Chapter 6 — Somewhere Quiet
The rain kept falling even after we turned off the border road.
The horse ambled at a steady pace through the woods, cold wind sighing around the trees.
Neither of us spoke for a long time. Only the sound of hoofs thudding into mud.
"You're quiet," she said finally.
I loosened my grip around her waist.
"...Sorry."
"It's alright not to be." Her voice was soft, plain — nothing like the palace, nothing like soldiers.
The woods thinned and faintly between the trees a light bloomed in the dark.
"You're not from here, are you?" she asked.
"No."
"Knew it." A pause. "Bad time to be travelling."
"Why?"
She tugged lightly on the reins. "Word traveled fast, ever since Edrath happened."
Something pulled tight inside me at that name. Edrath. The kingdom I'd left behind.
"They say the princess was killed. By one of the royal knights."
The rain sounded suddenly loud. My fingers clenched against the material of her dress without thinking. I stifled a breath.
She faltered. "You okay?"
I didn't reply. My hands wrapped around her again from behind — not voluntarily, not consciously. I just couldn't stop.
The horse continued in silence. She didn't pull away or question it.
"...It's been tense ever since," she went on, quieter. "Border patrols have gotten worse. More travelers disappearing on the northern roads."
Northern roads. Further from Edrath than I thought.
"This is Norvale territory. Very few people come this far into the woods unless they're merchants or hunters."
Norvale. Another foreign name. Another place I hadn't touched yet.
I slowly released my grip.
"...Sorry." This time I sounded small.
She glanced back briefly. "You say that a lot."
I looked away.
The woods fell silent as we rode further in. Eventually the horse slowed before a small wooden cottage almost hidden in the trees. Old, not abandoned — weathered. Part of the roof patched in more than one place, one side of the outer wall leaning slightly inward, half-strangled by thick ivy. A small lantern burned dimly near the door. Bundles of herbs hung beside the covered porch, stacks of chopped wood next to them. No guards. No servants. Just silence.
She dismounted. "We're here."
I followed, boots sinking into mud. She opened the door quietly. Warm air rushed out.
The inside was small. A rough wooden table before the fireplace, blankets piled against the walls alongside stacks of books, a pot hanging over low flames. Smoke and rainwater and dried herbs. This place was lived in. Quiet. Safe.
The quiet felt more disquieting than the woods had.
"You can sit by the fire," she said, setting her bow against the entrance.
I sank down by the flames while she moved about gathering fabric and water. For the first time in what felt like forever I became aware of how utterly exhausted my body was.
She knelt before me. "I should clean the cut before it gets worse."
I said nothing. Gently she lifted my chin into the lantern light.
She stopped instantly.
Silence.
"...Hold still." Her voice had changed — more confused now. She leaned closer, slowly, carefully. The room felt suddenly, profoundly silent. She frowned, studying the skin beside my mouth. Then reached out and gently touched where the blade had cut me.
There was nothing.
No cut. No blood. No scar. Gone completely.
She froze. "...Your wound."
"What about it?"
She didn't answer. She reached out again, fingertips tracing my cheek as if she'd missed it somehow. But there was nothing. Smooth skin.
The fire popped quietly behind us. Rain pattered against the windows.
She lowered her hand slowly.
For a long moment she didn't speak. Her eyes moved across my face — not with fear exactly, but with something careful. Measured. Like a person deciding how much of what they just saw they were willing to believe.
Then quietly, almost carefully, she asked:
"...What are you?"