara----
What do these other bitches got, that I don't?
Firefly.
Sparkles.
"My Blade."
Seriously?
"Oh, strong and noble Brosha--be My Blade! Track me down with your freakishly good sense of smell and mount me like a feral beast!"
Please. I'm dying.
At this point, I want someone to ambush us. I need violence. I need blood. I need a distraction from this slow descent into madness.
Marcus doesn't see it. But I'm Carnage--Scourge of the West. Fury of the Small. The Dervish of Destruction.
Maybe if he saw what I could do in a real fight, he'd stop drooling overTusky the Thigh Tyrant and pay attention.
It's fine. I'm fine. Totally fine.
I'm a battle-hardened gladiator. I don't need some tall, leather-clad sentinel with thighs like sacred pillars and hair that smells like thyme ruining my emotional stability.
One of these days, he's going to take an arrow to the chest, and I'll be the one who dives in. I'll save him. Slaughter the bastards who dared. Drape myself in his blood like war paint.
Then maybe--maybe--he'll look at me and finally see the light.
"Oh, Cara. You're incredible. You're everything I've ever needed."
"I know, baby. Now lose the pants."
...
Okay. Yep. I'mofficially losing it.
First thing I'm doing in Mableton? Hiring a tall, oiled-up mercenary with half a brain and a full set of abs to absolutely wreck me like a siege engine breaching a fortress.
...
Wait a second.
I will need some money for that.... Did we ever divide the loot?
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
---Marcus---
Brosha is a blur between the trees.
I lose track of her halfway through the last bend before the bridge, and that's saying something. I trained recon units. I've hunted ghosts in frost-covered mountains and passed through city walls unseen. But Brosha? She moves like a born predator--no rustle, no scent, no trace. It's both impressive and terrifying.
We're too close now. The Amarnia River hums in the distance, and that bridge is the most likely spot for an ambush. It's the only choke point before Mableton. If I were setting a trap, that's where I'd do it.
Let's cycle the facts.
We're being hunted. Not at random. This isn't opportunistic. It's personal. Precise. Someone wants these women captured--or erased.
I found them in the aftermath of a massacre. An ambush that wiped out nearly all of my patrol. And now I'm guiding them straight through disputed territory, armed to the teeth and collared like marked prey.
It has to be different this time. Conditions are better. Morale's shaky, but stable. Weapons sharp. Intel tighter. But I've walked into traps before, confident we were prepared. I remember the sound of steel on bone. The way my partner's shield hit the ground before I could even reach for mine.
That memory lives under my skin.
The only logical tracking method they could use is the Imperial Obedience Collars. If they've been magically attuned, someone could track their signatures.
Which means the group that attacked us before wasn't a rogue gang. They were a collection crew. Disposable. Undertrained.
This next group? They'll be professionals. A contact team for extraction--or an execution squad sent to erase the evidence.
They'll be at the bridge.
They'll wear the right disguises. Traveling merchants, maybe. Just big enough to look safe. Just small enough to seem unthreatening.
I run predictions in my mind.
Eight enemies. Three positioned at each end. Two in the treeline. Two of them will approach with a code phrase-- to confirm we're the expected drop.
That's our opening.
One breath of uncertainty, one heartbeat of confusion--that's all we'll get. But it'll be enough.
I halt the group fifty paces from the bridge and call them in. As I draw breath to speak, Cara steps in close.
Too close.
Her fingers graze the hilt of a throwing knife strapped across my chest. "Might be out of balance," she mutters, like it's a casual observation and not an obvious excuse to touch me.
She's always like this. Half-teasing, half-daring me to call her bluff.
Her fingers linger longer than they should. I glance down. She looks up.
Her expression is unreadable. Or maybe it just reads everything. Those dark eyes--like wells of ink--miss nothing. I've seen soldiers break under less scrutiny.
Cara's built like defiance given form: lean, wiry strength that hides under a cloak of reckless charm. Her caramel skin is marked with scrapes, bruises, and the kind of scars that only come from winning fights you weren't supposed to survive. Her curls are a barely-contained storm, twisted back with a strip of cloth that does more negotiating than holding.
She shouldn't be beautiful--not in the classic sense. But she is. In that sudden, too-late kind of way. Like realizing a snare was laid under your boot only after it's already snapped shut.
She taps the dagger on her thigh, brows raised like she caught me looking.
She did.
"See something you like?"
I grunt. "Focus."
She smirks. "Aye, aye, Captain."
She steps back, but I still feel the shape of her--like static before lightning.
I press on. "Here's the plan."
Brosha takes the rear--silent and brutal, striking when they think our flanks are safe. Cara stays high, our eyes and arrows. I lead the center. Seleana and Liora form the wedge behind me--tight formation, shields raised, crouch on command.
"Two will approach," I add. "Don't engage until I do. Wait for the phrase."
They nod.
And then... we walk.
...
We're halfway across the arched stone when it begins.
Two men step into our path--dressed as merchants, all puffed sleeves and robes. A deception so obvious it's insulting. I spot their hands first--too callused for trade. Blades hidden beneath fabric. Two armed men behind them step onto the road.
Then, two more emerge from the woods in front of us. Crossbows already loaded.
Boots crunch behind us.
Three more. No greetings. No hesitations. We're surrounded.
One more than I predicted. Excellent.
I flex my hands, testing the weight of the axes strapped at my hips. Swords never suited me--too long, too noble. An axe is honest. Brutal. Practical. And with these bastards, that's all I'll need.
My shield is tight to my back, daggers at the ready, and contingencies... waiting to be activated.
I breathe in. Slow. Grounding myself.
The enemy made one critical error.
They thought we were prey.
The one on the right steps forward, smug. "You're not Pet--"
He doesn't finish.
My first axe is in the air before the second syllable leaves his mouth. It spins once, twice--then buries itself in his throat with a wet crunch. He collapses to the stones, gurgling.
His partner flinches and goes for steel.
Too slow.
My second axe slashes his chest and my boot kicks his ribs. He stumbles back, slams into the bridge's railing, and topples over the edge, vanishing into the river below.
THWACK THWACK
The crossbowmen panic. Their bolts scream through the air toward Seleana and Liora.
But the women are trained. They drop low behind their round shields, moving as one. A tight, practiced formation. The bolts thud into wood harmlessly.
Liora gasps and stumbles from the impact, falling to one knee.
Seleana grabs her, dragging them both to the side of the bridge. Shields up. No gaps. Safe--for now.
Behind me, Brosha howls.
It's not human. It's something ancient and furious. She barrels into the rear guard like a tempest made flesh. Her blade arcs low, catching one in the gut. Blood sprays the stones. The others scatter, shouting over each other.
Cara moves with eerie calm. She sheds her cloak mid-step and looses two arrows. The first drives deep into a crossbowman's belly. The second glances off bone, grazing the shoulder of another. He screams and lurches back.
That leaves the last two. The real threat.
They rush me together--trained, focused, fast. This isn't like Peter's crew. These men know what they're doing.
I pull my shield from my back and brace.
The left one leads, shield raised, mace angled high. I duck beneath his swing, put my shield into his gut and let his momentum roll him over me. He hits the stone hard, gasping for air.
The second one's already on me. I barely have time to collect myself. His sword slams into my shield. My axe glances off his side--too shallow to drop him. He's good. Too good.
I hear chaos behind me. Cara's bow. Brosha's growl. The scream of steel. But my world narrows to this duel.
Every move costs me breath.
Every heartbeat could be the one where I fail.
The first man staggers back up. I pivot, raise my left hand--tattoo blazing red--and release the first contingency.
Five searing tendrils of flame arc outward.
Two strike his shield. One lashes his leg. Another flies wide. But the last--rips the left side of his face off.
He howls like an animal.
His partner charges. I barely catch his blade on my shield, but the impact shakes my shoulder to the bone. We trade again--mace crashing into my side, my axe scraping across his thigh.
Not good enough.
Too slow again.
I fake a stumble. His eyes light up--he lunges.
I absorb the blow, drop low, and drive upward, grabbing his legs. I lift. Slam.
Crack.
His body hits stone like a dropped sack of meat. His breath leaves in a wheeze.
I don't hesitate. I raise my axe and drive it down.
Crack.
He's done.
But the fight isn't.
I turn--heart hammering, chest tight--and see Brosha cut down her second opponent. Blood slicks the stones beneath her feet.
ButCara--
Cara is trapped. Her attacker has her pinned at the edge of the bridge. Her blades are gone. One hand grips the stone rail, feet skidding for balance. His sword is raised, poised for a killing thrust.
And then--a fracture in time.
For just a blink, I don't see Cara.
I seeVaro--my partner. Struggling. Calling my name. Spear through his chest. Blood in his mouth. My legs wouldn't move. My scream wouldn't come fast enough.
No. No--not again.
This is now. This is Cara.
I shove the memory back into the vault.
Don't think.
Act.
My right hand tightens. The mark on my chest ignites--white-hot.
I have a second contingency.
I release the force blast.
It barrels across the bridge in a violent wave. The man is lifted off his feet--flung--straight into Brosha's waiting blades.
But I see my mistake too late.
Cara's caught in the edge of the blast.
Her body jerks. Her boot slides. Her balance breaks.
She falls--backward.
Over the edge.
Arms flailing. Mouth open. A cry lost in the roar of the river.
The current claims her in seconds. She vanishes.
"CARA!"
Brosha's shout. Seleana's scream. Liora gasps, frozen.
My hands go numb.
No. No, not again.
Not her.
Never again.
I drop everything--shield, axe, doubt.
And leap into the river.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
---Cara---
I wake up coughing--deep, gut-wracking hacks that seize my whole chest and force river water from my lungs. My throat burns. My ribs scream. And still, I cough. Violent, wet, and helpless.
A strong hand braces my shoulder, steadying me. Another presses slow, rhythmic circles into my back, firm but careful. I retch again, collapsing forward onto moss and mud.
The air smells green--wet earth, crushed reeds, the metallic tang of blood and fear.
I blink. The world is smeared with tears and riverwater. No stone bridge. No familiar trail. Just tangled trees and the slow bend of the Beggar River curling south. Judging by the current, we've been carried almost a quarter day downstream.
Shit.
My head throbs, pulsing behind my eyes like a war drum. My side aches sharp and deep. I try flexing my fingers--my left hand won't obey. Sprained, maybe. Something's wrong.
"Is it too late for mouth-to-mouth, Marcus?" I croak between wet gasps.
"Be still, Varo," comes his voice, low and tense. "You're still bleeding. I need to stop it."
His tone slices through me--tight, trembling. Not angry. Not scolding. Just... terrified.
I glance sideways.
He's crouched beside me, shirtless and soaked, river moss clinging to the curve of his collarbone. Bruised. Mud-slicked. Bloodied.
Beautiful.
Muscles tense and taut beneath skin. Hair flung wet behind his head. Hands moving quickly, efficiently--but every movement screams of desperation.
Oh, gods.
That view could raise the dead.
RIP me.
"I told you to stay still," he mutters, already tearing strips of cloth from what used to be his tunic. "Take off your shirt. I need to check your back."
I offer a weak grin. "You could at least buy me dinner first."
His hands freeze. Then, softly--almost broken: "Var..." That name again
My smile fades.
"... Cara," he corrects quickly, catching himself. But I heard it. We both did.
There's something in the way he says my name. Not frustration. Not exhaustion. Something more fragile. Like it hurts him to say it. Like I'm someone else in his arms.
Guilt, maybe.
I peel off my tunic with a wince. The movement sends fire lancing down my side, but I do it anyway. Pride is a hell of a drug.
I shift closer, scooting backward until I can feel his warmth behind me--his presence steady and grounding.
His hands find my skin.
They're calloused, strong--but his touch is gentle. Careful. Reverent, even. He moves slowly, tracing each bruise, each scratch, as if committing them to memory. Like he's trying to understand the pain I took for him.
Like he blames himself for every inch of it.
No leering. No jokes. No heat in his gaze--just focus. The same precision I saw when he laid out our ambush plan, only softer now. War turned tender.
And for once, I don't want to tease. I don't want to flirt.
I just want to let him touch me.
"You'll need to turn around," he murmurs, voice hushed. "There's a wound on your stomach."
"If I turn around, you might fall in love."
"Stop being a littlePixie."
His hand moves to my shoulder. Not forceful--just steady. Anchoring. His eyes meet mine with that same haunted steel.
"Turn around. Please."
So I do.
I cross my arms to cover what little I have, but he moves them gently aside. No hesitation. No shame.
He inspects the wound--his brows furrow as he removes a sharp shard of stone embedded beneath the skin. I grunt, but his hands don't waver. He cleans the cut, binds it with the last of his tunic, and checks for deeper damage.
Not once does he break eye contact longer than necessary.
Not once does he look at me like a body.
Only like a person he almost lost.
When he's done, his hands pause at my ribs.
And then--without warning--he pulls me into him.
I don't resist.
His arms wrap around me, tight and warm, his breath brushing my temple.
"I'm sorry," he whispers. "Gods, Cara. I'm so sorry."
"I'm alive," I whisper back. "You pulled me out."
"You wouldn't have fallen if I'd aimed better. If I hadn't panicked--"
I lean back slightly, turning up enough to look at him.
"Marcus," I pause his rambling. "Who was Varo?"
His whole body stiffens.
Marcus doesn't answer at first. The river rustles beside us. A bird trills somewhere above. Time stretches.
"My old partner," he says finally. "He died in an ambush. I saw him fall, and I couldn't get there fast enough."
I nod slowly.
"You called me his name," I murmur. "I always wondered who you saw in me that first day."
"Don't burden yourself with my sorrow," he mutters. "You're not him."
I tilt my head. "Was he small?"
"Yes."
"Curly hair?"
A nod.
"Brown skin?"
Another nod.
"Liked berries?"
Marcus blinks. "... How did you--?"
"Because I like berries. You left me fresh fruit on that first morning, when we woke up free."
He stares at me.
"I remind you of him. It's okay. You cared about him." I smile--soft, not teasing.
"That doesn't mean you can't see me as my own person as well."
Something flickers in his eyes. Relief. Guilt. Gratitude. All tangled together.
"Cara," he says, voice rough, "I wouldn't be able to forgive myself if--"
"It's not your fault."
He exhales, long and shaky.
"And besides," I add gently, "I've taken worse hits. I'm not made of glass, Marcus."
"No," he says, eyes searching mine. "You're not."
We sit in silence. The sun lowers, washing the trees in amber. The world slows. Even my pain recedes under the warmth of his arms.
For once, I don't feel like a joke. Or a knife waiting to be thrown. I just enjoy being held.
"You're quiet," I say after a long while.
"I'm thinking."
"Dangerous habit."
He almost smiles.
"I'd trade a lot to have dry boots right now," he murmurs.
I chuckle. "Give me fifteen minutes, a knife, and some moss--I'll make you a pair."
He tilts his head. "Out of moss and what?"
"Gumption."
That earns a real smile. Quiet, but real.
And just for a second, the ache in my side fades. The laughter swells. The storm that's always inside me--the need to run, to bite, to fight--goes quiet.
Because Marcus didn't just save me from the river.
He pulled me out of something else, too.
And maybe... just maybe... I did the same for him.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
---Liora---
In the confusion that followed Marcus and Cara being swept downriver, one of the crossbowmen managed to escape. The others didn't. Brosha ensured that. Their bruised and bleeding bodies were silenced under her blades.
She nearly dove in after Marcus. One foot on the stone railing, muscles taut, her eyes wide and wild.
Seleana panicked--her arms flailed with the reins of skittish horses as she tried to get them across the bridge without trampling us. And me? I stayed still.
Stillness is not weakness. Stillness is clarity.
Marcus was alive. I knew it.
Not justthought--knew. Not with logic, not with reason. I felt him. Felt his pulse in my chest like a second heartbeat. Warm. Present. Bright.
When he dove into the river, I didn't feel dread. I felt certainty.
That terrified me more than any vision of death ever has.
It's strange, being so sure of something impossible.
I put a hand on Brosha's shoulder and gently pulled her back from the ledge. "He'll return," I told her. And I believed it.
I soothed Seleana next, guiding her breath, calming the horses, whispering promises I wasn't sure I could keep but needed to be true.
Then we did what Marcus would expect of us.
We set up camp.
Tents were pitched on high ground. A fire stoked, not for comfort, but for signal. I laid out food for five--just in case. Brosha paced like a tethered wolf. Seleana cleaned her blade three times in a row, hands shaking between strokes.
And me?
I listened to the forest. I watched the shadows shift. I waited with faith.
As twilight fell, the trees swallowed the sun. The world dimmed to violet and charcoal. Our silence grew heavier with every passing minute.
Then something in the air shifted. A vibration in the roots. A soft exhale in my soul.
Before the others noticed, I knew.
They were close.
I stood just as Marcus emerged from the treeline like some half-feral forest god--hair tangled, shirt missing, dirt up to his knees, and pine needles clinging to his shoulders.
And atop him, laughing loud enough to peel worry from our skin, was Cara--perched on his shoulders like a young sibling. Her arms flung wide. Her smile bright and reckless.
It was absurd. And beautiful.
Their joy didn't match the fear we had endured waiting--but somehow, it soothed it. Even Brosha paused. Her shoulders dropped, her breath evened. Seleana let out a shaky sigh and leaned into the moment, her armor of calm finally cracking.
As they entered the firelight, Marcus crouched and lowered Cara gently to the ground. She lingered beside him, hand brushing his arm a little too long before she pulled away.
For a moment--just one--I saw her as something else.
Not the jester. Not the fury. But a girl who hadn't felt safe being held in a long time.
And Marcus? He looked at her with something quiet. Something soft.
Then she broke the moment, arms wide, dramatic as ever. "I leave for a few hours, and you all throw a funeral for me? I'm flattered!"
She kicked off her boots like a soldier retiring from war and collapsed by the fire with theatrical flair.
"But seriously..." Her voice softened. "You were worried, huh?"
Brosha was on them in a blink, checking wounds, sniffing for blood, scowling like an angry matron. Seleana followed with fury masquerading as discipline--berating Marcus for being reckless, scolding Cara for her lack of caution.
Cara, ever the storm, deflected it all with a wink and wandered toward the fire.
Marcus? He took it. The worry. The anger. The concern. And he smiled--not smug, not proud.
Just grateful.
He was glad to be here. With us.
I didn't join them. I watched.
I reached inward, toward theSanqari. The threads of our souls weaving together and growing stronger by the day.
And I felt him.
His emotions poured into me like heat through skin.
Relief. Gratitude. The weight of responsibility sinking just enough to let joy rise to the surface. Like light shining beneath the water's surface.
And I felt something twist in me. A sting. Not pain. Jealousy, perhaps.
Cara had made himlaugh. Not just smile. Not just exhale. Butlaugh--wild and foolish, like someone who still believed in happy endings.
And I? I had helped him hold the weight. Steady the pain. But she had helped him let go of it.
He is scarred and guarded and disciplined. And yet, somewhere inside, warmth lives still. And if she can draw that warmth out, even briefly, then maybe... Maybe there's still hope for all of us.
How could I begrudge her for that?
I don't think any of us would have chosen this path. Not the chains. Not the grief. Not the shadows.
But I wonder--quietly, deeply--if this pain we've walked through is somehow making space for something rare.
For something real.
Maybe--Seleana, Brosha, Cara, even I--we've all found something in each other that makes the fire worth lighting again.
Maybe we don't have to be quite so alone anymore. Not until Mableton. Not tonight.
As Marcus finally lowered himself beside the fire, laughter still tugging at the corners of his mouth, I saw something shift in the space around him.
A small silver bead of energy floated upward from his chest--subtle, weightless, unnoticed by the others.
But I saw it.
And somehow, I knew: We weren't alone in our hearts anymore.
Not truly. Not ever again.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Chapter 6- Pandora's Box
Personal Diary Entry 1427
I've heard it said that all salt finds its way back to the sea.
There once lived a woman on the cliffs of Vaetha, in a humble hut of straw and thatch. Each morning, she fished the coast and brought her best catch to market in the nearby village.
But the woman carried a dream.
After every sale, she would take a handful of sea salt and press it into bricks. Quietly. Patiently. Brick by brick. Day by day. The salt bricks rose in a silent stack beside her hut, gleaming white in the sun.
She told no one.
Years passed. The villagers knew her only as the quiet fisherwoman with good hands and no family.
Then one day, she began to build. Using only those salt bricks, she raised a great house above the cliffs--a mansion of pale towers and glittering windows. A salt-castle fit for queens.
She spared no effort. No rest. No indulgence.
When it neared completion, she sent invitations to all--distant kin, skeptical neighbors, smug merchants--bidding them to a grand gala, the celebration of her rise.
She spent every coin on a single beautiful dress. One moment of perfection. One night to be seen.
A hundred guests gathered along the cliffs to watch her place the final brick.
And when she did, the house began to tremble.
The salt groaned and wept. Brick by brick, it melted into the sea.
The mansion collapsed in minutes.
The ocean claimed every shard of her ambition.
Some say the woman screamed and hurled herself after it. But no one truly knows.
What the villagers do say is this:
They won't eat fish caught near the Cliffs of Vaetha.
They say the meat tastes like tears.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Imperial Lands, Edge of the Wildwood, The Dry Road
Early Afternoon, 12th of Aelon
---Seleana---
I'm starting to wonder if I still offer anything of value to these women.
If I ever did.
If I ever could have offered anything tohim.
This morning, I dropped the rations. Right in the middle of the road. The horses trampled half of them before I could even kneel. My hands wouldn't stop shaking. I almost forgot the stakes to my tent in the grass. I snapped at Brosha over the flint like a child. And I chipped the only pan we have trying to cook something edible. Burnt it beyond recognition.
Every day, I seem to unmake myself a little more.
They've looked to me for so long--for strength, for poise. For the calm center.
Now all I feel is static.
Fidgeting hands. A tightness in my chest. A fire beneath my skin that won't burn out.
The more I watch Marcus, the more I see them watching him--and I feel something inside me stretch, tear, ache. He carries himself like someone reborn. Stronger than when we met. Steadier. Like the bridge didn't almost claim him.
He keeps them together now. Notme.
I just need to make it to Mableton. Get the collar off. And leave.
Before I break somethingI can't fix.
...
Today will be long.
The road curves steadily north. The Wildwood thins behind us, the dense trees giving way to wide clearings and sun-scorched fields. Every step we take toward Mableton peels away another layer of safety.
Open terrain. Watchful patrols. Imperial eyes.
We walk like survivors.
Brosha's gait is uneven. I can see it in her left leg--favoring, compensating. She refuses to speak of the gash she stitched herself last night. Both pride and pain.
Marcus wears his shield across his arm instead of his back. His movements are slower today. Deliberate. Conserving strength. But every few minutes, his fingers drift to the leather straps--as if to reassure himself it's still there. Muscle memory, maybe. A soldier's prayer.
He doesn't know I'm watching. But I always am.
I'm not the only one.
Liora watches him too. With reverence. Like she's studying a relic of a forgotten age--something sacred and dangerous. Her gaze follows the subtle shifts in his posture, the way his shoulders rise when he breathes deep, the tension in his hands when he's thinking too hard.
We catch each other staring at him.
She murmurs something about moss in her boots and looks away. I tug my cloak tighter, hiding my arms, hiding the truth.
There's less bite in her voice today. No teasing. No clever comments. Her mask is slipping too.
I wonder if she feels it.
The pull.
The way Marcus seems to be the gravity keeping us from drifting apart.
Cara, of course, is radiant chaos. Skipping ahead. Whistling. Tossing out jokes like bread crumbs to keep spirits up. She makes some crack about how he rescued her "with nothing but biceps and righteous indignation."
Marcus chuckles. A real laugh. It lodges like a thorn in my ribs.
The fire within me churns.
The markings on my skin--ancient, cursed, damning--begin to glow faintly beneath the fabric of my cloak. Just beneath my collarbone. Down my arms. Across the curve of my hip.
Pulses of red-gold light. Like embers stirred by wind.
I clench my teeth and will the light to dim.
It refuses.
He laughs again--at something Cara says. He accepts jerky from Brosha without flinching, lets her nudge his shoulder like they're old comrades. She even grunts something like praise.
And he lets her. He's changing.
He whistles, and we fall into step behind him like birds in migration. We follow him.
Not because he commands. Because we want to.
The Wildwood fades behind us, the last of the trees giving way to brittle yellow grass and wide sky. My heart pounds against my ribs, and the marks across my body throb in time.
Marcus turns back once. Just once. His eyes meet mine.
Indigo. But now flecked with silver.
Alive.
The corners of his mouth twitch upward--an almost-smile. Not seductive. Not sly. Just... human.
And my mask cracks.
I look away before I can return the expression.
...
Later, a pair of squabbling merchants cross our path. One draws a blade over a price dispute. Before I can react, Marcus steps in with nothing but words.
A calm command. A level stare.
The blade is sheathed. The merchants vanish down the road.
No blood. No shouting. Just authority.
Liora writes something in her journal behind me. I glance over her shoulder and catch the words before she shields discipline is a gift to us, even if it's born of legacy soaked in sadness.
Then a patrolman--a boy, really--tries to assert himself. Demands to check our packs. Marcus barely says two sentences. His voice is sharp iron. The boy withers. Stumbles. Retreats.
Brosha grunts in approval. Later, she draws close to him and offers a few clipped words. He clasps her shoulder.
Respect built not from orders, but from blood and survival.
"I was raised to follow no man," she mutters when she returns to us. "But he speaks like the wind that breaks trees. The rest are grass beneath him."
I say nothing.
And then, absurdly, a cat joins us.
A mangy black thing with torn ears and half a tail. It attaches itself to Marcus like they've been traveling together for years. Cara names it Prince Whiskers and begs to keep him.
Marcus shrugs. "If it can keep up."
The damn thing rides on his shoulder. He doesn't protest. He lets it stay.
And somehow, that tiny gesture--letting a broken thing ride beside him--undoes me more than anything else.
I watch him, silently, as the others laugh and nudge each other. He belongs to them now. To us, perhaps. But not to me. Not the way I want.
He looks at me again. Always back to me. Like he knows. Like he sees.
If he looks at me like that one more time, the light beneath my skin will burn through the cloth. Through the silence. Through every defense I've built.
My lips part. My body trembles.
I cannot keep this in much longer.
The fire inside me was once manageable. Not anymore.
I lower my head and gather every ounce of control I have left.
"Marcus," I say softly.
He turns.
"Can we... maybe take a break?"
He tilts his head, then smiles.
"Soon, Firefly," he says. "Enjoy the beauty around you."
I nod.
That name.
It makes me want to melt into the earth. It makes me want to scream.
How dare he call me that?
How dare he speak to me with affection, kindness--like I am some rare creature and not a woman whose very blood is cursed?
I close my eyes and will the light away from my skin.
It does not go quietly.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
---Brosha---
We settled for a break sometime in the heart of the day.
It wasn't a sudden command. Marcus didn't bark orders. He simply moved--to the edge of the trees, knelt, and began pulling supplies from his pack. Like ants stirred by the scent of the queen, we built camp around him without a word.
The scents of the women have shifted.
Not just their sweat or travel-dust--something more intimate. Their natural perfumes, magical residues, and oils have started to blend. Roses. Grapes. Lemongrass. Wild daisy and tart citrus. Earth and rain. The scent of the group is evolving--less defensive, more intentional. Softer in tension, sharper in... something else.
The Horned Lady--Seleana--is the hardest to read.
Her scent flickers like smoke--unsteady, volatile. Her emotions shift constantly. Her tail won't stay still. Obsidian strands of hair slip through her fingers no matter how tightly she twists them. Her hands fidget even while still. There's something burning behind those amber eyes. Not fire. Desperation.
She works hard to hide it. But she fails.
Around the fire, we eat in near silence. But it's not the silence of strangers anymore. It's a quiet shaped by routine, by shared pain. A pack in sync. For a moment, I am pulled back to the evenings of my youth--before my first tally, before my blade found blood. Back when silence meant peace.
Laughter stirs--thin, but real.
Cara says something obscene about a goat, a priest, and a cursed outhouse. It makes no sense. It doesn't have to. Marcus snorts despite himself, kneeling beside Liora, carefully applying ointment to her foot with the hands of a healer.
He's changed. They all have.
I clean the pair of knives Marcus gifted me--steel with good balance, easy grip. Tools given by a leader, not a master. A bond, not a chain. Gifts with meaning. I do not accept such things lightly.
Then it happens.
Seleana stares across the circle. Her face is tight--drawn with memory or regret. Her cloak wraps tighter around her shoulders, as if to keep her body from falling apart.
Cara tilts her head, eyeing her like a hawk spotting a flicker in the brush.
"When are you going to tell us what's actually wrong, Seleana?" she asks bluntly.
"Why you won't eat. Why you won't laugh with the rest of us. You're poisoning the mood, and we're all pretending not to notice."
Seleana rises too fast. Movements stiff, jerky. A barely-formed apology stumbles from her mouth--inaudible, shapeless.
And then she walks. Not far. But far enough. The tall grass swallows her whole.
I watch her go for a beat, then speak without turning my eyes from the horizon.
"Madam Liora," I murmur, still running cloth along the edge of my knife. "Is everything well with Mrs. Seleana?"
Liora glances my way, her brow furrowed. She opens her mouth.
"I smell disruption," I say softly. "Like a sickness in the pack. I am concerned."
Before Liora can answer, the moment ends.
Marcus is already moving.
He doesn't say a word. No questions. No hesitation.
His body rises with the calm of a storm already summoned. His eyes fix on the horizon--and he follows her.
We watch.
Because that's what you do when the one holding you together decides to chase a soul unraveling at the seams.
We cannot fracture now. Not when providence waits just beyond the horizon.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
---Seleana---
I don't know why I did it.
My legs just moved. Instinct. Panic. Maybe desperation. I didn't decide--I broke. Like some part of me--ancient, hungry, buried--ripped free without asking permission.
One moment I was sitting in the grass, trying to hold myself together with a fake smile, and the next--I was running. Through grass. Through air.
I fled like a child leaving a funeral. The kind of funeral where you're not mourning what you lost, but what you were never allowed to have in the first place.
I don't even know what I'm running from.
The fire in my blood?
The name he calls me like it means something?
The eyes that look at me like I'm not cursed?
Every breath I take near him feels like a gamble I'm going to lose. Like one more inhale will pull the whole structure of me down.
So I run.
Corn stalks slap against my skin--rough, loud, punishing. My cloak tangles in the tall grass. My tail lashes with each stride, slicing through the air behind me like a banner of surrender. The stalks catch against my calves and rip at my ankles.
I don't stop. I don't slow. I just run.
I want to scream. To cry. To throw myself into the dirt and beat my fists against the ground until the rage and longing and confusion stop burning.
But I don't, because there's something worse than breaking.
Being seen while you do it.
And I know he's following me. I can feel him.
His presence--large, certain, impossible to shake--presses behind me like a second pulse.
Then, the voice.
"Seleana!"
It slices through the stalks like a blade. Not barked. Not stern.
Worried. Soft.
I run faster.
Because I don't know what I'm more afraid of--
That he'll catch me.
Or that he won't.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
----Marcus---
There's a clarity that comes in battle--an edge so sharp it cuts through everything else. Doubt. Distraction. Even pain.
I feel it now.
In the moment where something fragile is slipping away, and I don't know if I can reach it in time.
I used to be a ratcatcher, back in the port districts of Draymoor. Not glamorous, but honest work. Copper coins for each kill. I learned patience. Precision. You can't stomp around in a warehouse and expect results. You stalk. You wait. You listen.
But sometimes--sometimes, you corner something bigger than you expected.
I remember one.
A beast. A she-rat the size of a cat, smart enough to dodge my traps. I named her Humongo--childish, sure, but she earned it. I caught her in a cellar after three nights of watching. She didn't just fight. She defended.
Because behind her, nestled into a cracked stone wall, was a nest.
Blind. Pink. Helpless.
She was fighting for more than herself.
That fight taught me something.
When people are cornered, they fight for what they fear to lose.
That was the last night I worked for copper. A week later, a man in a cloak offered me something else. A purpose. A war.
And for years, I fought like that rat.
Quiet. Precise. For things I believed I had to protect--even if I didn't understand why.
But time wears down a blade, and I became blunt. Dull to life.
Until today.
Now I feel that spark again--like flint meeting steel. Like something real burning through all the numbness. A spark that I thought was lost in Triam.
Because I watched Seleana break and now I'm chasing the fire.
She doesn't run like a soldier. She runs like something trying not to drown. Legs desperate, uncoordinated, lungs clawing at the air. Her movements are wild. Untethered.
And gods help me, I see myself in that sprint.
The part of me that's been running longer than I've been breathing.
She's not just another job. Not just a mission or a ward or a woman in distress.
Seleana is a lighthouse on foggy shores. A flare in a storm. She pulls you in before you know how deep the water gets.
And I'll follow her. Not to save her. Not even to stop her.
But because something in her is trying to survive.
And I know that fight.
I know how it hurts.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
---Seleana---
I made it across two open fields to a broken ring in the wheat.
A clearing, hollowed out by wind or time or some long-forgotten fire, anchored only by the blackened remains of a fallen tree. It rises from the earth like a monument to ruin, half-buried and split wide at the center. I sit atop it, breath caught halfway to collapse.
The gold of the field sways around me, tall and endless, like an ocean I can't swim through anymore. I'm stranded here--adrift in my own body, choking on something I don't have a name for.
I've run far enough. Farther than any man should follow.
But I hear him.
His boots, steady. Crunching through stalks. Not hurried. Not frantic. Just... inevitable.
And that's the worst part.
He is no man. He is momentum.
Will, sorrow, and steel carved into one relentless body. A sentinel who follows not because he must--but because something inside him refuses to give up. Built by gods who must hate women like me--cursed blood, cursed purpose--and thought it funny to match us with men like him.
Men who don't know when to turn back. Men who make you wish they would.
Because I don't know what will happen if he doesn't stop.
Because if he reaches me--if he touches me--I might shatter.
And what happens to a woman like me when she breaks?
Worse--what happens to him?
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
---Marcus---
I part the corn with both hands, clearing the stalks from my face--and there she is.
Seleana.
Perched on the remnants of a dead tree like a queen seated on a battlefield throne. Her spine straight, her chin defiant, but her fingers tremble where they grip the edge of the stump.
She is radiant. Terrifying. Otherworldly.
Her cloak lies crumpled nearby, half buried in the wheat, discarded like a mask abandoned mid-performance. And without it--without that curtain of composure--her markings glow. Subtle at first. Then brighter.
Molten veins of gold curl around her arms and collar like old fire carved into skin. Language I don't speak, but understand anyway.
She is danger. Wrapped in grace. Breaking in silence.
And gods help me--I want her.
Not just the fire. Not just the beauty. I want the cracks. The places where she's holding herself together with sheer will and frayed thread. I want the woman who's unraveling and trying to pretend she isn't.
I step into the clearing. Not carefully. Not slowly. Just honestly.
Her eyes snap up. Amber fury, rimmed in panic.
I stop a few paces from her. Let the quiet fill the space between us. Let her breathe.
And then I kneel.
Not out of deference.
Not to play a game.
But because some part of me needs to be on her level.
"Seleana," I say softly. "Can I hold your hand?"
It's all I can think to say. Everything else feels like a lie, or too sharp to touch.
She doesn't answer.
But her hand--her right--shakes loose from her lap. Trembling, glowing, vulnerable.
I take it gently. Cradle it like a wounded bird.
Her skin is hot. Her breath shallow. The gold in her veins pulses beneath her skin like magic trying not to scream.
So I tell her a story. Not about war. Not duty. Something lighter.
A ridiculous tale from years ago. A cocky young cavalryman who learned humility from a barmaid with sharp eyes and sharper wit. Something about saddle rash and loose tongues.
She doesn't laugh. Not right away.
But her hand steadies.
Then--barely--a chuckle. More breath than sound. But real.
And then the smile comes. Small. Flickering. But alive.
Her other hand finds mine, curling around it like a lifeline.
I brush my thumb across her palm. Watch her eyes flutter, her shoulders loosen.
We rise together. And she doesn't feel small.
She feels vast.
Like something older than language.
Her horns catch the light. Her hair lifts in the wind. Her eyes--those burning eyes--lock on mine.
No armor. No mask.
Just her.
"I need to know," I whisper. "What is it you don't want me to know?"
Her composure shatters like glass struck by heat.
Her lips twitch. Her breath hitches.
And then--
She doesn't answer with words.
She lunges.
Her mouth crashes into mine with a fury that knocks the air from my chest. I barely have time to gasp before she's devouring me--pulling me in by the collar, fisting her hand into my hair, like she's trying to imprint herself on my soul.
I don't resist. I couldn't even if I wanted to.
Her kiss is hunger and defiance and fear all braided into one impossible thing. It's a challenge and a surrender in the same heartbeat. She kisses like she's falling off a cliff and dragging me with her.
We're breathless when she breaks the kiss, her lips swollen, her teeth tugging at mine like punctuation.
A moment passes as my brain struggles to understand reality.
And then--just like that--her expression ices over.
"There's nothing you need to know, Sentinel," she growls.
Her voice is hoarse. Her hands still tremble. Her glow dims, but doesn't vanish.
"Get us to Mableton. After that... we part."
Her next words are colder.
"There are roads even you can't follow me down."
Then she turns.
Disappears into the stalks.
The wheat folds around her like a curtain closing on a scene I'll never get to replay.
I don't move.
I just stand there, surrounded by golden silence. Swaying with the breeze.
Marked. Speechless.
And burning from the inside out.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
---Liora---
We watched him go.
Marcus tore off through the grass and gold like a storm made flesh--chasing Seleana across the field without hesitation, without a word.
And I think, in our own quiet ways, every one of us felt something snap.
Jealousy.
Not loud. Not spoken. Just... present. A shimmer of emotion beneath the skin. A whispered 'I wish.'
I wish he would chase after me like that.
I kept calm. Or tried to. Someone had to. Someone had to keep the foundation level while the ground trembled beneath our feet.
"He'll be back," I told them. "He's not a man who abandons anything. Especially not her."
Brosha didn't answer. She grunted, a low sound in her throat, then turned away. She stalked toward the southern edge of the trail, the way a mother wolf paces when one of her cubs strays too far. Her nose flared--tracking, reading, listening.
Cara was harder to read. She didn't crack a joke. Not at first.
Just a small flicker of something passed across her face--hurt? Envy? Loneliness? Then, of course, the mask snapped into place.
"Well," she announced, too loud. "I've got to shit."
And with a ridiculous flourish, she vanished into the cornfield in the opposite direction of Marcus and Seleana.
She wasn't fooling anyone.
I sat back down, fingers tightening the moss in my boots like it mattered. Like ritual could keep everything from unraveling.
And then--It hit me.
Like a lightning strike down my spine.
Sharp. Violent. Intimate.
I gasped--loud. My body arched forward, every muscle contracting, breath caught between inhale and moan. My fingers clawed into the dirt like it was the only solid thing left.
The sensation hit deep. Low. Molten.
My thighs pressed together, hard. My mouth opened in a silent cry. Every nerve flared alive.
Marcus.
It was him.
Not pain. Not fear. Not fury.
Lust.
Raw. Consuming. Male.
I felt it--through the bond. Through the thread that connected our souls. The Sanqari.
Before today, the bond had been gentle. A whisper. A fleeting pulse of feeling, light as breeze across skin.
But now? Now it screamed.
I felt the weight of his want. Heavy and wild. A wave that swept through me so fully, so viscerally, I nearly choked on it.
My skin flushed. My back bowed.
I bit the inside of my cheek to anchor myself--until blood bloomed warm on my tongue. Even that wasn't enough.
I almost reached for my dagger.
Not to cut. To use.
Tapered pommel. Smooth grip. Practical.
Goddess forgive me. What am I doing?
I yanked my hand back like it was fire and pressed both palms to the earth instead. Steady. Cool. Grounding.
Breathe. Inhale. Exhale.
Let the pulse settle. Let the heat fade. Let the shame pass like a fever breaking.
Whatever passed between Marcus and Seleana--it didn't stay between them.
It echoed.
Through me. Through the bond.
And gods help me, I didn't want to feel it.
But I did, and now I can't unfeel it.
I don't know what this tether will become. What it wants from me. What he might sense in return.
But some things are certain: This is no ordinary thread. This is no safe connection.
And I need to study it.
Carefully. Objectively. For academic purposes.
... Eventually.
But first--I need a cold bath. Or a very deep hole to scream into.
Whichever's closer.
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Thank you for reading. Please make sure to leave any comments, criticism or suggestions.
Going through the final edits of chapters 7/8 right now.
Leave a comment on which of the ladies seems the most interesting to you so far.
<3 QuietYearning 7/17/25
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