Page 63 of Sweet Venom Of Time (Blade of Shadows #6)
Chapter Twenty-Five
ELIZABETH
The garments I now wore, crafted from soft deerskin, clung to my body.
Intricate beadwork adorned every surface, tiny stones and shells woven into patterns that told stories I couldn’t begin deciphering.
I ran my fingers along the fringes that lined the seams—tactile threads binding me to a world not my own—a world of earth and wind, of voices spoken in unfamiliar tongues, of customs as ancient as the stars above.
Dancing Fire had gifted me these clothes—his sister’s garments, once worn with pride, now passed to me with reverence.
Along with them, he had offered me a place in his teepee.
An act of kindness. Of acceptance. Yet, even draped in the trappings of his people, I was still an outsider—caught in a quiet limbo between belonging and exile.
I spoke their words in halting fragments and learned their ways through observation and gentle correction, but I could not cross the chasm between who I had been and what I was becoming.
As twilight bled into the sky, the horizon painted in hues of dying fire, I sought solitude in the only place that brought me peace—the forest. Among the towering pines and shifting shadows, I surrendered to the ache that gripped my chest like a vice.
Amir.
His name was a whisper in the wind, a ghost among the leaves.
I closed my eyes, breathing in the scent of moss and bark, but all I could feel was him—the warmth of his skin, the deep bronze of his Mediterranean complexion, the soothing power in his dark eyes.
I remembered how his arms felt around me, the quiet strength of being near him, and the heartbeat I used to rest my head against.
I wandered deeper into the forest’s embrace, chasing his echo. Every rustle of leaves, every shadow between the trees, became a phantom. Each time I hurried forward, desperate and hopeful, it was never him. There was only silence. There was only grief.
My heart splintered anew with every step, pierced by memories like arrows—each feathered with moments we shared—his laughter, his touch, and his whispered promises.
A love that still watched me. Still reached for me.
It was always just beyond my grasp.
Night after night, I was haunted by dreams of him—Amir—reaching for me, his hands outstretched, his eyes filled with longing, only to dissolve into mist the moment our fingers met.
Each time, I woke with a cry lodged in my throat, my cheeks damp with tears that became my only companions.
They slipped silently down my face, soaking into the earth beneath me as though nourishing the grief that had rooted itself deep in my soul.
“Amir,” I whispered into the darkness, his name a prayer—a plea—to release him, yet to never forget. The silence answered, vast and consuming, save for the gentle rustle of the wind in the trees and the quiet assurance that sorrow, like a river, would carve its path through me—slow and unrelenting.
The night air wrapped around me like a shroud as I returned toward the teepee, my limbs heavy, my heart heavier.
Something about the stillness of the forest, the way the world seemed to hush in reverence, made his absence feel like he was here.
His spirit lingered, unseen yet tangible, wrapped around me like a phantom embrace.
I paused at the threshold of the teepee, drawing in a breath to collect myself, to wear my sorrow as quietly as possible. Inside, the firelight danced softly along the leather walls, casting flickering shadows that felt almost like home.
“Elizabeth,” came the gentle voice of Dancing Fire. His words, spoken low and kind, felt like a balm against the raw edges of my grief. “I see your pain. You carry it like a stone in your chest.”
I met his unwavering, soulful gaze, his eyes dark pools of empathy and understanding.
“You are strong,” he said. “But strength can become a burden if you never lay it down. Let us help you heal. Give us a chance… You might find joy here. Among us.”
His words pierced the fog of my mourning, clear and true. My breath caught, the truth of it searing. “You’re right,” I whispered, my voice breaking around the edges. “I have to let go of the father of my children. Let his memory rest… and move forward with life.”
Dancing Fire leaned in, resting his hands on his knees, his expression soft but filled with curiosity. “I am curious about the father of your children,” he said, his voice tender. “Who was he?”
My hand drifted to the curve of my growing belly, and for a moment, I just breathed—feeling the quiet flutter of life within, the echo of a love lost but never forgotten.
“His name was Amir,” I began, my voice barely a murmur, laced with pain and love in equal measure.
“He was a darkness—a warrior feared by many, but to me… he was my salvation. He saved me from my father’s wrath.
In the darkest moments of my life, when everything I knew fell apart, I found him. ”
I smiled faintly, bittersweet. “Our love wasn’t easy. It burned like a storm. We were never meant to be… and yet, our hearts chose each other when the odds were impossible. Even when the world turned against us.”
My voice trembled, but I didn’t stop. “He gave me everything—and now he’s gone. But his children… they are his legacy. I will raise them with love, with strength. For him. For us.”
Dancing Fire nodded slowly, his expression unreadable yet filled with quiet respect. “Then Amir’s spirit lives on. Through them. Through you.”
My hand clenched the soft deerskin of my dress as my voice faltered.
“Though he’s gone, every day without him feels like a wound that refuses to heal.
But I know I must let go. I owe it to these babies—to give them the life they deserve.
It’s time to move forward, find strength in their future… and maybe I’m ready to try.”
“Then let us begin anew,” Dancing Fire said, a flicker of excitement lighting his eyes. “Let me teach you how to hunt. To track animals. To use a bow.”
The idea was daunting, and yet it stirred something inside me—a flicker of curiosity, a desire not just to survive but to truly live, to master something in this unfamiliar world, to make a place within it.
I nodded, more to myself than to him. It was time to embrace this life—to stop surviving in the shadows and begin weaving new threads into the tapestry of my story.
In the days that followed, Dancing Fire became my teacher. Patient and skilled, he guided my hands as I learned to hold the bow, nock an arrow, and draw the string with balanced pressure and focus. The tension of the bow mirrored the tension within me—coiled, ready, waiting for release.
“Focus on your target,” he said, standing close beside me as I squinted toward a makeshift bullseye pinned to a tree. “Breathe with the wind. Move with the earth.”
I let the arrow fly. It arced through the air and struck the trunk with a satisfying thud, just inches from the center. A thrill surged through me, unbidden and pure. I turned toward Dancing Fire, my face breaking into a rare smile—and saw his answering grin, full of shared triumph.
“Good,” he praised, nodding with approval. “Now, tracking. Tracking is about seeing what nature hides in plain sight.”
We moved through the forest together, his steps quiet and intentional, as if he were part of the earth.
He gestured toward subtle impressions in the soil—hoofprints pressed into the soft ground, a trail of matted grass, a snapped twig dangling from a low branch.
Faint traces of scat dotting the path like breadcrumbs left by creatures.
Each mark was a clue, a story written in the language of the wild, and with every detail he showed me, I felt something shift deep within.
I didn’t just exist anymore.
I was becoming.
“Here,” he said, crouching by the flattened grass.
“Deer passed this way.” I followed the line he pointed to, my eyes tracing the gentle curve of the trail.
A sense of connection unfurled inside me—not just to the deer, but to the world itself.
The grief that had once filled me to the brim began to ebb, replaced by a quiet reverence for the living, breathing wilderness that now surrounded me.
“Feel the ground beneath your feet,” Dancing Fire said, his voice a soft murmur in the breeze. “Listen to the whispers of the trees.”
We moved silently, two shadows among many, the forest alive with sound and silence in equal measure.
With each passing day, I began to understand—not just the hunt but myself.
I unearthed resilience, adaptability, and a strength I had never dared to believe I possessed.
Each step and lesson stripped away the fragments of the broken woman I had been, revealing someone new beneath.
One morning, between hunts, I knelt by a patch of wild lavender, my fingers gently brushing the delicate purple blooms. Their scent—earthy, clean, and bright—rose into the crisp air, mingling with memories I thought I’d lost. Carefully, I plucked several stems, adding them to the woven basket at my side, and as I worked, my mother’s voice echoed in my heart, naming each plant and its purpose.
“Elizabeth,” Dancing Fire called gently from nearby, his eyes curious as he watched me gather. “Do you understand these herbal mysteries?”
I stood, the leather of my garments rustling—a sound both foreign and familiar, strange yet comforting. Turning toward him, I met his gaze with a quiet pride that surprised me.
“I practice healing alchemy,” I said softly, the words strange on my tongue—strange, yet powerful. Once an identity I had tried to outrun, now it felt like a lifeline. Not a curse, but a calling.
“Ah.” He nodded slowly and thoughtfully, his eyes holding a flicker of respect that warmed me more than the rising sun. “Our healer has walked on to the next life. Many here carry old wounds—aches, lingering pains. Could you… fill that void?”