Page 27

27

Eden

I STRETCHED MY arms over my head and rolled my shoulders as I stepped onto the stable grounds. The crisp morning air was another layer of unsympathetic reality poured over me. Exhaustion clung to me, every muscle heavy and reluctant. The nightmares had kept me up again. Each time I closed my eyes, I was dragged back into that room where the phantom sting of old wounds mingled with the fresh ache in my back. Despite the days that had passed, I could still feel Oberon’s hands on my arms, steadying me and keeping me tethered to this brutal world.

Now, he barely spoke to me. I yawned so hard that it turned into a groan, my hand rubbing my temples as I attempted to shake off the lingering remnants of sleep and sorrow. Something in the air shifted, a subtle change that made my skin prickle.

Oberon stood by Neryth, fastening the last of our bags to the saddle. His movements were precise—tightening straps, checking buckles—yet his stony gaze was fixed on me, as though I were nothing more than a fault line in his composure. The sting of his silence was tangible, a raw, gnawing ache that echoed my inner turmoil.

It was maddening how much it hurt.

Caught between exhaustion and a simmering sense of rejection, I blinked against the fatigue and frowned. I wanted to lash out, to demand he say whatever was festering behind that unreadable stare, but I swallowed the urge. I forced myself not to shrink beneath the weight of his assessment.

“You look like shit,” he clipped.

I scoffed, managing a humorless chuckle as I ran a hand through my hair. “Thanks,” I replied, the sarcasm thick enough to taste. In that brief exchange lay an entire conversation of unsaid words, of longing for closeness and the bitter acceptance of distance.

Oberon grunted and shook his head as he turned back to adjust the saddle. “You sure you won’t pass out in the middle of this one?” His tone was dry, edged with the usual bite, but there was weight and hesitation beneath it. His knuckles were pale around the leather strap, and his movements lacked their usual effortless precision.

He was frustrated he was stuck with me for another assignment, wasn't he? Why wouldn't he be?

Rolling my shoulders, I forced a smirk. “If I do, just prop me up against a tree and keep going.”

Oberon grunted as he secured the last strap and then patted Neryth’s side. “Tempting.”

I wanted to roll my eyes and toss a sharp remark back at him, which might ease the tension between us. But the words caught in my throat. It felt different; the banter seemed forced. Hollow. We both played a game neither of us wanted to admit had ended.

Stepping forward, I reached for the other saddlebag, my fingers moving through the contents, more out of restlessness than necessity. He shifted beside me, and the space between us felt vast—a divide neither of us dared to cross. I let the silence stretch before tilting my head. “If you keep staring at me like that, Sinclaire, I’ll start to think you care.”

His head snapped toward me, his onyx eyes flickering silver for a brief second. “Don’t flatter yourself,” he muttered, swinging onto Neryth’s back as if the moment had never happened.

Pressure built in my chest. “Too late,” I murmured, more to myself than to him, and I turned away before checking for his reaction, before I could make the mistake of searching for a truth in his expression that no longer existed.

Maybe it had never been.

TIME BLURRED, ESCAPING me as each moment bled into the next, lacking a distinct beginning or end. The steady rhythm of Neryth’s hooves against the dirt should have anchored me in the present, but exhaustion had hollowed me out. It pressed behind my eyes, curled heavy in my skull, and settled deep within my bones.

The ache in my back pulsed in slow, rhythmic waves, a dull throb beneath the layers of bandages. I didn’t remember mounting the horse, only Oberon’s gruff warning to stay awake and not drift too far. I had tried, but the road was endless and unforgiving, and my body betrayed me. My eyelids felt heavier with each passing breath, and my thoughts drifted into a hazy, half-formed mess of memories and fragmented dreams.

“Herbalist.” Oberon’s voice sliced through the stillness, laced with irritation. I blinked hard. I had slumped forward, my balance wavering. I caught myself and gripped Neryth’s side tighter to remain upright. “Still with me?” His tone was flat, but his grip on the reins tightened, and his shoulders squared even more.

I straightened my spine, biting back a wince as pain flared through my back. “If I weren’t, you would have noticed.”

Oberon grunted a quiet, wordless acknowledgment.

I let my gaze flick to him and observed as he scanned the horizon ahead of us. His posture seemed stiffer than usual. The set of his jaw was tight, tension taut in his frame, like a wire stretched too thin. Something flickered in his expression for a fleeting moment that I couldn’t place before he schooled it back into his usual guarded neutrality.

I wanted to ask how much longer it would be. But what was the point? Time had lost its meaning. It could have been an hour or even a day. My body was running on pure stubbornness. The only thing keeping me upright was the sheer force of my will not to collapse in front of him.

The air felt cooler. Somewhere along the way, the landscape had changed. The damp scent of the coastline permeated the air, blending with the crisp, wet elduvaris. Ruvenmere wasn’t far.

Oberon’s gruff voice against me pulled me back again. My thoughts were blurred and sluggish, and I struggled to catch up as the steady rhythm of the ride threatened to lull me under again. His arm was wrapped around my chest, supporting me. I must have slumped back against him.

Shit.

A sharp pulse of pain jolted through me the moment I shifted, flaring along my ribs and igniting the stitched wound on my back. I winced, biting hard to keep from making a sound, but it was too late. Oberon knew. “You’re awake,” he said, his voice gruff.

Tension rippled through me. I forced myself to sit up straighter and ignored how his arm loosened just enough to let me move but not enough to let me go. “I wasn’t asleep,” I muttered, voice hoarse.

“Right.”

I lacked the energy to argue. My back ached, my head was thick with fatigue, and the warmth of his body behind me was too much. It made it hard to focus, and my thoughts were slow and clouded. I needed to wake up, shake the lingering drowsiness, and push past the pain that gnawed at me.

Oberon’s hand brushed against my side as he withdrew his arm. I shivered. He said nothing, but the heat of his assessing eyes was on me. He was watching.

I forced my muscles to stay rigid as I feigned control, pretending I hadn’t just melted against him. “Keep yourself upright,” he clipped. “We’re almost there.” I swallowed hard and nodded, locking my gaze ahead, willing myself to ignore how my skin still burned where his touch had been.

Ruvenmere emerged ahead, its outline faint through the thick fog curling along the shoreline. The mist clung to the village, shifting and pulsing as if it breathed. It was eerie and unnatural. I blinked hard, trying to shake the exhaustion that fogged my mind, but my vision remained heavy, and my thoughts felt sluggish. Shadows stretched between the buildings, shifting in the dense mist, and for a moment—just a flicker—I thought I saw…

No. That’s not possible. I squinted at the tall, broad-shouldered, and familiar figure who stood near the village entrance. Garrick? I must have been seeing things.

Behind me, Oberon groaned, his voice dripping with annoyance. “Of course he’s here.”

My head jerked toward him, still deciding if I was hallucinating or if that was real. “That is Garrick, right?” I drawled, as if needing him to confirm reality itself.

Oberon huffed through his nose. “Unfortunately.”

I frowned. What was he doing here? I had only seen Garrick once—when he and Oberon had been sparring outside the greenhouse. I had never spoken to him, but his reputation as a flirtatious, reckless knight preceded him.

As we rode closer, the figure stepped forward through the fog. The smug expression I remembered from their match was still plastered across his face as if it had never left. “Sinclaire!” Garrick’s voice rang out, far too loud in the mist and far too cheerful for Oberon’s liking. He spread his arms wide, grinning like they were old friends reunited. “Did you miss me, you grumpy bastard?”

Oberon groaned again. Louder this time.

Garrick’s gaze flicked to me, his smirk deepening as if he had decided how this conversation would unfold. “And you must be the cute little herbalist.”

I blinked. “Excuse me?”

The warning in my tone was sure, but Garrick only appeared amused. He ignored me and turned back to Oberon. “I must say, I’m shocked you managed to travel with someone this long without scaring them off.”

Oberon muttered under his breath what sounded like “Saints fucking help me” before pulling Neryth to a stop.

Garrick, looking far too pleased with himself, leaned in. “You’re fuming. You did miss me.”

Oberon’s glare could have set the entire village ablaze. “Why the fuck are you here?”

Garrick sighed dramatically, as though this were a significant burden to him. “Prince’s orders.” He let the words settle, watching Oberon’s grip on the reins tighten with slow, dangerous intent before adding, “You know, considering your… reputation , Alric thought it best to have someone more likable accompany you.”

Oberon’s hands flexed so hard the leather reins groaned under the pressure. Garrick stifled a laugh and turned back to me with a wink. “And lucky for me, that means I get to meet the lovely herbalist.”

I shook my head.

His demeanor shifted when I swung my leg over the saddle and slid off Neryth’s back. The teasing glint in his eyes dimmed just enough for me to notice it. His smirk faltered for a moment, the edges of it turning unamused.

His gaze flicked over me, and his posture straightened. “What happened in Vaelwick?” The question was light, yet conveyed a subtle demand wrapped in a relaxed, careless tone.

I stiffened, unsure how to answer.

Oberon swung off Neryth behind me, his boots striking the dirt harder than necessary. The impact sent a small puff of dust curling into the cool air. At Garrick’s question, his stance became rigid, tension snapping through him. His eyes darted toward Garrick in warning, but Garrick ignored him, keeping his focus locked on me.

I forced a neutral expression, concealing the exhaustion, the lingering ache, and the ghosts of Vaelwick that still clung to my skin. I had learned from Oberon how to control my features and wield silence as a weapon. I refused to reveal my trauma in the middle of a fog-drenched fishing village. “We handled it,” I said, adjusting my satchel strap.

Garrick’s brows lifted in skepticism, his gaze drifting over me again. Before he could probe further, Oberon intervened. “None of your damned business.”

A beat of silence.

Garrick held my gaze a moment longer, attempting to discern something hidden within the cracks. “Right.” The teasing glint returned to his tone, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “Well, you look like shit.”

A dry huff of laughter left me as I shook my head. “So, I’ve heard.”

Oberon continued to glare daggers, while Garrick’s infuriating grin only grew wider. “And you look just as angry as I remember,” he said.

Oberon clenched his jaw, making it crack. “This is going to be a long fucking mission.”