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And yet it wants me.
The stones beneath my boots pulse faintly, like they remember my name even if I never spoke it aloud. The trees arch in unnatural curves overhead, their roots half-buried in ash and half in something darker, something whispering. I can feel the land’s resentment, a steady burn beneath my skin like I’ve trespassed somewhere sacred and desecrated it just by existing.
But the pull is there too. Not desire. Recognition.
I’m not welcome. I’m needed.
So I keep my mouth shut.
Lucien and Orin walk ahead of me, their backs rigid with the weight of Branwen's chain. I don’t dare speak—not because I’m afraid of them, but because I’ve seen what happens when my voice reaches them. I saw Lucien’s nose bleed like his brain was trying to claw out of his skull just to escape the sound of me. I saw Orin’s hands tremble like the air around me was laced with poison.
So I walk. Silent. Listening.
Their conversation with Elias and Silas is clipped, cautious. Riven doesn’t bother speaking unless it’s to snap at one of them, and he’s close again, too close. I feel his gaze grazing my skin like a brand, constant and unrelenting, like he's waiting for me todisappear again. Like if I collapse one more time, he’ll burn the world down out of spite.
Lucien’s voice threads through the group like a blade—sharp, precise, meant to cut. I’d missed it. Gods help me, I had. That low, lethal cadence that always sounds like he’s calculating how best to dismantle you.
And Orin… he’s always given me his voice freely. Like he knows I won’t misuse it. Like he wants me to have it, even if it carves him hollow. I don’t think the others notice the way he walks just a few steps behind Lucien, as if shielding him even now, even when it costs him. Or maybe they do and no one wants to say it out loud—how Orin keeps giving parts of himself away and none of us know what’s left inside him.
Lucien won’t give me anything. Not willingly. Not kindness. Not comfort. Not truth. He speaks to me like I’m a problem he still hasn't solved, like he wants to scrape me off his boots and yet can't stop stepping in deeper. And gods, it hurts—because I don’t know if he’d evennoticeif I died.
No, that’s not true.
He would notice.
He’d be relieved.
The thought cuts deeper than it should, like I carved it on the inside of my ribs and now can’t stop bleeding from it. I try not to think about how my death would affect them, but it rises anyway—unasked, unkind.
Would Orin mourn me? Would he fold his hands and offer silence to the gods who never listened?
Would Elias crack a joke and fall apart between the punchlines?
Would Silas lose himself entirely—without ever making me promise to stay?
Would Riven tear the world in half?
And Lucien—Lucien would exhale like a burden had finally been lifted.
Wouldn’t he?
He glances back then. Just a flicker of movement. His eyes catch mine, just long enough to pin me in place, and somethingshuddersin the space between us. Not warmth. Not hate. Just that unbearable thing that lives in the silence between enemies who could’ve been something else if the world had twisted just a little differently.
I drop my gaze before I fall into it.
Elias clears his throat like he’s about to say something stupid, and I bless him silently for it. “So... is it just me, or does this haunted wasteland have a weird boner for Luna? Because I swear that rock just moved when she walked past it.”
Silas gasps dramatically. “You meanI’mnot the one this sentient death forest wants? Betrayal. Actual heartbreak. I feel used.”
The grin he throws me is crooked, ridiculous—and makes the whole world feel a little less heavy.
But the laughter dies fast, because the wind shifts. And the path that had been clear just moments ago has vanished into mist and shadow.
Daemon is remembering us again.
And it’s not in a kind mood.
We walk like we’re headed to execution. The worst part is—none of us say it. Not out loud. Not even in the sideways glances or clipped questions that might pass for care. But the truth lives in the space between our footsteps. It clings to our backs like shadow-spun chains, whispering what no one dares admit.