Page 28

28

Eden

I DISREGARDED OBERON and Garrick’s bickering behind me. Their voices dissolved into a distant hum of irritation and amusement. Garrick was enjoying whatever nonsense he had wedged under Oberon’s skin this time, and Oberon, despite himself, had taken the bait. Their energy felt misplaced against the stillness of Ruvenmere, but I didn’t have the patience to care.

It had been over a week since we arrived. My stitches ached less. The village healer’s teas helped me sleep, but exhaustion still clung to my bones. The missing piece, the thread that tied everything together, remained out of reach. It lurked beneath the surface, tangled in the fog, buried within the symbols and trinkets that clung to this place.

The trinkets swayed in the damp breeze, hollow bones clicked against carved wooden doorframes, and twine and shells rustled in whispers. I made quick sketches in my journal, noting the strange symbols etched into the thresholds of homes and shops. Some looked familiar—variations of warding sigils I had seen in Vaelwick, but distorted, altered in ways that made my gut twist. Protection magic, maybe. Or something else.

A crow perched on the thatched roof of a nearby house. Its dark eyes watched me with unsettling stillness. Another fluttered to a post beside it and ruffled its wings before making a low, croaking call. The birds had been watching since we arrived, lining rooftops and circling overhead. At first, I assumed it was a coincidence, but now I wasn’t so sure. Why were there so many crows in Aurelith?

Then there was the fog.

It curled between the buildings, thickest near the shoreline, swallowing sound and movement. The villagers moved through it like ghosts, their heads bowed, their footsteps light, and their eyes averted. A stray dog slinked through an alleyway. Its ribs were visible beneath its dark coat, and its ears flicked at every distant creak of wood or hushed whisper. Even the animals here felt uneasy.

The hairs on my arms stood as a fisher stepped onto the dock, his lantern cutting through the mist. He paused, tilting his head as if listening for something beyond the waves before he turned abruptly and retreated into the village’s safety.

The wrongness of this village was palpable, much like Vaelwick except… saltier. Beyond the superstitions, there was tension. A quiet, humming current beneath the surface wove itself into the air between the people, particularly between the elves and the humans. Their interactions were careful—two predators caught in a slow, circling dance, neither willing to strike first nor willing to turn their back.

I frowned, watching a human fisher speaking with an elven woman near the market stalls. His posture was rigid, his grip white-knuckled on the net handle. The elf’s sharp features were carved into distance, but her eyes flicked toward him with a trace of suspicion. The space between them was measured as if an invisible barrier separated them. The weight of history, long-standing and unresolved.

Had it always been this way? Or was this new? A wound not yet scarred?

I chewed the inside of my cheek, my fingers tightening around my journal as I jotted a quick note. If the people here didn’t trust each other, how did they expect to survive?

A gull screeched above, cutting through the uneasy silence. It dove low over the market and startled a merchant who swatted at it with a cloth. A stray cat, thin but quick, darted from beneath a cart, chasing the smell of fish scraps, only to hesitate near the elf and human, ears flicking as if sensing the same tension I did.

Despite my attempts to weave the threads together—the trinkets, the symbols, the stories whispered about the mist—I was still missing something. The villagers kept their distance from us. They answered my questions, but only just. I had to pull every ounce of information from them, and even then, I was being fed only what they wanted me to hear.

The mist thickened around the docks, swallowing shapes whole. A group of fishers gathered near the shoreline, murmuring amongst themselves. Their gazes shifted toward the sea, then toward us, as I pretended not to notice. I huffed out a breath as frustration curled tight in my chest. The pieces were scattered before me in a puzzle with missing edges, but they refused to fit no matter how I turned them.

“What am I not seeing?” The question hung in the damp air, swallowed by the ever-present mist.

“Freckles!” Garrick’s voice jolted me from my thoughts. I turned just in time to see him grinning, mischief glinting in his ocean-blue eyes. Beside him, Oberon stood with his arms crossed, scowling as if he were contemplating a murder that ought to have brought him great satisfaction.

“What?” I asked, brows furrowing.

Garrick waggled his brows. “Are you even listening to us?”

“No,” I snapped my journal shut. “I was working.”

“She’s ignoring you, Sinclaire. Guess that makes two of us.” Garrick sighed dramatically, shaking his head. “Maybe one day you’ll develop a pleasant personality like mine.”

Oberon’s growl was low and irritated, but I stepped between them and gave Garrick a warning look before I shifted my focus back to what mattered. “There’s something off about this place,” I said. “More than just the fog.”

Oberon’s petty feud with Garrick faded as his attention shifted to my words. His onyx eyes locked onto mine, intent and expectant. “Explain.”

I gestured to the surrounding village—the narrow, damp streets, the way villagers passed each other without meeting eyes, how conversations ceased when another approached, and how the elves and humans coexisted, but not with one another. “They don’t trust each other,” I said. “Not fully.”

Oberon’s gaze shifted to scan the interactions I had been watching. At a market stall, a merchant placed change into an elven woman’s hand, ensuring their fingers didn’t brush. Near the docks, a group of human fishers spoke in hushed voices while casting wary glances toward a group of Elven hunters that passed by. In front of the bakery, a child feeding scraps to a stray dog was only yanked away by his mother when an elven man approached the stall beside them. “They live together, yet separately,” I continued in a hushed tone. “It’s subtle, but it exists.”

Oberon’s jaw tightened. “Then whatever is happening here is working against them.”

I nodded, gripping my journal tighter. “We need to determine why.” And we needed to do it soon.

A crow cawed overhead, its dark form gliding low between the rooftops before perching on a wooden post. The same one? Or another? It tilted its head as it watched.

Oberon huffed beside me as the tension rolled off him in waves. I didn’t have to look at him to know his shoulders were taut; his jaw was clenched in a way that meant he was calculating.

Garrick, of course, was enjoying himself. “Trouble in paradise,” he muttered under his breath, his gaze flitting between me and Oberon with unmistakable amusement. “Tensions are rising. Alliances are tested. Will they overcome the odds?” He placed a dramatic hand over his chest. “The stakes have never been higher.”

Oberon shot him a withering glare.

“Go ask the women about it, Garrick,” I said, glancing up at him, hoping to channel his energy into something useful.

His mischievous smirk deepened, as if he had been expecting the invitation. “Are you suggesting that I’m a smooth talker?”

I rolled my eyes. “Might as well use it for the task at hand.”

His gaze flicked over me- slow and appraising- his usual humor giving way to something unreadable. It lingered for just a moment too long, just enough to make my breath hitch. “Is that the only task at hand, Freckles?”

Damn him.

Heat rushed to my cheeks, and my fingers tightened around my journal. I shifted my weight under his gaze, regretting any reason I had given him to flirt. I knew better. Despite working with him for only over a week, I felt I knew him well enough not to fuel his flirtations. But he still flustered me, chipping away at my composure with nothing more than a well-timed look and a too-casual question.

The air between us stretched taut, and I felt Oberon’s glare, a brand searing into the side of my head. Garrick’s hum was smug, pleased with my reaction. I wanted to snap at him, to tell him to do his damn job.

Oberon took a deliberate step closer. “Go,” he warned.

Garrick chuckled and held his hands up in mock surrender before stepping back. “Relax, Sinclaire. I’m going.” He winked at me with unwavering confidence, turned on his heel, and strode toward the nearest group of women with the ease of a man who had never been denied an audience.

I let out a slow breath and shook my head, pretending to refocus on my journal. But my pulse was still uneven, and my skin was too warm. The man was unbearable.

I cleared my throat, forcing my voice to steady. “We should ask the fishers.” It came out hoarse and weaker than I wanted. I clenched my jaw, frustrated with myself, with Garrick, and with the fact that I was still feeling the weight of his teasing and the simmering intensity of Oberon’s silence.

That suffocating silence lingered. I didn’t dare look at him, but his gaze burned into me. “Then let’s go.” His voice was calm and controlled, yet his irritation lay just beneath the surface. I nodded, jotting down “fishers—ask about sightings, voices in the fog” in my journal. I snapped the journal shut and stepped forward, Oberon’s presence falling into step beside me.

Even as I walked, the tightness in my chest refused to ease. The unspoken weight between us pressed down on me. I needed to concentrate, to decipher this damn village, and to stop being so affected by them both.

The smell of salt and damp wood grew heavier as we neared the docks, the distant crash of waves filling the silence between us. The fishers watched warily, their expressions reflecting the apprehension of those who sensed trouble approaching. They looked at me as if I were the source of their problems. And they regarded Oberon as they would the elves.

A gull screeched overhead, piercing through the tension, yet the weight of their stares remained unyielding. Their hands stilled over their nets and crates, fingers curling around filet knives and rope as if bracing for a fight, not hostile but prepared. Their shoulders were taut, and their eyes darted between us.

The tension rippled through the air. The fishers weren’t just suspicious. They were defensive. Their gazes darted to Oberon’s ears and stance, and they watched how he moved. They didn’t see a knight. They saw something other—someone of power.

Oberon’s irritation was palpable in the space between us, in the stiffening of his shoulders and the sharp tick of his jaw. Based on what he said before, he was used to this. So why did he react this way?

The last thing I needed was for him to make this worse, so I forced a pleasant smile onto my face. “We hoped to ask a few questions,” I started, my voice as warm as possible. “About the waters here.”

One fisher, older than the rest, crossed his arms over his broad chest. His skin was weathered, and wind and time had carved deep creases into his face. “Ain’t nothin’ here for you knights.” His eyes flicked to Oberon, lingering for a breath too long before snapping back to me.

Keep them talking.

“We’re not here to cause trouble,” I assured him. My voice was measured. “We just want to help.”

A second man’s face, etched by years of salt and sun, let out a rough chuckle. “Help?” He shook his head, producing a dry, humorless sound. “You want to help? Leave.”

Oberon’s patience wore thin. His arms crossed more tightly over his chest, and a slight ripple of tension was clear in his stance. He wouldn’t act just yet, but he was ready.

I pressed on, maintaining a calm and careful tone. “We’ve heard the stories,” I said, allowing my gaze to flick between them as I read their expressions. “The voices in the fog. The figures in the water.”

The fishers didn’t flinch.

“If the village is at risk,” I continued, “don’t you want it gone ?”

Silence.

A few of them exchanged wary glances, shifting their weight from foot to foot as their hands flexed over the handles of their fishing knives and ropes. The elder fisher huffed through his nose, his jaw tightening like a rusted trap. “There are things in those waters you’d best not meddle with, girl.” His tone was rough, but an edge of fear lay beneath it.

A prickle traced the back of my neck.

Oberon tilted his head, his dark eyes catching the dim, mist-filtered light. “What kind of things?”

The older man turned and spat into the dirt before meeting my gaze. “The kind that don’t stay dead.” A gull let out a shrill cry above us, its wings slicing through the air as it veered away from the shoreline. The elder fisher’s lips pressed into a thin line, and his weathered hands clenched into fists at his sides. His gaze flickered toward the sea, toward the rolling fog creeping over the dark waves.

I studied him carefully, noting his stiffness and the twitching of his fingers at his sides. “What does that mean?” I asked, keeping my tone gentle but insistent.

The older man’s mouth tightened. He shifted his weight, his boots scuffing against the damp dock. “It means what I said, girl,” he muttered, voice rough as gravel.

I took a slow breath and forced my shoulders to stay relaxed. Don’t push. Keep him talking. “So,” I tried again, this time softer, letting just the right amount of curiosity and understanding seep into my words, “you’ve seen them, haven’t you?”

A few of the fishers shifted, avoiding my eyes and glancing toward the water as if they wished they could turn and walk away. The older man hesitated. His mouth opened and then shut again. His fingers curled and then flexed. I watched as he ran a calloused hand over his face, wiping at the beads of sweat gathering on his brow despite the crisp air.

“Aye,” he admitted, just above a whisper. “More than once.”

Oberon straightened beside me. His presence shifted —not just alert, but heavier, weighted with understanding. “What did you see?”

The older man’s gaze darted to Oberon, then back to me. His lips parted and pressed shut as though he might swallow the words again. But I saw the tension in his shoulders, the tremor in his fingers. He wanted to tell us. No. He needed to.

“They look like us,” he rasped. “Like the ones we’ve lost.”

A slow, creeping chill slid along my spine. “Lost?” I echoed, my voice quieter now, just above the lapping of the tide.

The fisher swallowed hard, his throat working as he nodded toward the sea. “The ones taken by the water.”

I blinked. “You mean drowned?”

A muscle in his jaw twitched. “Some drowned,” he said. “Others… they just vanished. Went out on their boats and never came back.” His voice turned brittle. Each word was heavier than the last. “But sometimes—” His voice dropped to a whisper, as if the mist curling at our feet was listening. “Sometimes they do come back.”

Oberon’s tension coiled tighter beside. “What do you mean?” I asked, keeping my voice even despite the chill in my veins.

The older man met my eyes. His were dark and glassy, hollowed by things he had seen and wished he hadn’t. “They come back wrong.”

The other fishers had fallen silent, their gazes flickering, hands flexing over nets and knives. The younger man approaching us slowed, but the old fisher didn’t acknowledge him. His attention remained fixed on me, his fingers curling against his palms as if anchoring himself.

“They don’t speak,” he muttered at last. “Not at first. They… stand there at the edge of the docks, starin’ at us.” A sharp prick of unease crawled along my arms. I could see it in my mind—the unmoving, silent figures lingering at the shoreline. “Like they don’t know where they are,” the fisher continued, his voice low and heavy. “Like they’re tryin’ to remember something.”

“And then?”

The fisher’s throat bobbed as he shook his head. “Then they start mimickin’”

My charcoal stilled mid-stroke.

“Mimicking?” Oberon pressed, his voice unreadable, the sharp edge of a blade hidden beneath the surface.

The fisher’s weathered face paled. His breath came shallow, his fingers twitching at his sides. “They copy the way we move. The way we talk.” He shook his head. “But it’s never right.”

“What do you mean?”

“The speech—it’s delayed,” the fisher said, his voice rough as if he were dragging each word through gravel. “Like they have to think about it. Like they’re relearnin’ somethin’ they shouldn’t have forgotten in the first place.”

His eyes darkened, his gaze growing distant.

“And their voices…” He trailed off, his jaw tightening as if the words were dangerous.

A gust of wind rippled through the mist, shifting it in slow, curling tendrils around the docks.

He shook his head. “They don’t sound human no more.”

A shuffling sound broke through the thick silence, and my attention flicked toward the younger man who had dropped something earlier. He crouched, fingers brushing the damp wood as he retrieved whatever had slipped from his grasp. When he straightened, he turned to face us, his movements strangely deliberate.

My eyes locked onto his.

A polite smile curved his lips, but its form was wrong. His pointed ears caught the dim light as he squared his shoulders, mirroring the confident posture that Garrick often had. His gaze lingered too long, assessing me with an intensity that raised the fine hairs on my arms.

I redirected my attention to the fishers.

The older man’s expression darkened. His eyes hardened. He stared at the dock planks beneath his feet as if the words he intended to say were ones he wished he could bury there. “They remember just enough to fool you,” he mumbled. “But they aren’t them no more.”

A slow, sinking weight pressed against my chest. “That’s awful,” I murmured.

It was more than fear in his voice—it was grief . The kind that had settled into his bones lingered in the lines of his face. This wasn’t just a fisher’s tale. This had taken from him.

The silence that followed felt thick, filled with the things he wouldn’t—or couldn’t—say.

Footsteps approached from the village, breaking the tension. I looked up, spotting Garrick strolling toward us, that familiar smug smile tugging at his lips. I exhaled through my nose and flipped open my journal, trying to refocus as we turned away from the fishers, but the words blurred together, my thoughts still tangled in the conversation’s weight.

“Hey, beautiful!”

After a few steps, a hand gripped my arm and spun me around. My heart kicked against my breast, my muscles stiffened, and my free hand twitched toward the dagger at my thigh.

The elf stood too close, his grin lazy and confident. Oberon stopped mid-step. His onyx eyes burned, and his entire body was taut, like a predator that caught the smell of something foul. The elf dared to laugh under the weight of that glare, raising his hands in mock surrender. “Apologies,” he said, his grin never faltering. “I was just tryin’ to catch up to you.”

My pulse steadied as I adjusted my stance, shifting my weight back. He was taller than me, and there was an ease in his movement and confidence in his smile that irritated me. Oberon took another step toward us. I lifted my hand in his direction without looking at him, issuing a silent command. “Go find out what Garrick learned,” I said, keeping my tone even. A heavy silence fell between us that carried the promise of violence.

He remained there, likely burning daggers into the elf’s skull with a look that could have flayed him where he stood. I thought he might have ignored me for a long, stretched-out moment. That he would have stepped in, consequences be damned, until a sharp exhale cut through the air, carrying the weight of leashed restraint, followed by retreating footsteps.

Oberon had turned and stalked toward Garrick, but tension still rippled through his frame, tightening his shoulders and the way he moved. He was still listening .

I refocused my attention on the elf before me. “So,” I said, tilting my head, watching him as closely as he watched me. “Who are you?”

“Fiery one, aye?” He chuckled, his smirk curling like smoke.

I folded my hands over my journal and turned to face him, keeping my expression neutral and giving him nothing to read. “Well, you did just grab me.”

His lips twitched with amusement, but at least he had the decency to shove his hands into his pockets. “I did call out to you, but you didn’t stop.”

“I didn’t think you were referring to me.”

His gaze lingered on me as if he were trying to decide whether I was joking. “You are, though.” His voice dipped, confidence wavering. “Beautiful, I mean.” A brief, awkward chuckle followed as he glanced away.

My cheeks burned. Was he blind? Why was I reacting? I cleared my throat and grasped my journal tighter, feeling the familiar pressure of leather against my fingers. The elf shifted his weight, and his smirk faded.

“I heard you askin’ questions.”