Page 6

RONNIE

T he 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 rumors of 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 south of 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?"

The beast snorts, clearly more interested in the prospect of rest than my wistful planning.

This village, much like the one I left, isn't much to look at—a handful of shops, homes with vegetable gardens, a smithy, and what appears to be a small temple to some local deity.

Perfect. The kind of place travelers pass through, not to.

The kind of place where a woman alone might go unremarked upon.

I dismount at the village stable, wincing as my feet touch solid ground. The stable boy—a lanky teenager with a spray of freckles—takes the sapela's reins with a curious glance at my travel-worn appearance.

"Just passing through," I say before he can ask, pressing a few extra lummi into his palm. "Extra feed for her, please. She's earned it."

The boy nods, pocketing the coins with a gap-toothed smile. "Marda's place makes the best stew in the valley," he offers, nodding toward a building with cheerful yellow shutters. "If you're hungry, miss."

My stomach growls at the mere mention of food, though it immediately clenches in that familiar warning way. I've learned to eat when I can, between bouts of sickness.

"Thanks," I mumble, shouldering my pack.

The restaurant—if it can be called that—is warm and dim inside, smelling of herbs and fresh-baked bread. My mouth waters as I push through the door, a small bell jingling to announce my arrival.

A few locals look up from their meals, but their gazes slide away just as quickly. A trio of men argue good-naturedly over some village politics at a corner table. An old man dozes by the hearth, a half-empty mug of tea forgotten at his elbow.

"Be with you in a moment!" calls a voice from somewhere behind a swinging door.

I choose a table near the back, positioned so I can see everyone as my anxiety mounts. My fingers drum against the worn wooden tabletop as I scan the room, cataloging possible threats, escape routes?—

"What can I get for you?"

I startle, hand instinctively going to the knife at my belt before I register the woman standing beside my table.

She's around my age, maybe a few years older, with warm brown skin and curly hair pulled back in a scarf.

Her hazel-green eyes crinkle at the corners when she smiles, and she carries a basket of bread that makes my empty stomach contract painfully.

"Just... whatever's hot," I manage, suddenly aware of how grimy I feel. "And water, please."

The woman sets down the bread basket without asking.

"On the house," she says, her gaze lingering on me in a way that makes me want to shrink into my travel cloak. "You look like you've come a long way."

I tear off a piece of bread, hoping she'll leave if I start eating. "Just passing through."

Instead of leaving, she leans slightly closer, lowering her voice. "Are you in need of help?"

The bread turns to ash in my mouth. I swallow hard, forcing my expression to remain neutral even as panic flutters in my chest. "I'm fine," I say, too sharply. "Just hungry."

She holds my gaze for a beat too long, then nods. "Of course. Well, I'm Harmony, if you need anything. I'll get your stew."

She's halfway across the room when it hits—that sudden, violent lurch in my gut that's become all too familiar. I clap a hand over my mouth, shoving back my chair with a scrape that draws several startled looks.

The back door. I bolt for it, nearly colliding with Harmony as she returns with a steaming bowl.

"Excuse me," I gasp, pushing past her and flinging myself outside just in time.

There's a small garden plot behind the restaurant, and I barely make it to the edge before emptying what little was in my stomach onto the soil. Wave after wave of nausea has me doubled over, eyes watering, cursing Araton's name between heaves.

When it finally passes, I stay hunched over, trembling and hating the weakness in my limbs. A soft hand touches my back, and I flinch away instinctively.

"Here," Harmony says, offering a damp cloth. "For your face."

I straighten, swiping the cloth across my mouth with as much dignity as I can muster. "Sorry about your garden."

Her mouth quirks in a half-smile. "The zynthra could use the fertilizer."

I try to laugh, but it comes out more like a strangled cough. "I should go."

"You should sit down before you fall down," she counters, firm but kind. "How far along are you?"

The question hits me like a physical blow. I stare at her, my denial dying on my lips as she raises an eyebrow.

"I've seen morning sickness before," she says, her voice gentle now. "Though yours seems... intense."

"About three months. Maybe a little more," I hear myself say, the admission slipping out before I can stop it. "But I'm fine. I just need to rest and then I'll be on my way."

Harmony studies me, her gaze far too perceptive. "I can help," she says simply. "If you'll let me."

Something in her voice—the absence of judgment, perhaps, or the quiet certainty—breaks through the walls I've carefully constructed. My shoulders slump, exhaustion suddenly weighing on me like a physical thing.

"Why would you help me?" I ask, voice barely audible. "You don't even know me."

She shrugs, a simple gesture that somehow conveys volumes. "Because someone once helped me when I needed it most."

I stare at her for a long moment, the silence stretching between us, filled with the sounds of the village—distant conversation, the sound of work, the rhythmic clang of the smith's hammer.

Finally, I nod, a jerky movement that feels like surrender and salvation all at once.