Page 22

Chapter 21

W e left just after the midday bell, the forest still cool beneath its canopy and the path soft with fallen needles. Maeve was restless. I was worse. Kazrek had been called to tend a fever down in the Riverside Ward, and we wouldn't go to the Runery until nightfall—so I told myself it made sense to get out. To move. To do something with my hands before my mind tore itself in circles.

I remembered Iris mentioning she'd be foraging in Mistfen Glen for spiderwort and moonleaf today, and before I thought better of it, I had Maeve's cloak buttoned and Brindle waiting with her satchel of tea tins. An impromptu excursion, I told myself. Just a walk. Just some fresh air.

The path wound through the mist-threaded understory, the scent of damp earth rich beneath the cypress and alder. Maeve darted ahead, her laughter bright against the hush of the glen. She crouched to peer at beetles in the loamy soil, then spun in slow circles to follow the drifting silver threads of glowmoths. I should’ve felt lighter seeing her like this—untouched by the weight pressing on my chest—but I only felt the contrast more sharply.

Brindle moved at an easy pace beside me, her sharp eyes flicking between the moss-laden roots and Maeve’s skipping form. She hummed a low tune, half under her breath.

There’d been whispers, lately—just murmurs at the edge of conversation. That the deeper paths in the Moonshadow Forest had gone strange. That the trees there didn’t listen like they used to. No proof. Nothing close. But the forest felt different, even here at the edge. Like something old had started breathing again, just beneath the moss.

I breathed deep, trying to quiet the gnawing worry in my ribs. The glen's magic sat low in the air, curling in beads of mist that caught the morning light. Ordinary enough. Safe enough. But ever since the market, I’d been waiting—for some unseen snare to tighten, for some whisper in the trees to turn sharp.

"You're coiled tight as a bramble vine, love," Brindle murmured. "You’ll cut yourself before anything else gets the chance."

I exhaled slowly. "Not much choice in that, is there?"

Ahead, Maeve’s delighted voice rang out. “There’s iris over here!”

Not the flower. The woman.

Iris straightened from her crouch by a bramble patch, brushing green-stained fingers against her skirts. “Didn’t expect to find you out here, Ro." She wiped her hands one last time before resting them on her hips. "You lose a bet?”

I huffed. "Thought I'd make sure you weren’t getting yourself tangled in snakevine."

Her smirk was quick. “If I get stuck, I know who to yell for.”

She didn’t ask more, but her gaze flicked over me in quiet calculation. She saw the long night behind my eyes, the weight settled between my shoulders. I saw the understanding in hers, and for that, I was grateful.

Brindle and Maeve settled farther off, the child kneeling beside the brownie as they plucked at stray meadowgrass and lavender stalks. With them occupied, Iris and I walked slowly through the underbrush, the herbalist idly assessing a patch of blue-veined leaves with practiced ease. Her fingers brushed over the plants, a quiet gesture of familiarity, before she plucked a few and tucked them into her gathering pouch.

“So,” she said after a while, not looking at me. “You planning to keep pretending this is about herbs, or should I be worried you’re about to ask me to hide a body?”

I snorted. “Don’t tempt me.”

She hummed. “Ah. So it’s one of those mornings.”

We walked a few more paces in silence. Leaves shifted in the breeze overhead, whispering in the hush.

Iris plucked a twist of witch’s sprig and sniffed it. “You know,” she said, “last time I saw you, you were getting cozy with the big green guy."

I groaned. “Please don’t start.”

“Oh, I’m starting,” she said cheerfully, tucking the sprig into her pouch. “Because if I don’t get to tease you after last night, what even is our friendship for?”

I didn’t answer right away. We stepped over a low root, the path narrowing beneath an arch of alder branches. The hush of the glen closed around us again, and the quiet pressed a little tighter this time.

Iris didn’t fill it.

She let it sit for a while. Then, more softly, she said, “You didn’t run this time.”

My fingers brushed a trailing bit of ivy, just to keep them busy. “No.”

She nodded like she already knew. “And?”

I exhaled through my nose. “And now I feel like I’ve stepped off the edge of something, and I can’t see the bottom.”

“Yeah,” Iris said quietly. “That sounds about right.”

We came to a patch of low goldenleaf, the edges just starting to brown with the season. Iris crouched, ran her fingers along the stems, then began cutting a few with her curved blade.

“You know what’s funny?” she said, voice casual. “I actually went on a date last week.”

I blinked. “You did?”

“Mhm.” She didn’t look up. “A stonemason from the Artisan’s Quarter. Broad hands. Good teeth. Smelled like lemon balm and fresh clay.”

I raised a brow. “And?”

“And,” she said, straightening, “he spent the entire time talking about the properties of grout. Like I’d never seen a building before.”

I snorted. “Romantic.”

“Oh, terribly. Nothing gets me going like foundation stabilizers and water-runoff calculations.”

We both laughed, the sound breaking the quiet around us without disturbing it. A gentle sort of release.

“So that’s it?” I asked. “No spark?”

Iris tucked her knife back into its sheath. “We’re going out again tonight.” She paused. “I think I’m past the point of looking for a fire. I’d rather have something warm but not scalding. Comfortable.”

I looked ahead to where Maeve had her face pressed into a patch of lavender, Brindle crouched beside her, murmuring something too low to catch.

“That doesn’t sound so bad,” I said quietly.

Iris glanced at me, one brow arched. “Huh. That doesn’t sound like you.”

I shrugged, but the heat in my cheeks gave me away.

“Oh, stars,” she said, grinning now. “You’ve gone soft.”

“Shut up,” I muttered, tugging a bit of moss off a nearby branch. “It’s the mist. Makes people sentimental.”

She let out a warm laugh. “It’s not the mist. It’s the orc who keeps showing up with food and stubborn patience.”

I tried to scoff, but it came out more like a smile.

Up ahead, Maeve let out a little whoop of triumph and held up something leafy in both hands. Brindle gave her a slow nod, clearly impressed, and Maeve beamed like she’d won a medal. She stuffed the herb into her gathering pouch—backward, half-hanging out—and darted off toward another clump of green with wild purpose.

“She’s really taken to Brindle,” Iris said, watching them for a moment.

“She has,” I murmured. I watched Maeve plop onto a patch of moss and immediately pull out a rock she’d probably try to convince me was magical. “Wasn’t sure how that’d go, honestly.”

Iris plucked a curling leaf off a nearby stalk. “Brownies are particular. Kids, too. When it works, it works.”

I nodded, silent.

A moment passed.

“She’s been different lately,” I said finally. “Maeve.”

Iris didn’t look at me, didn’t press. Just waited, letting the pause do the heavy lifting.

I scraped some mud off my boot with a stick. “It’s probably nothing. Just… odd things. Little outbursts. More power than usual.” I swallowed. “And there’s someone from Finn’s past sniffing around.”

Now she looked at me. Not alarmed. Just alert. “You want me to worry yet?”

“Not yet,” I said, but my voice wasn’t as sure as I wanted it to be. “Just… keep an eye out. If something ever felt off, I’d want you to say.”

Iris tilted her head. “You mean, aside from the usual level of off that surrounds you?”

I huffed out a breath that almost counted as a laugh.

“She’s a good kid,” Iris added, more gently. “Too bright to slip away without someone noticing.”

“I know.” My throat tightened. “I just… I don’t know what Finn got caught up in. But she apparently didn’t take it with her.”

Another beat passed. Then Iris said, matter-of-fact, “Well. If anyone’s going to scare off ghosts with nothing but a glare and a feather quill, it’s you.”

I gave her a tired smile. “I’m trying.”

“I know you are,” she said. “And if you ever need me to set a trap or mix something that smells terrible and burns worse, just say the word.”

“Would you label it first this time?”

“No promises.”

Maeve let out a delighted shriek somewhere behind us, and we turned to see her dangling a handful of glowmoth husks like they were treasure. Brindle looked completely unbothered.

Iris smiled. “She’s alright, that one. Like flint and honey.”

I nodded. “She’s my whole damn heart.”

“Well then,” Iris said, brushing her hands off, “guess we better make sure no one tries to steal it.”

Back at the apartment, the warmth of the fire had already chased away the evening chill. Maeve lay curled in her blankets, her small body slack with sleep, one hand still loosely gripping the pouch of herbs she’d gathered. Brindle had tucked her in without a word, smoothing a calloused hand over Maeve’s forehead before stepping away to tend the kettle.

I sat at the worn table, turning the cracked pendant between my fingers. The room smelled of damp wool and steeping tea, of cloves and dried lavender. Safe scents. Familiar ones. But they did nothing to settle my gut.

Brindle, bustling around the hearth, was quiet.

When she finally spoke, her voice was low, edged with something careful. “Maeve’s light,” she said, watching the fire. “It’s still strong. Bright. But something’s curling in at the edges.” She hesitated, then flicked a glance my way. “Flickering. Like smoke under a door.”

I went very still.

A dozen questions crowded my tongue, but I only asked one. “Is there time?”

Brindle poured the tea. The liquid sloshed warm into the cup, steam unfurling into the air. She wrapped her hands around the clay, thoughtful.

Then, without looking up, she said, “There’s always time.”

A pause. A breath.

“Just not always enough.”

I swallowed, throat tight. The fire crackled, casting gold light against the walls. Brindle’s words settled heavily in my chest, like ink sinking deep into parchment.

I scraped a hand over my face and exhaled. “I don’t know what to do.”

Brindle didn’t offer false reassurances. Didn’t try to play down what we both knew was coming. She just reached across the table and set a steaming cup in front of me. A quiet offering.

I took it.

The tea was scorching, but I drank anyway, letting the heat steady me. Choices curled at the edges of my mind, pressing in. Too many uncertainties, not enough answers. But one thing was solid. One thing was sure.

Kazrek would be here soon.

I stood, leaving my half-drunk tea behind, and stepped out onto the threshold.

The sun was sinking behind the rooftops, casting the sky in burnished gold. It was the kind of light that turned everything soft and fleeting, edges melting into one another like ink bleeding into parchment. I watched it, arms crossed, the ghost of Brindle’s words lingering in my mind.

Time always runs out eventually.

Footsteps crested the stone path below. I didn't turn, not at first. I didn't need to. I knew his stride by now, the quiet certainty of it.

Kazrek stopped a few paces away. “You ready?”

I held onto the horizon a moment longer, watching light drip like honey between the rooftops. My hands curled into my sleeves.

One breath. Then another.

I turned, met Kazrek’s gaze—those gold-flecked eyes steady on mine, waiting—and nodded once. “Let’s go.”