Chapter Five — Ash and Silence
The forest swallowed them whole.
For hours they walked without speaking, their only guide the cold glimmer of moonlight breaking through the canopy. The trees grew denser here — ancient things with bark like cracked stone and roots that seemed to pulse faintly beneath the soil.
Christin followed several paces behind Leroy, her breath forming pale clouds in the night air. Every now and then, he would glance back, his gray eyes unreadable, checking that she was still there — not out of care, she told herself, but out of calculation.
Finally, the trees began to thin. A clearing opened before them, and at its center stood a hunting lodge — long abandoned, its roof sagging, its walls weathered by time and moss.
Leroy halted before the door. "We'll rest here until sunrise."
Christin hesitated. "You don't seem like the type who needs rest."
"I don't," he said flatly. "You, however, look as though you'll collapse."
She bit back a retort, too tired to argue. He pushed the door open with one gloved hand — it creaked loudly, echoing in the hollow dark. Inside, the air smelled of damp wood and old ash. A broken hearth stood in one corner, the remnants of a fire long dead.
Christin stepped inside cautiously. "Do you make a habit of bringing fugitives to crumbling lodges?"
"Only the stubborn ones," he said, his voice cool as frost.
She turned away to hide the flicker of a smile that threatened to form, though her exhaustion dulled it. "Then I must be your favorite."
He didn't answer. Instead, he swept a hand through the air — a subtle motion, but the effect was immediate. The hearth kindled to life with a sharp hiss, flames blooming from nothing.
Christin jumped. "How did you—?"
He ignored the question, removing his cloak and hanging it over a rusted hook. "Sit," he said simply. "Warm yourself."
Something in his tone — not cruel, but commanding — made her obey. She sank to the floor beside the fire, stretching her trembling hands toward the heat. The silence pressed heavy between them, broken only by the soft crackle of flame.
After a while, she said quietly, "You knew that creature in the forest. What was it?"
Leroy's gaze remained fixed on the fire. "A Wraithling."
"I've never heard of that."
"You wouldn't have," he said. "They belong to an age long before your kingdom was born. Shadows without bodies. Hungry for life."
She shivered. "Then why did it come after me?"
He finally looked at her, his expression distant but sharper now. "That's what I'd like to know."
Christin held his gaze. "You think I summoned it?"
"I think it was drawn to you," he said evenly. "To your magic."
Her throat tightened. "I told you, I don't understand what it is."
"And that," he replied, "is what makes it dangerous."
She frowned, stung by the bluntness in his voice. "You speak as if I'm some kind of threat."
Leroy's expression didn't soften. "Power without control always is."
"I didn't ask for it," she said, her voice cracking. "If I could give it away, I would."
His eyes flickered, just briefly — something unreadable beneath the cold surface. "Be careful what you wish for."
Christin turned back to the fire, blinking away the sting of unshed tears. "Do you ever say anything kind?"
He regarded her for a moment before answering. "Not when honesty is more useful."
Her lips curved in a faint, tired smile despite herself. "Then you must be very useful indeed."
For a heartbeat, something almost like amusement glinted in his eyes — and then it was gone, replaced by his usual composure.
The fire burned low. Outside, wind whispered against the wooden walls, carrying the forest's distant sighs.
Christin's eyes grew heavy. "You said the forest remembers blood," she murmured. "What did you mean?"
Leroy didn't immediately answer. He stood near the doorway, gaze fixed on the dark beyond. "There are old magics here — older than kingdoms, older than my kind. They recognize certain lines, certain souls. Some are born with the mark of the forgotten gods."
"And you think I'm one of them?"
He turned his head slightly, gray eyes gleaming in the firelight. "I think you are something the world tried to erase."
A chill ran through her despite the warmth of the flames. "That's not possible."
"Neither is healing dead things with a touch," he said. "And yet…"
She looked down at her hands — small, human, trembling. "Then what am I?"
His answer was quiet, almost reluctant. "A question the night itself wants answered."
Silence fell again.
Christin leaned against the wall, exhaustion dragging her eyes shut. When she finally slept, the locket around her neck pulsed faintly, gold light seeping through her fingers.
Leroy stood motionless, watching from the shadows. His expression didn't change, but his gaze lingered longer than it should have.
He told himself he was studying her — her magic, her danger. Not her face softened by firelight. Not the way she looked too fragile for the weight she carried.
Still, when the wind howled through the trees outside and the old door rattled in its frame, he moved closer to where she slept — just close enough that, should anything breach the silence, he would be there first.
The fire crackled, throwing faint sparks against the stone.
"She shouldn't exist," he murmured again, more to the dark than to himself.
And somewhere far away, in the depths of the Blackwood, something ancient stirred in answer.