Arin and Richard emerged from the river, water cascading down their bodies like a veil of liquid silver. Their skin glistened in the fading light, and their clothes clung to their frames, heavy with the weight of the water. As they stepped onto the riverbank, the earth squelched beneath their feet, releasing a faint sucking sound.
"Ugh," Richard grunted, dragging a wet sleeve across his face. "This better be worth dying cold and stupid for."
Arin didn't look at him.
"We'll see," she said, eyes fixed ahead.
He gave a low, humorless chuckle earning a glare from her.
"Gods, you're no fun."
Water streamed down her cloak, dripping from the hem in steady plinks. The forest around them was eerily quiet, as if the trees were holding their breath.
They walked in silence, save for the occasional squelch of boot meeting mud. The moon had started its descent, the silver of it swallowed by clouds that loomed low and mean.
Twigs snapped underfoot. Somewhere distant, a crow cried out like a scream swallowed halfway through.
"How far are we from the palace?" Arin finally asked.
"Couple hours. Maybe more." Richard's tone was clipped. "If we don't get lost. Or eaten."
"Comforting."
They pressed on. Every step was heavier, soaked clothes dragging like chains. Arin's ribs throbbed. Her side burned. Whatever had clawed her had left a reminder.
And then warm light greeted their eyes.
Just ahead through the trees, a crooked sign hung from a rusted post, swaying in the breeze. The Hollow Hearth. The glow of lanterns spilled through grimy windows, and smoke drifted from a chimney like a lazy serpent.
"I thought this part of the woods was abandoned," Arin said, suspicious.
"It was." Richard eyed the inn like it might disappear "But I'm not sleeping under a tree tonight, and you look five minutes from collapsing."
He didn't wait for her to argue and just led the way up the warped steps and pushed through the door.
Inside, the inn was warmer, but barely. The fire crackled low in the hearth, and the common room held a single old man hunched over a mug of something too thick to be tea. The innkeeper looked up from behind the counter, eyes sharp beneath bushy brows.
"Rooms?" he rasped.
"Two," Richard said before Arin could open her mouth.
The man grunted and handed over keys in exchange for a few silver coins. "Back left. Don't mind the noise. Roof rats."
"Great," Arin muttered.
They climbed the narrow stairs, the wood creaking under their feet. The hallway smelled musty and faintly like pickled onions. Their rooms were directly across from each other.
Richard paused at his door, casting her a look. "You scream in your sleep, I'm not checking."
"Wouldn't dream of giving you the satisfaction," Arin said flatly.
He smirked, pushed into his room, and closed the door.
Arin stepped into hers.
It was small, barely lit by a sputtering lantern. The bed looked like it might bite. She didn't care. She threw her cloak over the chair, checked the lock twice, then sat on the bed and just breathed.
The silence wrapped around her like a cloak.
And slowly, without meaning to, her eyes drooped shut and she drifted into the sleeping world.
That was when the dream came.
Darkness.
It was thick, choking, and suffocating, pressing into her lungs like it was trying to squeeze out her last breath.
Beth stood alone in a ruined field ,mud up to her ankles, the stench of rot and ash curling in the air. Bodies were scattered everywhere, twisted and broken, banners torn and bloodstained. Arteva's crest flapped limply on a shattered lance.
She knew this place.
This was where it happened.
The rain had fallen like knives that night. She remembered the weight of her mother's blood on her hands, the crack of fire eating through her childhood, the distant echo of a nation dying.
Her knees hit the ground.
The dream sharpened.
Her voice, raw and ragged, cut through the silence:
"I swear...By the bones beneath me, by the crown that fell, by every scream that echoed through the night..."
Wind shrieked across the battlefield.
"I will make the Ravenwoods lie in graves colder than this."
Thunder cracked overhead.
"If I fail, let my soul burn Let my name vanish. Let me die forgotten and damned."
A bolt of lightning ripped across the sky, and the battlefield shifted.
Graves bloomed around her.
Rows of them. Endless.
And at the center, a single open grave.
Her own.
Carved into the headstone: Elizabeth Blackburn. Traitorblood. Oathbreaker.
The coffin lid creaked open.
And out came her parents.
Twisted.
Wrong.
Her mother's elegant gown dragged in the mud, torn and soaked in blood. Her eyes had gone black, mouth stretched into something that should never smile. Her father's chest bore the arrow that killed him, rotted through, his jaw half unhinged.
They walked like marionettes, jerky and too quiet.
Beth tried to back away but her legs wouldn't move.
Her mother reached out, skeletal fingers brushing Beth's cheek. "Why haven't you done it?"
Her father's voice was hollow. "Why do they still live?"
Beth's throat closed. "I'm trying ..."
"Trying," her mother echoed. "Trying isn't vengeance."
"You watched us die," her father said. "And still you hesitate."
"No..." Beth whispered, but her voice failed.
Blood poured from their mouths. Fire blazed from their eyes.
"Avenge us."
The grave yawned wider.
"Or join us."
Their hands shot out, skeletal and burning. They gripped her wrists, dragging her toward the earth. Flames surged up her arms as the dirt swallowed her knees.
"Avenge us. Avenge us. Avenge us."
Their voices layered, louder, and louder, and louder as Beth screamed.
She shot up in bed, heart racing, body drenched in sweat. The sheets tangled around her like vines. Her hand flew to her throat. She was breathed shallowly.
The room was dark, save for the dying lantern flame sputtering in the corner.
No blood. No fire. No parents.
Just silence.
And the echo of a promise she could no longer outrun.
She sat there for a long moment, staring at the wall. Then she stood, fast and shaky, wiping her face.
Dawn was crawling over the horizon.
It was time to return to the palace.
And time to face what she had left unfinished.