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6
RONNIE
The journey south carves itself into my bones with each jolting step of my overburdened sapela. The stubborn beast brays in protest as we navigate yet another rocky incline, its spindly legs trembling beneath our combined weight. I lean forward, running a hand down its coarse gray neck.
"I know, I know. I'm not exactly thrilled either," I mutter, adjusting the wide-brimmed hat that shields my face from both sun and potential aerial observers.
Three days on the road, and the muscles in my thighs burn constantly from gripping the saddle. My back aches from sleeping on hard ground, and the morning sickness has only intensified with travel. Each dawn finds me retching behind whatever scrubby bush offers the barest privacy.
We follow game trails and overgrown merchant paths, anything to avoid the main roads that might lead to—or from—New Solas. The gleaming xaphan city looms in my mind like a beacon, though I've positioned it firmly behind us to the east. When the wind shifts, I imagine I can smell its perfumed air, hear the distant chime of its crystal spires.
"Stop it," I hiss to myself, urging the sapela around a bend in the trail.
The forest thickens here, ancient trees stretching skyward, their canopies creating a dappled sanctuary from prying eyes above. Still, every gap in the leaves has me tensing, scanning for the telltale flutter of wings.
A twig snaps somewhere to my right. I jerk the sapela to a halt so abruptly the poor beast nearly sits on its haunches. My hand flies to the knife at my belt, heart thundering against my ribs like a trapped bird.
Nothing emerges but a small lunox, its white body nearly glowing in the shadowy underbrush, blue-tipped face curious as it regards us before darting away.
I release a shaky breath, the tension leaving my body in an almost painful wave. The wooden carving in my pack seems to burn against my spine, a reminder I can't seem to discard despite my better judgment.
"You're being ridiculous," I tell myself, nudging the sapela forward again. "He's not going to waste his time chasing after someone like you."
The words taste bitter even as I say them. Because that's the truth of it, isn't it? I'm nothing but a diversion to Araton—a human curiosity he visits between delivering messages for his lord. The child growing inside me changes nothing about what I am to him. What I could never be.
What I never wanted to be, I have to remind myself.
The sapela stumbles on a loose rock, and I curse as we nearly topple over. The beast lets out a pitiful sound, more exhausted whine than bray.
"Just a little further," I promise, though I have no idea if it's true.
My destination is nebulous—someplace south, someplace small, someplace where xaphan rarely tread. I've heard rumorsof villages nestled in the valleys beyond the Ridge, where humans have carved out lives independent of xaphan influence. Places where a woman with a small child wouldn't draw too much attention.
As long as the child looks human enough.
That thought sends another jolt of panic through me. What if the baby has wings? Golden eyes? What if it can manipulate air, bend others to its will with a whispered word like its father?
The sapela senses my distress, shifting nervously beneath me. I force myself to breathe deeply, to focus on the path ahead rather than the countless what-ifs that plague my every waking moment.
A flash of movement overhead sends me ducking instinctively, pressing myself tight against the sapela's neck. I peer up through the leaves, heart in my throat, only to see a Black Pitter bird darting between branches. Its ebony wings cut through the air with deadly precision as it pursues some unseen prey.
Not him. Never him.
I straighten slowly, my cheeks burning with a mixture of fear and embarrassment. This constant vigilance is wearing me down, fraying the edges of my already tenuous composure.
"Get it together, Ronnie," I mutter, wiping sweat from my brow with a dusty sleeve.
The sun creeps higher, turning the forest into a stifling oven despite the shade. My water skin runs dangerously low, and the sapela's pace slows to a stubborn plod that no amount of coaxing will hasten.
We need to find water soon. And proper shelter for the night. As much as I want to put as much distance between myself and my old life as possible, I can't risk my health—or that of my unborn child—by pushing too hard.
The thought still feels foreign, incongruous. Me, a mother. Sometimes I press my hand against my still-flat abdomen and try to feel something, some connection to this tiny interloper who's upended my entire existence. But there's nothing yet—no movement, no mysterious maternal bond, just the constant nausea and fatigue that serve as unwelcome reminders.
A week southof New Solas, the Ridge Mountains finally slip behind me, their jagged peaks no longer a constant reminder of all I've left behind. The sapela has long since given up protesting our journey, resigned to the long miles and my occasional stops to be sick in the bushes.
Ahead, a village appears first as a wisp of chimney smoke above the tree line, then as the gentle toll of a bell carried on the breeze. I straighten in the saddle, my spine cracking in protest. When the trees finally part to reveal a clutch of stone buildings nestled in a verdant valley, I nearly weep with relief.
"Real food," I murmur, patting the sapela's neck. "A real bed maybe?"