Page 4 of Eluvonia (Rift of Ages #1)

AERIS

T he forest holds its breath.

Every leaf, every branch, every whisper of wind is eerily still, as if the entire world is waiting for something to happen. My pulse hammers in my ears, steady but hard, a primal rhythm that keeps me tethered to the moment.

I move carefully, placing each step with precision, my bare feet barely making a sound against the moss-covered earth. The thick scent of damp bark and wildflowers clings to the air, but beneath it, something else lingers—a faint trace of something foreign.

I exhale slowly, tightening my grip on my bow as I duck beneath a tangle of low-hanging branches. The memory of this morning’s warning gnaws at the edges of my thoughts. A Dragon sighting. Not far from here. Too close for my liking .

The knowledge sits heavy in my chest, making every shadow feel like a threat, every stir in the underbrush a potential death sentence.

I lower myself behind a thick clump of ferns, the rough leaves scratching against my arms as I press my back against the cool bark of an ancient oak.

Leynard crouches beside me, his movements controlled, quiet. His light brown hair falls messily over his forehead, and his warm brown eyes flick between the trees, scanning the dim forest with practiced ease.

“Do you sense anything?” I whisper, barely more than a breath.

Leynard doesn’t answer right away. He tilts his head slightly, his expression tightening as he listens. The tension in his shoulders makes my own muscles coil in response, ready to spring into action at the slightest hint of danger.

After a moment, he exhales and shakes his head. “Nothing yet.”

I nod, but I don’t relax. I can’t. Not out here.

I shouldn’t even be on this hunt, not really. My father would lose his mind if he knew I was this deep into the wilds, especially with a Dragon lurking nearby.

But he doesn’t get to decide what I do anymore.

I won’t let him.

These hunts are the only thing that make me feel like I matter.

I glance down at my hands, flexing my fingers around the grip of my bow. The callouses along my palms are proof of the hours I’ve spent honing my skill, of the work I’ve put in to make myself useful.

You’d think being the daughter of the Fae rebel leader would mean something; that I’d have a place in the fight, but no.

My father keeps me on the outskirts, hidden away, sheltered like some fragile thing that might shatter if exposed to the truth.

I clench my jaw, shoving the thought aside. Now isn’t the time .

“Alright,” Leynard murmurs. “Let’s keep moving.”

He rises smoothly, his steps sure as he moves forward. I follow, staying close, my ears straining for any sign of movement.

The weight of my quiver presses against my back, a comforting presence despite the unease curling in my gut.

We wouldn’t have to do this—these desperate hunts, these long, tense treks through the wilderness—if the Fae still had access to our magic. But thanks to the power-hungry Dragons and their damnable crystals, we lost that ability 3,000 years ago when the Rift of Ages tore the world apart.

That catastrophe changed everything.

The moment we lost our magic, we lost ourselves. Without it, we became nothing—shadows of what we once were, wandering aimlessly through a world that no longer belonged to us.

And the Dragons?

Those greedy, ruthless beasts wasted no time.

They descended upon our cities like vultures, tearing down everything we had built, claiming our lands as their own.

Once, we were powerful. Respected. Feared. Now, we are nothing more than fugitives, scavenging for scraps, cowering in the depths of forests and caves.

Now, the Dragons rule Eluvonia.

And the Fae ?

We hide. We survive.

Barely.

A sound breaks the stillness to my left—a rustling, subtle but distinct. My body tenses on instinct.

Leynard stops too, his hand moving automatically to the sword sheathed at his hip. I shift my stance, steadying my bow, my heart thudding a little harder against my ribs.

For a long, breathless second, nothing happens.

Then, a deer steps into view.

I let out a slow breath, my grip easing slightly, though the tension doesn’t fully leave my body. The creature moves cautiously, its tawny coat blending almost perfectly with the dappled shadows cast by the canopy above. It’s beautiful.

Leynard glances at me and gives a subtle nod.

I understand the unspoken command.

Reaching over my shoulder, I pull an arrow from my quiver, the movement smooth, practiced.

The familiar weight of it steadies me as I nock it against the bowstring, positioning it between my fingers with ease.

I exhale, drawing back.

The muscles in my arms and shoulders tighten with the motion, a satisfying burn that I’ve come to rely on. I angle the bow carefully, lining up the shot, my focus narrowing until the world fades into nothing but the deer and the space between us.

A beat of silence.

I release.

The arrow slices through the air, nearly silent. It finds its mark, sinking into the deer’s right shoulder with a sharp, sickening sound. The animal jerks, its eyes going wide with shock and pain. It stumbles forward, legs buckling, and then it collapses with a heavy thud against the forest floor.

I don’t move right away.

My fingers remain curled around the bowstring, my breath held tight in my chest. That familiar weight settles over me, cold and unshakable.

The guilt.

It never truly leaves, only grows heavier with each kill.

Leynard steps closer, his expression unreadable for a moment before softening.

“Good shot, Aer,” he says quietly.

The warmth in his voice is a small thing, but it takes the edge off the hollow feeling in my chest. Just a little.

I nod, swallowing hard. “Thanks.”

Leynard raises two fingers to his lips and lets out a sharp, high-pitched whistle. The sound carries through the trees, cutting through the eerie silence.

A few moments pass, and then I hear it.

Rustling. Coming from behind me.

I turn slowly, every muscle in my body tightening, my heart hammering against my ribs.

Two almost identical figures burst through the brush, their hushed argument slicing through the silence. My muscles tense for only a moment before recognition settles in, easing the tight coil in my chest.

“Why would you even think that?” Oryn, the eldest by mere minutes, demands. His ice-blue eyes flick to his brother, frustration etched into the sharp planes of his face. His dark-blond hair is damp with sweat, strands sticking to his forehead.

Bryn, his ever-grinning counterpart, tosses his almost golden-blond hair out of his eyes and shrugs. “Because it’s the truth?” His voice carries a playful lilt, and the smirk tugging at his lips only deepens when Oryn scowls.

“Enough,” Leynard mutters, stepping forward with a glare that could cut stone. His brown eyes darken with irritation as he levels a look at the twins. “Let’s get this over with. I don’t want to be out here any longer than necessary.”

Bryn snickers and holds up his hands in mock surrender, while Oryn simply nods, ever the stoic one.

I sling my bow over my back, adjusting the strap across my chest as the twins move to the deer, their movements practiced and efficient as they begin field-dressing it. The metallic scent of blood fills the air, mixing with the damp earth beneath us.

“Alright,” I say, adjusting my weight as the twins finish their work. “Let’s get this back to the caves.”

Bryn and Oryn huff as they haul the deer’s weight onto their shoulders. Bryn grins through the strain. “Esra’s going to lose her mind. She’s been harping on us about bringing in a deer for weeks.”

A small smile tugs at my lips. Esra, ever the relentless one.

Leynard moves closer, his presence solid beside me. “Ready?” His voice is softer now, almost careful.

I meet his gaze, nodding. But something in the way he lingers, the way his eyes search mine, makes my chest tighten with unease.

Before I can break eye contact, he reaches out, his hand a warm weight on my shoulder, then he walks past me without another word.

I exhale, watching him for a moment before following.

Leynard has been watching out for me since we were kids, always there, always too close .

He’s with Esra now, but sometimes I catch his eyes lingering a moment too long, and his touches stretch just a bit beyond what feels casual. I see the way his gaze holds, the weight of something unspoken hanging between us.

I’ve tried to warn her, tried to tell her that his feelings might not match hers, but she always brushes me off—says I’m being overprotective. Maybe she’s right. Maybe I’m reading too much into things.

But then he glances back at me again, and that unease stirs in my gut all over again.

We move through the forest in near silence, the only sounds the crunch of leaves underfoot and the occasional shift of the deer’s weight as the twins adjust their grip.

“Think Esra will forgive me for leaving my dirty dishes in the cave when we bring this back?” Bryn asks, breaking the quiet.

I snort. “She might make you eat the dishes instead of the deer if you keep leaving them in her tent for her to find.”

“She still hasn’t forgiven you for replacing her Rue leaves with Woad,” Oryn adds, his tone dry. “I don’t think this deer will put you on her good side.”

Bryn chuckles. “That was my best prank yet,” he says, a mischievous grin spreading across his face.

Leynard chimes in from up ahead, his voice teasing. “You made a guard turn purple for a week, Bryn.”

Bryn scoffs, clearly not deterred by the memory. “How else am I supposed to—”

A sudden rustling in the treetops to our right cuts him off. He stills, his entire body going rigid. His head snaps to the side, eyes scanning the dense canopy above.

“Did you hear that?” he whispers, his fingers tightening around the deer’s legs.

I stop short, my breath hitching as I strain to listen past the pounding in my ears.

The forest is still—too still.

Then, a faint rustling, like something moving through the leaves, just beyond our line of sight.

A moment of silence stretches, thick and suffocating.

“Probably just the wind,” I say, but my hands betray me as they move instinctively. I pull my bow from my chest, fingers tightening as I grab an arrow from my quiver and nock it against the bowstring. My grip is too tight, my knuckles paling.

“Let’s pick up the pace,” Oryn snaps, his gaze darting to every flickering shadow.

Then, out of nowhere, a growl. Low. Guttural.

It vibrates through the air, deep and unnatural, making my stomach twist.

Bryn jerks back, nearly dropping the deer. “What the hell was that?” he breathes. His usual teasing lilt is gone, replaced by something rawer.

“Don’t stop,” Leynard hisses. His sword is already unsheathed, held steady in a grip so tight his fingers turn white. His entire body is coiled, every muscle braced for action.

Then the roar comes, shaking the ground beneath our feet. A sound so primal, so ancient, it sends ice through my veins. My breath catches as I glimpse movement in the trees—something massive, something impossibly fast.

The cave. It’s just ahead. A dark mouth in the dense green forest, waiting like salvation.

“Move!” The word rips from my throat, sharper than I intend .

We don’t hesitate.

We sprint, feet pounding against the earth. My pulse roars in my ears, drowning out everything but the frantic need to reach cover. Another snarl splits the air, closer this time. I don’t dare look back.

The moment we cross the threshold of the cave, I whirl, bow raised, an arrow already drawn back.

Silence.

The growl fades into the distance, but its weight lingers. My chest rises and falls too fast, my lungs burning from the run.

Bryn collapses against the cave wall, dropping the deer on the ground, his hands are braced on his knees, and he is sucking in deep, uneven breaths. His brother follows suit.

“Do you think it saw us?” Bryn whispers, barely audible.

Leynard doesn’t answer immediately. His gaze is locked on the entrance, his sword still raised, the tension in his body refusing to ease.

“Let’s hope not,” he mutters, his jaw clenching.

I force a breath out, trying to slow the erratic beat of my heart.

The deer’s weight drags at my arms as I help the twins haul it farther into the cave. The musky scent of it mingles with the damp stone and earth around us.

The forest, which once felt like a sanctuary, now feels fragile—too open, too exposed.

Like parchment against fire.