Cherreads

Chapter 21 - Arc 3 Chapter 4: Echoes of the Unspoken

The days passed. The town moved forward.

But Irelia and Nariel… didn't.

There was no fight, no confrontation—only silence. A silence that stretched between them like a tether worn thin, fraying at the edges.

They crossed paths often.

On the streets, where life bustled as if nothing had changed. Where their eyes met in passing, but never lingered.

At the training grounds, where knights sparred in the midday sun, their blades ringing in disciplined rhythm.

Near the castle walls, where the Morning Flame convened in murmurs of duty and war.

Each time, the space between them felt wider.

Their conversations—if they could even be called that—were stiff, filled with half-started sentences and words that never made it past their lips.

A nod. A glance. A muttered greeting.

Nothing real.

Nariel wanted to talk. Irelia knew it.

She could see it in the way Nariel's lips parted, only to press into a thin line. In the way her fingers curled at her sides, as if grasping for something that had already slipped through her grasp.

But Irelia never stopped.

She never gave her the chance.

Once, outside the barracks, their gazes locked.

Nariel hesitated. Shifted her weight.

A step forward. 

Irelia turned away.

She told herself it was easier this way.

But later, alone in her quiet home, she would catch herself listening for footsteps that never came.

Another time, on the training grounds, Irelia lingered.

She shouldn't have. But she did.

Nariel was leading drills, her blade flashing in precise, fluid movements—just as disciplined, just as controlled as she had always been.

She barked orders. Corrected footwork. Demonstrated a strike with effortless grace.

She had always been good at control.

Irelia should have left.

But she didn't. Not yet.

Then Nariel turned—as if sensing her.

Their eyes met across the field.

Nariel stilled. Just for a breath. Just long enough for something unspoken to stretch between them—something raw, something neither of them dared name.

Irelia looked away first.

And then she was gone.

From a distance, Nariel watched her leave.

She didn't move to follow. Didn't call out.

But her grip on her sword tightened.

And Irelia could feel it—that storm beneath the surface, coiled and waiting.

Regret.

Frustration.

Something deeper.

The question hung between them, unanswered, unspoken, but heavy all the same—

What now?

As her body recovered there wasn't much she could do, but Irelia had never been one for stillness.

Her wounds were healing. The aches fading. But rest did nothing to settle the weight in her chest.

She couldn't afford idleness.

Not with the Egg still unprotected—lying in her satchel, vulnerable, a prize for anyone bold or foolish enough to try taking it.

The Ashen Veil was still out there. Watching. Waiting.

She wouldn't make it easy for them. 

By midday, Ignisia's market was alive with noise and movement. The marketplace bustled with life, a vibrant maze of stalls and shouting vendors. The scent of roasting meats and honeyed pastries mingled with the earthy aroma of fresh herbs and dried spices. Blacksmiths displayed gleaming blades beside merchants peddling colorful fabrics, their voices rising above the chatter of haggling customers. Street performers wove through the crowd, juggling or playing lively tunes on lutes, while pickpockets moved just as deftly in the shadows.

But Irelia wasn't interested in food, fabric, or weapons.

She needed something stronger.

Something worthy of holding the Egg.

Her search took her to a quieter part of the market, where rarer goods were sold—enchanted stones, spell components, exotic woods. She scanned the wares with practiced ease until her gaze landed on it.

Goldwood.

A pale, golden-hued timber, its surface smooth yet impossibly strong, humming with a quiet, dormant magic.

She had read about it in old texts—a sacred material from the Verdant Expanse, said to be blessed by the lifeblood of the land itself. Harder than steel. Resistant to magic.

Perfect.

Her fingers traced the wood's polished grain, feeling the faint thrumming energy beneath its surface. But before she could ask, her eyes found the price.

Her lips pressed into a thin line. Too much. Even for her.

The merchant, an older man with rune-etched gloves, leaned forward, arms resting against the counter. His gaze was sharp. Measuring.

"Not every day someone asks for goldwood," he mused, stroking his beard. "You making a relic?"

Irelia hesitated.

She could pay in gold, but it would set her back considerably. And she still needed supplies for the road ahead.

Her hand drifted to her belt, fingers brushing over one of her older blades. Not the mithril daggers—those were irreplaceable. But a weapon she had carried before, one she had personally enchanted.

Slowly, she unsheathed it and set it on the counter.

The runic engravings along the steel shimmered faintly, catching the light as magic pulsed through its surface.

"This should cover it."

The merchant picked up the blade, turning it over with practiced hands. Testing the weight. Feeling the magic.

A long pause. Then, a low grumble.

"Hmph. Don't see scribes often. Fine." He set the dagger aside, grabbing a polished slab of goldwood and handing it over.

"But if that thing cracks, you owe me."

Irelia smirked, tucking the goldwood under her arm. "It won't."

She left the market behind.

She had work to do.

Night had fallen by the time Irelia sat at her desk, lanterns casting long shadows along the walls of her workshop.

The slab of goldwood rested before her, smooth and untouched.

She ran her fingers over its surface, feeling the faint hum of latent magic within. It was a rare material, not often shaped by human hands—but she had always been good with runes.

With steady hands, she reached for her carving tools and began.

Engraving the glyphs. Tracing the wards. Channeling her magic into the wood, each rune reinforcing its strength, its purpose.

The container would be small, just large enough to hold the Egg.

But it would be nearly indestructible.

Only she would be able to open it.

It would resist heat, magic, and force.

And, most importantly, it would be bound to her teleportation runes—so she could summon the Egg at will, no matter where she was.

The work was precise, meticulous—a ritual as much as a craft.

When the final rune was set, Irelia exhaled, setting her tools down.

The finished product sat before her—a small, round vessel, the engraved runes pulsing softly beneath her touch.

It was ready.

Yet, as she traced the final rune, something unsettled her.

She couldn't place it—not quite.

The Egg was protected now. Safe.

Yet, she can't shake the feeling that something is wrong. 

Terribly wrong. 

The wooden railing was cool beneath her gloved hands, the scent of rain lingering in the crisp morning air. Nariel stood on the upper level of the inn, her gaze drifting over Ignisia's streets below.

The town moved as it always had. Across the road, an elderly woman feeds a cluster of chickens scratching at the dirt near her doorstep. A cloaked traveler leans against a tree near the inn, sharpening a dagger, his eyes watchful. Horses and oxen pull carts laden with sacks of goods, their drivers calling out as they make their way toward the town gates. 

But there are some differences, knights of the Morning Flame patrolled the main road, their armor gleaming in the early light. They moved with purpose, their presence a reassuring one to Ignisia's people.

But Nariel wasn't looking at any of them.

Her mind was elsewhere.

Her eyes searched the streets, but she already knew who she was looking for.

Irelia.

They hadn't spoken properly since returning to Ignisia.

Not really.

There had been glances, brief exchanges—small, careful acknowledgments that neither of them had dared to push further.

She wanted to talk. Truly talk. To break through the awkward silence, to bridge the chasm that had formed between them.

But something stopped her.

Doubt.

Hesitation.

Fear?

No. Not fear.

Not in the way she had once understood it.

She had always been fearless. Always steady in her choices. And yet—when it came to this, to Irelia—

She hesitated.

She tightened her grip on the railing.

Why?

She had spent years trying to understand it, but the answer always danced just out of reach. Like chasing a shadow. Like trying to hold onto something that had already slipped through her fingers.

Like Irelia had.

A gust of wind stirred her hair, and suddenly—

The air was warm, carrying the scent of roasted almonds and spiced cider. Lanterns floated above the village square, their golden glow flickering like fireflies against the night sky.

Laughter and music filled the streets. A band played a lively tune, the melody threading through the gathered crowd like a heartbeat.

And in the center of it all—

Irelia.

She was smiling. Really smiling. A rare, genuine kind of joy, one Nariel had seen so few times before.

Her auburn hair shimmered under the lantern light as she moved, her laughter bright, unguarded.

They had danced.

Nariel could still feel the memory of Irelia's fingers lacing with hers, the warmth of her palm, the way their bodies had moved together, effortlessly in sync.

It had started as a game, a reckless challenge thrown between them.

"I didn't take you for a dancer, Aerith," Nariel had teased, lips curled in amusement.

Irelia had scoffed, but there had been a spark in her eyes.

"I didn't take you for someone who had fun," she shot back.

Nariel had smirked. "Then let's both be surprised tonight."

They had spun through the streets, twirling between revelers, losing themselves in the rhythm of the night.

The world had felt small then. Just the two of them, wrapped in warmth, in music, in something neither of them had words for.

The wine had helped, of course.

They had stolen a bottle—or two—and wandered through the quiet fields beyond the village, away from the noise, the festival, the expectations that always weighed on them.

It had been so easy to talk that night.

To laugh.

To forget.

And then, beneath the endless stars, between hushed words and whispered confessions—

They had kissed.

It had been soft. Unrushed. A slow collision of warmth and uncertainty, of what was and what could have been.

A moment neither of them had planned for—

A moment neither of them had stopped.

And then—

The memory fractured.

Nariel's grip tightened on the railing.

That night felt like a lifetime ago.

Because it was.

The Irelia from that memory—the one who had smiled, who had let herself feel free, even just for a night—she wasn't the same woman Nariel saw now.

And Nariel wasn't the same, either.

The ache in her chest tightened.

She could still see Irelia as she had been that night—smiling, laughing, happy.

And then, just as quickly—

She saw her again.

Not in a festival square, not beneath the stars—

But walking away.

Nariel exhaled sharply, the weight of that moment settling deep.

Why did it still hurt?

The town bustled below her, unchanged. Indifferent.

But Nariel stood frozen, trapped in a memory she couldn't seem to outrun.

Because some memories didn't fade.

Some choices couldn't be undone.

And some words—

Some words were never said when they mattered most.

And now, she wasn't sure if it was too late to say them at all.

But silence had always been their greatest mistake.

And Nariel wasn't sure if she had the courage to break it.

More Chapters