Page 73 of Sweet Venom Of Time (Blade of Shadows #6)

Chapter Thirty

ELIZABETH

T he chill of early morning bit at my cheeks as I cradled the tiny bundle of warmth against my chest. Roman. My son. His soft breaths rose and fell in sync with mine, grounding me in a world that had begun to feel foreign.

It had been several weeks since his birth, and with each passing day, the weight in my heart grew heavier. This land—once a refuge—now felt distant, unfamiliar. The open skies and endless plains could not soothe the gnawing anxiety inside me.

England was calling me home.

I stood still, watching the Sioux tribe move through their morning routines.

The scent of burning wood and damp earth filled the air, mingling with the rhythmic hum of life around me.

Despite their warmth and acceptance, I remained an outsider, tethered to a place—and people—that no longer existed in the way I’d known them.

My gaze drifted to Mary, her laughter lifting on the breeze as she bantered playfully with a group of children. She was light incarnate, a contrast to the storm I carried within.

“Mary,” I called softly, stepping forward, my voice brittle with unspoken ache.

She turned, her smile open and easy, as vast as the prairie sky. “Elizabeth! What brings you this way with little Roman?”

Her eyes shone affectionately as they fell on the baby in my arms.

“I wanted to ask…” I hesitated, clutching Roman closer, seeking courage in his gaze. “Are you coming with me? To England?”

Mary’s smile faltered, shifting to gentle empathy. “England?” she echoed, her voice softening with understanding. “No, Elizabeth. I’m staying. There’s a man here… someone who’s brought joy back into my life.”

I swallowed the lump rising in my throat, managing a faint smile. “You deserve that happiness. Truly.”

Her hand reached out, squeezing mine, grounding me for one last moment.

“Promise me you’ll stay in touch?” I asked, my voice quivering despite every effort to keep it composed.

Mary’s eyes brimmed with unshed tears, but she nodded. “Always.”

Her promise hung in the air, fragile and uncertain. It was a thread of hope we both clung to, even knowing the world could fray it beyond repair. Still, it was a comfort—a sliver of light in the gathering storm.

Turning away, I hugged Roman tighter, his tiny form a lifeline anchoring me against the waves of grief and fear rising within. The journey ahead was unknown, but I would walk it—for him.

Cradling Roman in the crook of my arm, I moved through the camp, each step heavy with memories. The crisp morning air filled my lungs but did little to ease the pressure in my chest—the unrelenting ache of everything I was leaving behind.

And still, there was one wound I could not bear to leave untended.

The rift between Dancing Fire and I had widened with each passing day, our once-strong bond scorched by harsh words, silent stares, and unspoken grief. I could no longer bear the distance—not now.

I found him where I always did—in the quiet dawn light, seated by his tent, grinding his tools with methodical strokes. The rhythmic sound was jarring against the uneven beat of my heart, a stark reminder of the man who had stood beside me through darkness and loss.

Swallowing the knot of hesitation, I stepped forward.

“Dancing Fire,” I began, my voice barely more than a whisper, “I came to apologize. I was cruel… during our argument.”

His hand stilled. Slowly, he looked up, eyes as deep and still as the night sky. His gaze held no anger, only sorrow.

“Elizabeth,” he said quietly, setting aside the blade and cloth. “I also owe you an apology. I should not have spoken to you that way.”

His sincerity bridged the chasm between us, and the tension that had lingered like a wound was now beginning to close.

I stepped closer, my free hand reaching out to him, uncertain but needing connection. He opened his arms without hesitation, and I stepped into them, holding Roman between us. Warmth. Forgiveness. The first I had felt in days.

“Thank you… for all you’ve done,” I murmured into the fabric of his shirt, breathing in the familiar scent of woodsmoke and earth. It grounded me, steadying me in a world that felt like it was unraveling.

His arms tightened around us—not possessive, but protective—a shelter against the storm, a silent acknowledgment of all we had endured. Whatever roads now lay ahead, we had weathered this storm together.

Dancing Fire gently took my hand, his calloused fingers intertwining with mine, rough and sure. His eyes met mine, open, earnest, unwavering.

“Please stay,” he said, voice low but resolute. “Marry me. I will protect you and Roman.”

The words struck me—soft in delivery but cutting all the same. His offer stirred something inside me—duty, honor, comfort—but another image rose, fierce and consuming—Amir.

His face. His touch. His absence.

I could not forget.

“I can’t,” I whispered, the words tearing from my throat like splinters. “My heart belongs to Amir.”

His name was a sacred incantation, etched in sorrow and devotion. It was pain and release—a vow I could not break.

Dancing Fire’s gaze didn’t falter, though grief pooled in his eyes. He nodded slowly, the weight of understanding settling over him like ash.

“The love of darkness is strong,” he said, his voice tinged with something ancient, mystical. “Potent. It will always pull you toward it. I hope it brings you peace.”

His eyes flicked to the worn tools at his side as if they could anchor him from his churning emotions. He hesitated, then drew in a deep breath.

“I can’t thank you enough… for all you’ve done,” he said, his voice cracking beneath the weight of unspoken gratitude.

Then, carefully, he reached for Roman, and I let him go for a moment. Dancing Fire cradled him in strong arms, the contrast of infant innocence against a warrior’s burden almost too much to bear. His gaze softened, reverent.

“One day we will meet again, little one,” he murmured, his voice low, prophetic—the kind of truth that clung to your soul, no matter how hard you tried to shake it off.

But I shook my head abruptly, desperately, as if I could cast off his words with that single, defiant motion.

“No. You will never see him again,” I said, each word forged in steel, my voice hard with finality—even as my heart screamed in protest, tearing itself apart. “I won’t allow it.”

His eyes flickered with pain, with something more—but I didn’t waver.

I couldn’t.

I wouldn’t let Roman be dragged back into this world—a world of war, prophecy, and burdens carried across lifetimes. I wouldn’t let the legacy of time-traveling bloodlines and dark destinies shackle him. He was innocent. Pure. And he would stay that way.

His gift… his fate… I would bury it all.

He would grow up free, untouched by the shadows that had shaped my life. And if it took ruthlessness to keep him safe, I would become whatever I needed to be.

A mother. A shield. A storm.

Dancing Fire met my gaze—steadfast, unflinching, a warrior to the end. “I hid the dagger,” he said, quiet but laced with meaning. “As you asked. It’s gone from sight—but not from the world.”

That dagger—the mark of Roman’s Timeborne blood—a weapon I could not bear to hold yet could never truly destroy. A reminder that his power still lingered, silent, waiting.

“But remember this, Elizabeth—you can’t stop destiny.”

His words hung between us like a fog rolling over the plains—dense, cold, foreboding. A promise. A warning.

I said nothing. What could I say?

With a silent nod, I took Roman back into my arms, his small form curling against me as if he, too, felt the finality in the air.

And I turned away—from the man who had shown me kindness, from the land that had given me both life and death, from the world I no longer belonged to.

I didn’t look back.

I couldn’t.

* * *

The wind howled through the harbor, tugging at my shawl as I clutched it tightly around my shoulders.

My fingers trembled—not from the cold, but from the desperation coiled in my chest like a serpent.

Before me, the ship loomed, massive and imposing, its sails creaking against taut ropes, the timbers groaning like a beast at rest.

At the gangplank stood the captain, a weathered man with a salt-and-pepper beard and eyes like flint, barking orders in a voice that cut through the chaos. He moved with purpose, authority clinging to him like a second skin.

I stepped onto the slick wooden dock, Roman shifting against my chest, nestled securely in the satchel bound tight to my body. My deerskin moccasins sank slightly into the damp boards, but I kept my footing, the weight of him grounding me, propelling me forward.

The town’s eyes followed me—curious and wary. I was dressed in traditional Native attire, a suede dress adorned with intricate beadwork and fringe, the wind tugging at the hem as I walked. Their stares cut, but I had no time for them. I only hoped it wouldn’t deter the crew from giving me a chance.

My heart thundered as I neared the ship, the rehearsed plea tumbling through my mind one last time. Then, drawing in a breath that tasted of salt and fear, I stepped forward.

“Captain.” My voice rang out, firm despite the knot twisting my stomach.

He turned, eyes narrowing as they swept over me—calculating, indifferent. It was the kind of look a man gave when he’d seen desperation a hundred times before and learned to ignore it.

“State your business, miss,” he snapped. “I’ve no time for idle chatter.”

I lifted my chin, willing my voice not to waver. “I seek passage to England. I have no money, but I offer my skills in return.”

His brow arched, skepticism etched deep into his face. “Skills? And what might those be? I do not need fancy needlework or songs to entertain my crew.”

I squared my shoulders, clutching Roman protectively. “I’m a healer, Captain. I’ve treated fevers, stitched wounds, and eased pain with herbs and remedies. Surely, aboard a ship full of men, you’ll need someone to keep them alive and fit for the journey.”