Page 21

21

Eden

THE GRAVEYARD OF blackened stalks swayed despite the unnatural stillness in the air. The field hadn’t just withered. It had been drained of vitality. The silence was as if elduvaris itself was holding its breath. The closer we got, the heavier the air became. It was dense with an unseen weight, a presence that lingered beneath the soil.

I halted at the edge.

Oberon’s boots crunched against the brittle remains of wheat as he strode ahead. A few paces in, he stopped and turned when he realized I hadn’t followed. His piercing gaze locked onto me, stripping away any chance of pretense. “Where?”

I blinked, my pulse stumbling. “What?”

“Where are we supposed to be digging?” He gestured to the endless stretch of decayed wheat, the landscape that offered nothing but desolation. “Or do you even know what we’re digging for?”

My throat tightened. I gripped my journal harder, and my fingers pressed deep into the leather as if I could wring the answer from its pages. I knew… or at least I thought I did. The crops had been fed, but not by sunlight or soil. They had drawn from something buried beneath them.

But what if I was wrong? What if we uncovered something that wasn’t meant to be disturbed?

“I—” My voice faltered.

Oberon didn’t move, but there was a shift in his patience. The silent expectation. I forced my breath steady as my mind raced through the sigils, the warnings, the unmarked graves, and the deaths.

They led here.

Swallowing my hesitation, I stepped forward. “The center,” I said, forcing certainty into my voice. “We dig in the center.”

His gaze lingered, weighing my words, but he didn’t argue. Didn’t scoff, sigh, or call this a waste of time. He planted his feet, adjusted his grip on the shovel, and drove the blade into the ground.

The first thrust sent a dull, wet sound through the silence. The second was harsher; the resistance in the soil was more than just compacted dirt. My breath hitched as he worked. Each rhythmic thrust and scrape peeled away layers of soil, chipping into whatever lay beneath.

The eerie, smothering silence of the field pressed in around us, but my focus had shifted. It wasn’t the unnatural hush that froze me. It was him. It was the way he had given no sharp remarks, and there was no hesitation. Just a relentless, unquestioning effort.

The rhythmic scrape of the shovel biting into the ground filled the space between us. My gaze drifted, almost absently at first, to follow the precise motion of his arms as he rolled his sleeves up to his elbows. The fabric dragged against his skin before falling away, revealing the sharp definition of his forearms, muscles flexing with every controlled movement. A thin sheen of sweat clung to him, catching in the dim light and accentuating the taut lines of his build.

The heat of Vaelwick had gotten to him. His dark hair was damp, and a few errant strands fell loose across his forehead. He parted his lips. His breath was even but heavier from exertion.

I swallowed, too aware of the warmth creeping over my skin. Oberon drove the shovel deeper into the ground, then stilled and lifted his head. His dark, unreadable gaze collided with mine. His grip on the handle tightened, and the muscles in his shoulders tensed as if he were bracing himself for something. The shovel remained planted in the dirt, forgotten for a beat too long. The air between us shifted into a slow, crackling tension that curled around my spine, making my pulse kick against my throat. I forced myself to look away.

“I should…” I cleared my throat. “I should help.”

Desperate for something to focus on, I shoved my shovel into the dirt. The movement was clumsy, my grip too tight, and I didn’t register the impact. His stare continued to linger on me. “Doesn’t all that fabric get heavy in this heat?” His voice was smooth. Was he… teasing? “I didn’t realize modesty was a survival skill.”

My hands clenched around the shovel. I willed myself to keep my eyes fixed on the dirt and ignore the way my skin prickled under the weight of his attention.

Of course, he noticed.

I forced out a dry, unimpressed laugh, shoving the shovel’s blade deeper into the ground. “You wouldn’t last a day in a dress like this.”

He let out a quiet, amused sound. “I would sooner die.” I glanced up, expecting his usual scowl, the ever-present glower that made it impossible to tell what he thought. But there was no frustration, no blank, indifferent stare. A subtle but unmistakable smirk curved just enough to soften the sharpness of his features. And his eyes held a dangerous glint, an amusement that made my stomach tighten and my breath catch.

My face went up in flames.

I dropped my gaze back to the dirt, gripping the shovel harder as if I could will the heat from my skin. But it was too late. It spread up my neck and burned beneath the thick layers of my uniform. Oberon’s low chuckle curled around me, making the heat unbearable. I took a deep breath before driving the shovel into the dirt with unnecessary force.

Focus. Focus on the field.

Not on him or on how attractive he looks.

I huffed, and my grip tightened as I forced my gaze away from the man beside me, who should not have been smirking. Who should not have set my face ablaze with his deep, unexpected chuckle.

After some time, the shovel struck something solid.

My whole body ached, and my muscles had grown sluggish from the heat. My dress clung to my skin, damp with sweat, and the fabric stuck in places it shouldn’t. I only noticed how severe it was when I swiped at my forehead, meaning to wipe away the dampness—only for my sleeve to smear against my skin instead. I grimaced, ready to say something to break the tension with another joke, another distraction, but the words died on my tongue.

Oberon watched me.

The air lodged in my throat, and my stomach twisted. His gaze was heavy in a way that made my skin prickle.

Judging?

No.

The way his eyes dragged over me made me shrink, hyper-aware of how I must have looked, sweaty, disheveled, dirt-smudged along my arms and collarbone. I looked awful.

Since when did I care?

Oberon extended a flask toward me, halting that thought. He said nothing as he held it there in an unspoken offer. I hesitated before my fingers brushed against the cool metal. The contrast to my overheated skin sent a shiver up my spine. I chewed my lip, disregarding how my body reacted.

“Why won’t you roll up your sleeves?” His tone was softer, less teasing. More… curious.

My throat tightened, and I forced a shrug. “Sweat helps cool the body. If I roll up my sleeves, the sun will dry it too fast.” I tipped the flask against my lips. The chilled water was a shocking contrast to the heat in my chest. “Excessive sun exposure can lead to dehydration and heat exhaustion.”

Oberon’s gaze flicked to my arms before trailing back to my face. He peeled back the layers of my words and searched for the truth beneath them. It was a logical fact. Yet, beneath the weight of his silence, it was thin. I swallowed, pretended not to notice, and took another sip before returning the flask. His fingers brushed mine as he took it. It was a fleeting touch, but my pulse jumped regardless, and my skin burned in a way that was unrelated to the sun.

I forced my attention downward, willing my heart to steady as my eyes landed on the exposed ground between us. The dirt had shifted enough to reveal something hard beneath it. It wasn’t stone. It was smooth yet jagged in places, brittle bone wrapped in withered roots.

“What do you think that is?” I asked, lowering to my knees as I brushed away more soil. My fingers skimmed the surface of the uncovered shape, and an unsettling give met my touch. It wasn’t quite solid, but not fully decayed.

“You’re asking me?” Oberon’s voice held a trace of amusement.

“Sigils.”

That got his attention. “What?”

He crouched beside me. His presence sparked against my senses, his body too close. I fixed my gaze on the object in front of us, but the heat radiated from him, as did the shift of his breath and the slow, steady way he studied the shape.

I knew he was handsome—anyone with working eyes would. But sitting this close, the heat of the Vaelwick sun clinging to both of us, I was suddenly aware of every detail. The way sweat glistened on his skin, tracing the sharp angles of his forearms. The way his dark hair, damp from exertion, clung to his forehead in loose strands, curling just where it dried.

His forearm’s strong, corded muscle flexed as he braced a hand on his knee. A sheen of sweat clung to his collarbone, and his shirt was damp where it clung to his chest. And there was the way he smelled of iron, leather, and cedar, tinged with the faintest trace of salt from the effort.

Gods.

I swallowed hard.

The heat must have affected my thoughts.

“It’s… sigils,” I muttered, half-distracted, still tracing the carved markings with my fingers. Deep, careful cuts scored the surface of jagged runes etched into what appeared to be twisted bark. The more I brushed away, the less it resembled wood. No, this was something else. The ridges and contours beneath the soil formed a shape too structured, too unnatural. The bones curled inward to form a ribcage but were too long and thin.

Oberon leaned closer. His shoulder brushed mine, and his breath fanned against my cheek. The air between us became tense in a way I had no words to explain.

I dared a glance at him, and we locked eyes.

He had been staring at me.

The thought sent a bolt of heat straight through me, curling low in my stomach. My lips parted, and Oberon’s expression flickered. His brows furrowed, and the corners of his eyes twitched. His gaze drifted to my lips. His breathing changed, and his fingers flexed against his knee.

Then his eyes turned silver with a slow shift, gleaming in the dimming light. His pupils dilated and constricted as if something inside him was fighting to surface. The tension became palpable. A tingling heat pooled low in my belly, my breath caught, and my pulse became frantic and uneven.

What did it mean when his eyes turned silver? What was it tied to?

A foul, cloying, meaty stench slammed into me, curling in the back of my throat. I gagged, and my hand shot up to cover my nose.

The dirt beneath my hands crumbled. Something inside the effigy moved as a deep, wet pop echoed from beneath the sigil-carved surface. I recoiled, and my fingers dug into the dirt behind me as though it could steady me. Oberon’s hand shot out and wrapped around my arm, yanking me back just as a sliver of black goop oozed through the cracks in the sigils.

The air shuddered.

A long, unnatural groan rumbled from the thing buried before us, reverberating through the ground. The runes along its surface pulsed a sickly, blue-green glow that flickered like the afterimage of a flame in the dark.

The thing breathed a rattling, hollow breath.

No.

Oberon was on his feet, sword drawn, his body rigid in an unfamiliar way. “We need to go.” His voice was fierce, low, and steady. His silver-lit gaze never left the shifting soil.

I could only stare at the thing lying half-uncovered. My mind struggled to make sense of it. I had expected bones. Roots. Something dead. But this wasn’t old. This wasn’t dead. Someone had put this here, had carved those sigils to keep it buried, and now we had disturbed it.

The ground shuddered, the withered crops trembled, and the stench of rot swelled around us, wrapping tight and winding down my throat. A sudden, jerking spasm from the thing sent a spray of dirt flying as a shape lurched from the pit. It had once been a hand. Tendons knotted where flesh had withered away, stretched too tight over elongated bones. The fingers curled, each one tipped with broken nails.

It twitched.

And twitched again.

My stomach lurched. I took a slow, unsteady step back. “Sinclaire.” The hand snapped toward me before Oberon’s sword sliced through the wrist. A spray of inky black liquid spattered the dirt, and the stench of decay thickened. The severed hand writhed where it landed, fingers still flexing—still reaching for me.

My pulse pounded against my skull.

The ground split, and a wet, sucking noise filled the air as the thing dragged itself free.

Oberon grabbed my wrist. “Run!”

The field lurched beneath us. The once-dry soil turned damp as it began to shift and breathe. The stench of rot thickened, curling in the back of my throat and coating my tongue in something sour.

A horrid, rattling shriek split the air.

I stumbled, but Oberon’s grip tightened. His firm hand was burning hot around my wrist. He yanked me forward before I could hit the ground. My lungs burned. My legs ached. But if we stopped, we were dead.

The shriek turned into laughter. Twisted. Gurgling. Inhuman. My stomach dropped as I risked a glance over my shoulder and immediately regretted it.

It stood, unfolding limb by limb.

It had once been human or close to it. The thing that clawed its way from the dirt had no right to move. The tight skin stretched over its frame, splitting its flesh at the joints and exposing blackened sinew.

Where there should have been eyes, there were only hollow sockets, writhing with something wet and moving. The skin around its mouth had rotted away. The lips stripped back to reveal a jagged grin of broken, splintered teeth.

And it laughed. The noise crawled through the air, a dry, rattling rasp that burrowed into my ears, into my skull. I choked on my breath. It didn’t just come from the thing in the field. It came from beneath us.

Oberon muttered something in another language before yelling, “Move, Herbalist!” The ground split, and dozens of blackened fingers shot from the ground that clawed at our boots, grasped at our legs, and pulled. I faltered as cold, dead hands wrapped around my ankle. Oberon’s blade flashed in my vision with a spray of black ichor. The hands fell away, twitching.

He yanked me forward. “Don’t stop!” We broke free of the field just as the ground buckled inward, collapsing beneath the weight of whatever lay beneath. A pit. A mass grave. A burial ground that should have never been disturbed.

The laughter followed us into the trees, which swallowed us whole. Branches tore at my sleeves, whipping across my skin as we hurtled forward, our footfalls uneven against the gnarled roots beneath us. A fire burned in my lungs; every breath was like swallowing embers.

Oberon was a creature built for the hunt ahead of me, traversing the trees with ease. But this time, we were the prey. The laughter grew, slithered between the trunks, and twisted as if it were alive.

I forced my focus ahead. We needed to get out of the damned trees.

Whispers began, faint at first, rustling through the leaves. But they grew louder and clearer.

“You shouldn’t have come.”

“You don’t belong here.”

“Leave. Leave. Leave.”

My breath hitched. It was the same voice as the man at the village market. I snapped my head toward Oberon. “Do you hear that?” His stride didn’t falter, but his jaw tightened. He must have heard it, too.

“Turn back.”

“They’re waiting.”

“You were never meant to leave.”

Something shifted in my periphery, but there was nothing there: only trees, shadows, and a suffocating force pressing too closely.

Oberon grasped my arm, bringing me to a halt. His chest heaved as his silver eyes searched the woods in front of us and then behind. Tension coiled through him.

We weren’t alone.

A low, rattling breath stirred the branches just behind me. When I turned my head, a figure stood too close—half in shadow, half in the dim slant of evening light. It was worse than the thing from the field.

Taller. Gaunt. Its limbs were too long, its neck crooked and twitching. Its mouth hung parted, revealing jagged, brittle, splintered shards. There weren’t any eye sockets, only empty, cavernous voids—a depth that stretched on forever.

Oberon shoved me. “Damn ha adaneth, run!”

The air burned my lungs. My boots found purchase as I tore through the trees, branches snapping beneath my weight. Oberon stayed beside me, the creature keeping pace behind us. A wet, rattling sound. Not a growl or a breath, but something trying to remember how to be human.

The ground trembled, and the trees shuddered.

I stumbled, catching myself just before my knee hit the dirt. Oberon grabbed my arm and yanked me forward before I lost momentum. The laughter had stopped, replaced with a deep, guttural clicking and a pulse in the air. I felt it in my bones and teeth.

Oberon cursed under his breath. “Veilbound.”

The word made little sense, but there was no time to ask. There was cracking through the trees behind us, too fast, too heavy.

The trees thinned ahead, a clearing. “We need to—” The moment we hit the tree line, something slammed into us. The force sent me sprawling across the ground. The breath ripped from my chest as I hit the dirt and rolled until my back slammed against something solid. My vision blurred, and my ears rang.

Oberon sprang to his feet mid-roll and pivoted with his blade drawn.

A shadow loomed just beyond the clearing. It was hulking with twisted limbs and exposed sinew. Its mouth was a maw stretched too wide, splitting its chest.

Inside were more faces that were contorted in silent screams, shifting beneath the torn flesh. My stomach lurched again. Oberon stepped forward, separating me from the creature, and slipped into an unprecedented stance.

Fae.

The thing snapped its head toward me. A blur of glowing silver and steel flashed across my vision as Oberon’s blade severed flesh.

The air shattered and rippled, forcing me to cover my ears.

A deafening screech split through the clearing, high and raw, like rusted metal scraping against bone. The thing lurched. Its grotesque jaw split wider, and the faces beneath its skin writhed as if they were alive.

Oberon’s blade tore through its side, but it didn’t fall. It didn’t even bleed. I scrambled back when the thing jerked toward me. Its limbs spasmed as too many joints bent the wrong way. Oberon slammed his body into it with a fierce growl, pushing the creature back. His silvered eyes gleamed cruel and feral. The grip on his sword tightened before he drove it straight into its gaping maw.

For a moment, everything froze.

The creature’s body twitched. The faces beneath its skin screamed in unison. Black bile erupted from its mouth, splattering across the ground.

I flinched as the smell of rot and charred meat filled the air. My stomach twisted, but I had to stay upright. I had to move. Oberon wrenched his blade free as the thing collapsed. A sickening, wet crack filled the air while its body hit the ground, twitching, its grotesque mouth still stretched open in its final, soundless shriek.

The surrounding air hummed in the silence.

Oberon’s chest heaved. His knuckles were white around the hilt of his sword. He didn’t move or take his eyes off the corpse.

I swallowed hard. My fingers trembled as I wiped the sweat from my brow. My skin felt too tight, and my voice was unrecognizable when I spoke. “What was that?”

Oberon let out a frustrated breath. “Veilbound,” he muttered. He yanked a cloth from his belt to clean his blade. “Or something close enough to it.”

His voice was steady, but tension rolled off him in waves. I willed myself to breathe, to comprehend the thing in the field, the laughter, and the symbols carved into the doors. The thing looked at me the same way the one in Silverfel had. It wasn’t a coincidence. “What does it want?”

Oberon looked at me, his silvered irises still glowing. “I think it wants you .”