The forest didn't feel quiet.
It felt… watched.
Like the trees had memories. Like the wind was carrying stories we weren't supposed to hear. It moved in patterns—brushing branches one way, then the other, then holding still long enough to let you wonder if it had always been there.
We were maybe two leagues outside Tharionne. Maybe more. I wasn't good with maps. And Selaithe didn't believe in them.
"We're not crossing rivers," she'd said that morning, chewing dried plum. "We're slipping between the cracks in the land. Maps don't show the cracks."
She walked ahead now, as usual. Braid swinging. Boots kicking through bramble like it owed her money.
I kept looking back. Even when there was nothing to see. No guards. No black-cloaked enforcers. No Veyr.
But I could feel the city behind us like a second spine. Like it would reach out any moment and snap us back by the throats.
Selaithe didn't look back once.
"Doesn't it bother you?" I asked.
She didn't stop. "What?"
"Leaving like that. Without saying anything."
That made her pause. Just a heartbeat.
Then she turned her head slightly. "You mean my dad?"
"Yeah."
She looked forward again, kicking a rock down the path. "He won't notice I'm gone. Not at first. Maybe not ever."
"That's not true."
"Mm. You think a parent who watches you get your ear carved off in a back alley does much noticing afterward?"
Silence.
The air between us tensed like a pulled string.
"…I'm sorry," I said.
"Don't be," she replied. "I'm not."
We kept walking. The trees grew denser—older. Some had carvings in them. Symbols half-lost to moss. A few were marked with faded warding glyphs from the old kingdom calendar, the kind you weren't supposed to touch unless you had a priest present.
Selaithe touched them anyway.
She traced her fingers over the bark like it was a friend she hadn't seen in years. Then wiped her hands on her pants and kept walking.
After a while, I asked, "So why are you helping me?"
She turned, walking backward now—arms behind her head, that signature smirk blooming across her face like a knife with flowers on the hilt.
"You're cute," she said.
I blinked. "That's it?"
"Well," she said, counting on her fingers, "you're cute, you've got great hair for someone constantly running for their life, and you've got this whole tortured-ghost-prince vibe going."
"That's not a reason."
"It's my reason."
I tried not to smile. Failed.
"Also," she added, spinning back around, "I'd rather run with someone who talks in his sleep than alone. Even if you do mutter creepy things like 'don't take it from me' and 'I didn't ask for this.' Very dramatic."
My ears burned. "I—don't—I was dreaming."
"Of course you were," she said, voice sing-songy. "You're a mysterious little spell-cursed heartache machine."
I shoved a branch aside. "You're impossible."
"You say that like it's a flaw."
The sun climbed higher, turning the dirt path into gold-edged moss. We passed a withered spirit tree—once a warding totem, now broken, its stone eye snapped off and buried beneath creeping vine.
Selaithe made a face. "That one's bad luck. Step around it."
"Why?"
"Because it's bleeding through."
I frowned. "What does that mean?"
"It means if you step too close, your dreams might not stay yours."
I stepped way around it.
The deeper we went, the more I noticed the changes.
The plants grew bigger. Wilder. Some leaves were black at the tips—evidence of old burn magic. We passed a stone arch half-swallowed by ivy. A travel marker from before the Hollow Fall. The words were in Old Velmaric, but I recognized one symbol at the top.
A warning rune.
I pointed it out. "This place used to be dangerous."
Selaithe grinned. "Still is. You're walking through it."
⟡
We stopped at a creek around midday. I drank too fast and choked. Selaithe laughed so hard she snorted, then flung a berry at my head.
"You need survival training," she said between giggles. "Or at least swallowing lessons."
"That sounded wrong."
"Oh, it was."
"Selaithe."
"What? I'm seven, not dead."
"Please."
She flopped back into the grass, arms spread wide. "When I die, they'll write 'Too much' on my grave. Or maybe just 'a bit much, but worth it.'"
I couldn't stop grinning. Gods help me, I couldn't.
And that's when I realized—
I didn't feel afraid.
Not at that moment. Not with her.
Not even with everything behind us still burning.
I looked down at the sword again—Calden's sword. It had weight I wasn't ready to carry. Not yet. But I carried it anyway.
Just like I carried the memory of Veilstep burning through my bones.
Just like I carried that shimmer that wasn't supposed to be there.
Tainted white.
Whatever that meant.
Ahead of us? Nothing but blank parchment.
Wilderness. Ruins. Stories we hadn't earned the right to hear yet.
A whole continent that didn't know who we were.
But it would.
⟡
By afternoon, the sun barely filtered through the canopy. The trees had grown taller—denser. We passed under branches twisted like gnarled fingers, moss hanging in curtains, bark so dark it looked burned. Birds cried overhead, distant and sharp. A stream murmured somewhere to our left, but Selaithe steered us away from it.
I stepped over a root and winced. "How long until we're… not lost?"
Selaithe didn't break stride. "We're not lost."
I gave her a look. "You just said you didn't know where we're going."
"Exactly. That's different from being lost."
"That's exactly what being lost is."
"Kaelen, sweetie, if we were truly lost, I'd be panicking. Do I look panicked?"
"You look like you'd flirt with a tree if it glared at you hard enough."
She grinned. "Only if it had nice bark."
I groaned. "I'm being serious. We have no money. No food left. No map. No idea what's ahead."
She finally slowed, glancing around, then dropped into a crouch to check a patch of disturbed moss. "We're heading north, along the old hunter trails. There's a trader's fork two days out—if we don't die to boars, brigands, or boredom first. From there, we find a way to one of the outer villages and… figure it out."
"Figure it out," I repeated. "That's your plan?"
"It's a very good plan."
"It's not a plan."
"Sure it is. Step one: don't die. Step two: steal something if we have to. Step three: maybe you finally laugh again."
"I've laughed."
"Barely."
I sat down on a fallen log, sighing. The bark flaked under my palm. I stared at my boots—mud-caked, too thin. My legs ached. My stomach made a sound like it had its own opinion about Selaithe's so-called plan.
"…How do we get money?" I asked. "We're seven. No one's hiring."
She paused, then walked over and sat beside me. "We could beg."
"I'd rather die."
"We could rob someone."
"We'd die faster."
She leaned in, bumping her shoulder into mine. "Then we improvise. Trust me, this world runs on favors and guts more than gold."
"Do you even know how to pick pockets?"
She held up three coin pouches.
I blinked.
"…When?"
"Back when you tripped over the roots like a startled chicken. You were a great distraction."
"I'm going to strangle you."
"Can't. I'm your only source of income, sarcasm, and emotional support."
I let my head fall into my hands. "We're doomed."
"Nah," she said. "We're just children with attitude and stolen coin. That's way worse."
We kept walking as the sun dipped lower. The trail curved into mist again, and the air grew thicker. Not hot. Just… alive. Like the forest itself was paying attention now.
"The trees are different here," I muttered.
"Wood elf territory," Selaithe said. "If we're lucky, they ignore us. If we're unlucky, they put arrows in our thighs."
"Wonderful."
"Don't worry." She tapped her half-missing ear. "I've got street cred."
"That's not how ears work."
"You don't know elf politics."
I didn't. Not really. But I'd read stories. Wood elves were private. Fierce. Proud. Their forest was their temple. Their arrows? Not just sharp—they were usually enchanted to pin souls in place for judgment.
Still, we kept walking.
That evening, we made camp beside a moss-coated boulder. I lit the fire while Selaithe scouted for edible roots. She returned with a handful of mushrooms that looked like they could either cure sickness or cause it.
"Are those safe?" I asked.
"I ate one. Didn't die. You're fine."
That wasn't comforting.
We split the food anyway—quiet chewing, tired shoulders, the crackle of flame our only company. My body hurt everywhere. But I didn't say it. I'd already complained enough for one day.
As I curled beneath the cloak, I asked, "Selaithe?"
"Yeah?"
"…Why are you still helping me?"
She didn't answer at first.
Then, in a tone too casual to be casual: "Because I like you."
"I know. You've said."
"No, I mean I like you enough to make a mess of my life."
I stared at her. "…We're already in a mess."
"Exactly," she said, propping her chin up on one hand. "And you're the only person I've ever felt like wasn't looking at my ear when they talked to me. So yeah. I'm staying."
My throat tightened. I looked away before I had to say something back.
Before I had to admit that her staying was the only reason I hadn't broken completely yet.
She kept going, whisper-light this time.
"And if someone tries to take you again… I'll bury them."
"I know."
"You believe me?"
"I do."
She smiled, satisfied.
"Good."
The fire burned low. The forest stayed silent—but not in a threatening way anymore.
More like it was watching us pass.
More like it was waiting.
⟡
The fire crackled, throwing shadows that danced like ghosts across the bark. I laid there beneath the too-thin cloak, eyes wide open, not from fear—at least not entirely—but from weight. The kind that settles into your bones and pretends it was always there.
Selaithe had drifted off. Sort of. She made those twitchy little movements when she was pretending to sleep. You could always tell with her—she never fully relaxed. Not even when she laughed like the world was made of punchlines.
Above us, the forest canopy creaked gently. It sounded like breath. Like the trees were waiting for us to move again before they whispered to one another. I wondered what they'd say. Probably something like:
"Two children, lost. One broken, one breaking. Both glowing faintly with things they shouldn't understand."
The stars blinked through the cracks in the branches. I counted them for a while. Gave up around fifty-three. My thoughts kept circling.
Where were we going?
What would we even do once we got there?
I hadn't asked for any of this—not the magic, not the sword, not the fear stitched into my spine like thread that wouldn't snap. But I had it now. All of it.
And it was heavy.
"Hey," Selaithe whispered, just loud enough to pull me from my thoughts.
"Thought you were asleep."
"I was. Then I remembered I'm cold and there's a perfectly cloak-wrapped noble boy hogging the fire."
I grumbled and rolled over, lifting the edge of the cloak.
She slipped beneath it, shoulder pressing into mine like it belonged there.
"Better," she said. "You smell like moss and tragedy."
"Thanks."
"You're welcome."
We lay there a minute, listening to the forest breathe. Then:
"Kaelen?"
"Yeah?"
"You ever hear the phrase 'Witchwood grows where memory bleeds'?"
I blinked. "…No?"
"Well, we're sleeping under one."
I sat up. "What?!"
She laughed and tugged me back down. "Relax. It's just a saying. Sort of. Maybe. There's probably only a small chance it'll try to eat our dreams."
"That's not funny."
"It's a little funny."
She snuggled in closer, completely unbothered. I stared at the bough above us, trying not to imagine it creaking open like a jaw.
But the longer I watched the way the bark shimmered—faintly silver, like veins running through black stone—the more I started to believe her.
Magic had touched this place.
Not in a violent way. Not explosive or chaotic like Veilstep's spark. This was older. Slower. Like time didn't move the same beneath these roots.
"Selaithe," I murmured. "This place… it feels wrong."
"No," she said sleepily. "Not wrong. Just forgotten."
I swallowed. "Same thing, isn't it?"
She didn't answer.
Because she'd finally fallen asleep for real—breathing deep, head tilted toward my shoulder, fingers still loosely curled around the knife she kept tucked under her cloak.
That girl didn't trust anything.
Not even dreams.
⟡
Morning came quiet.
Too quiet.
The birdsong didn't start immediately. The air had a strange weight to it, like it wasn't done being night just yet. I sat up, blanket of mist curling between the ferns. My breath fogged in the chill.
Selaithe groaned awake, muttering curses I didn't know she knew.
"Up," I whispered. "Something's wrong."
Her eyes sharpened instantly.
She sat up, knife already in hand. "What?"
I scanned the tree line. "Nothing's moved. Not even the wind."
She frowned and stood, brushing herself off. "Could be a warding field."
"A what?"
"Old elven trick. A bit of passive silence magic. Keeps beasts out. Also keeps sound in."
"…That's comforting."
She grinned. "It's only worrying if you see scratch marks on the trees. Let me check."
She moved through the clearing with the confidence of someone raised by shadows. I followed, hand on the hilt of the sword. Still wrapped, but warm against my side like it knew we weren't safe yet.
At the edge of the clearing, she paused. Leaned down.
I followed her gaze.
One of the trees had three thin lines carved into its bark.
Not fresh.
But not old, either.
"…What's that mean?" I whispered.
She didn't answer for a moment.
Then: "Someone passed through here. About two weeks ago."
I raised an eyebrow. "That's pretty specific."
She smiled without humor. "Because I know who made those."
I froze. "What?"
She stood slowly, her face unreadable. "My dad. Those are his trail marks."
I didn't know what to say.
Selaithe didn't look shaken. But her hands curled tighter around her knife.
She wiped the marks away with her sleeve, like erasing them might change the fact they existed.
"I thought he stayed behind," I said carefully.
She didn't answer right away.
Then: "If he's ahead of us… we need to be careful."
"You think he'll try to find you?"
She shrugged. "Not if he doesn't think I'm worth the effort. But if someone's paying him to find me…"
My stomach turned. "Do you think Veyr would—?"
"I think Veyr wants leverage. And he probably knows I'm the only reason you got out."
My throat tightened.
Selaithe looked up, smiled too wide. "Good thing I'm hard to catch."
She turned and started walking again.
I followed.
What else could I do?
⟡
We spent the next few hours hiking through overgrown paths and forgotten roads. Sometimes we'd see shattered stone markers with sigils too old to read, sometimes we'd find bone—animal, probably—picked clean and hung from trees like warnings.
This wasn't just wilderness.
This was the edge of somewhere older than Velmire's politics.
Older than Tharionne.
And deeper than any map dared draw.
"Do you think there's anyone else out here?" I asked.
Selaithe tossed a pebble into the underbrush. "Oh, sure. Travelers. Vagabonds. Spirits. Bandits. Maybe an ancient forest god or two."
"That last one better be a joke."
"You think I'd joke about forest gods?"
"Yes."
She winked. "Correct."
⟡
We camped near a broken bridge that night—half collapsed into a dry ravine, its supports still wrapped in warding chains. Selaithe said this was a crossing from the old days, back when caravans came through before the elven forest swallowed the road.
"We're not far from the Sylrienn now," she said, pulling out a cracked compass.
"Sylrienn?"
"Neutral elven enclave. Traders, healers, people who don't like being ruled. They won't rat us out, but they'll want a trade."
"We have coin."
She raised an eyebrow. "We have pouches. No idea if what's inside them is real or counterfeit. Or cursed. Or both."
"Of course it is."
"That's Velmire, baby."
And as we laid under another tangle of stars, I realized…
We weren't running anymore.
We were moving.
Toward something.
Toward a path that wasn't paved by anyone else's orders.
Whatever we found next—elves, monsters, cities carved into cliffs or wandering mountains—I would face it with her beside me.
Not because she was strong.
Not because I was.
But because neither of us were alone anymore.
And maybe that was enough.
For now.