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Instead, I find myself counting the miles between here and her village. Calculating how long a journey east would take, even though I know she's not there.
Because I kept checking.
"Pathetic," I mutter to myself, dismounting as I reach the trading post's stable. The zarryn huffs in agreement.
Inside the post, I move methodically through my tasks. Maps. Supplies. Information about road conditions south. The proprietor, a leathery old human with more wrinkles than teeth, eyes my wings with a mixture of curiosity and wariness.
"Heading to Carradon?" she asks as she wraps dried meat in waxed paper.
"Perhaps. Is it worth seeing?"
"Got them giant crystal towers. Whole city's built 'round some ancient magic." She shrugs. "Fancy folk like yourself might appreciate it."
I've been called worse things than fancy. "And beyond Carradon?"
"Saufort's another three days' ride. Nothing special, just a market town. Good place to resupply 'fore heading into the deep south."
I nod as I keep counting. "Saufort?"
"Aye. Been there?"
"No." I push the coins in his direction. "Thanks for the information."
I mentally catalog the two names, thinking I might need them. The continent feels smaller with each passing day, potential reminders lurking at every crossroad. I finish my transaction and return to my zarryn, securing the new supplies with precise movements that don't match the chaos inside my head.
South. I'm going south because it's somewhere I haven't been. Because it's as far from memories as I can get. Because I can't seem to stop running from feelings I never wanted in the first place.
I look at the map one last time before folding it away. South. Just south.
Not east. Never east again.
13
ARATON
Twilight bleeds across the southern sky like an infected wound, all violent purples and sickly yellows. The sun's dying light catches on my zarryn's silver coat as she bends her neck to drink from the stream. Water splashes over smooth stones, its gentle babble the only sound besides the animal's thirsty gulps.
I roll my shoulders, stretching my wings to their full span. Six feet of feathered gray-blue expanse on each side—cramped from being tucked against my back all day. The muscles burn pleasantly as I work out the stiffness.
"Take your time," I murmur to the zarryn, who ignores me completely, focused entirely on slaking her thirst.
My map places us two days from Carradon, though I've made no firm decision to go there. The crystal towers hold no particular appeal. Nothing does, if I'm honest with myself—a rarity I typically avoid.
The path I've been following all day winds through a copse of silver-barked trees, their leaves hanging still in the windless evening. Beyond them, farmland stretches toward a settlement—just visible as a collection of thatched roofs and chimney smoke rising like ghostly fingers against the darkening sky.
I should avoid it. Villages mean curious eyes, questions I don't want to answer, and the perpetual cycle of charm and deflection that's become so exhausting lately.
The zarryn lifts her head, water dripping from her muzzle. She stares past me toward the village, ears twitching forward with interest. Something about her alertness sends a peculiar sensation down my spine—not quite unease, not quite anticipation.
"What is it?" I ask needlessly. She stomps one hoof, tugging slightly against her lead rope.
Curiosity gets the better of me. I secure the zarryn to a nearby branch and move silently through the grove of trees, my footfalls muffled by years of diplomatic training. The skill of moving unnoticed serves as well in court intrigue as it does in avoiding unwanted conversation on the road.
The tree line ends abruptly, giving way to cultivated land. Rows of vegetables stretch in neat formation, punctuated by trellises where flowering vines climb toward the fading light. And there, near the edge of what must be the village's communal garden, kneels a figure.
I narrow my eyes, keeping to the shadow of a particularly broad tree. There's nothing particularly remarkable about someone tending a garden at dusk, yet something about the scene hooks beneath my ribs and tugs.
The figure—a woman, I think, though distance makes it hard to be certain—bends over the plants with a sort of careful reverence. Her hair falls forward, obscuring her face as she works, pulling weeds or harvesting—I can't quite tell. There's something fluid in her movements, a practiced efficiency I find oddly compelling.