Page 68

He’s Hiding Something

F eathers, down, skin, and wings. I land among them.

Warm and soft feathers close around me, brushing against my arms. My legs slip down on either side of the gryphon’s thick, ruffled neck, a perfect fit. There would’ve been no space over his broad chest.

With a quick shake, I spread his magnificent wings and beat upward with slow, steady strokes.

I don’t want to risk throwing my own body from the tree.

We fly along the edge. Empty air yawning on the left, a wall of earth pressing close on the right.

Up. Up. Up. Past roots, branches, vines, and hollowed pockets in the cliffside.

Everything seems to reach for us like hungry arms, snapping and scraping at our belly.

The mist coils heavily around the plants, twisting like snares.

There’s no sound, not even with the gryphon’s sharpened hearing.

I reach the top. A flag the color of ripe pineapple flesh marks the edge of the broken trail.

The jungle here is even more overgrown, as if a giant hand has reached down and stirred everything into chaos.

In the distance, I hear the faint rush of a waterfall.

Silhouettes of vines sway in the mist, and creepers trail their slender limbs like cobwebs across the trees.

The scent of damp moss hangs thick in the air.

I land with a heavy thud. The ground shakes beneath me, shuddering. Two rabbits dash into the underbrush.

I slide off his back, but my hand lingers a few sparks longer. I brush the soft chest, fingers sinking into his thick, lion-like mane.

Then I let go and return what’s his, releasing Gaupnir and gently pulling my mind back into my body.

He eyes me warily, large, pale-blue eyes fixed on mine. The jungle is dense behind him.

“Thanks for the help,” I say softly, running a hand along the curve of his golden beak.

He shakes himself and then spreads his wings, the gust from them rustling the leaves around us. With a push from his hind paws, he launches into the air and rises fast. I watch him for a few seconds until he becomes just a speck in the sky.

I need to move. I have no idea how much time I’ve lost.

I take off running, my feet pounding against the stone, roots, and packed earth. Arms pumping. Hair flying.

I make it maybe ten elven-lengths.

Then stop.

A broken bow lies on the ground, snapped clean in two. Four arrows are scattered beside it, carelessly strewn across the dirt. And a torn shoe.

What happened here?

I move on. Slower. Cautious. Light-footed. Breathing quietly. Eyes scanning in every direction. The path is so narrow branches scrape against my arms as I pass.

Then I hear it. Steel clashing against steel.

Blades.

The mist parts. Rahveles is locked in combat with a master.

I can’t tell who. Most of their face is hidden beneath a scarf.

It’s a violent fight.

Rahveles appears to be on the verge of losing. But I have no time to spare. I won’t stop to watch. I won’t wait for my turn. I dart off the path, sprinting through the underbrush.

They freeze. Both look up. Rahveles, gasping for breath.

I race past, cut through the thick growth, and rejoin the trail on the other side. I can feel their eyes burning into the back of my head.

Then comes the roar, the clash. They’ve resumed.

Has Acranta already passed him?

Or…

No.

It couldn’t have been her. The one in the ravine. It couldn’t be.

It just couldn’t.

I pick up the pace. Faster than before. Dig deep. Push with my legs.

I sprint. Run. Rush forward. Alone with my breath. Alone with the pounding in my chest. Trees blur past one after another, just shadows in the corners of my eyes. A full story passes before anything happens.

Then a sound. Sobbing. The scent of blood, of wounds. A trap?

I draw my bow as I run, eyes darting, scanning the mist. But I keep going. And then I see her.

“Jelethia!”

She throws me a pained grimace. “Keep running!”

I drop beside her, crouching low, one hand pressed to the ground. Trying to slow my heartbeat enough to speak. “What… happened?”

Inhale through the nose, exhale through the mouth.

The mist burns in my lungs, sharp and fast, like lightning under my skin. “Did something go wrong?”

“Go,” she snaps. “I don’t want you to see me like this.”

“Are you hurt?”

She sighs and rolls her eyes. Her usually styled hair is tangled and messy, filled with leaves of all sizes, torn and dry. They hang over her face, making her look like a savage.

“Think I broke my leg or something,” she mutters. “Happened while I was running.”

“While running?”

“Yes! I twisted my ankle.”

I don’t see any blood.

But if it’s broken, that doesn’t matter; it could be internal.

I offer her my hand. “It’s probably just sprained. Come on, let me help you up.”

What am I doing? I need to keep moving.

But Jelethia shakes her head.

“No?”

“I’m going to blow the horn.”

“Jelethia, no! That means you’re out!”

“Calm down. I know. It’s my choice.” She starts feeling around her quiver, fingers scrambling. Frantic. Her nails scrape against the leather, desperate.

“Can’t you find it?”

My pulse has slowed now, just a steady throb behind my temples.

“What do you think, sun-brain? It’s gone!”

“Here, take mine.” I hand her the horn.

She freezes. Her eyes are glassy. “But what about you? We can only use it once.”

“I won’t need it.” I hope.

She grips the wood tightly. “Thank you, Zel?—”

“No problem.”

“I won’t forget this. Ever.” She bites the rings in her lower lip.

“Will you be okay?”

“Yes! Go. Run! Win this. Understand?”

I smile. “Understood.”

She smiles back.

I rush on.

In the distance, the horn sounds echo through the forest, unbearably loud. I clamp my fingers into my ears—not my palms, but my index fingers, deep in the canals. Hard and firm, but even that doesn’t help.

The sound spears through, stabbing at my eardrums like meat on a spit. It attacks from the inside.

They must’ve layered a demonic spell over the horn, which may explain why it only works once. Eventually, the ringing fades, and I can focus again on the scent of moss, resin, bark, and Ares leaves, on leaping over roots, on avoiding hidden dangers, and on speed.

I don’t have to run long before I catch up to the next elf, Salahfar.

He’s hunched over, hands on his knees, breathing deeply.

He glances up as I pass.

“Injured?” I ask.

“No,” he pants, flashing a faint smile, his emerald-green eyes still sharp. “Just tired. You?”

“Not yet.”

“Good. Then go. I’ll catch you later.”

The trail narrows, and I must watch my footing. Stones press through the soil. Treacherous knife moss fringes the edges of the path.

Two tales of solitude and silence pass, a silence so complete that I can hear nothing but the sound of my footsteps. No animals. Nothing nearby.

And then… something shifts in the air.

Someone is watching me.

Someone is sitting in stillness, wrapped in safety, watching my movements, waiting for the right moment to strike.

A shiver runs through me, crawling up my spine and settling in my throat.

“Come out! I know you’re here.”

The elf is nearly soundless—skilled, no doubt. But not as skilled as my ears. Not sharper than my senses, strung tight like a bowstring.

The faint rustle, the heartbeat, the soft breaths. I hear them all.

I turn to the right, almost stepping off the path, one foot suspended in the air, but I remember what they said.

You must stay on the trail.

Instead, I draw Voenriel and raise her in front of me, the blade cutting through the air, sharp and deliberate. I plant my foot back on the trail and slowly back away, my eyes locked on the brush and the darkness shifting within it.

It must be a master.

What if it’s Netharu’el?

My knees weaken. I must fight to stay focused.

His deep black eyes, the strength in his arms, that smile…

Stop!

I shake myself and tighten my grip on Voenriel.

“Come out, I can hear you, clear as day. You’re not as invisible as you think, stranger.”

The rustling grows louder, and a star elf in black steps out onto the path, blocking the way forward.

I drop into a crouch, ready to strike, drawing back my arm as my fingers clench tightly around Voenriel’s hilt. My hand pulses with tension.

But the star elf doesn’t attack. He holds my gaze, unmoving, then pulls off his scarf and scrunches it in his fist.

Vaast.

“Exquisitely done, Iszaelda,” he drawls. “Truly impressive. Netharu’el’s taught you… well.”

He licks his lips, tongue flicking out like a snake’s.

I slam him to the ground. He falls hard, landing with a thud as dirt, twigs, and grit scatter. I blink away dust and pin him down, my legs locked over his chest.

He screams, high-pitched, almost like a woman. I wrestle his arms down and press the sword tip against his throat. My breath is sharp and ragged. The mist is making it harder to breathe.

“You only needed to find me,” Vaast chokes, eyes darting toward Voenriel, tongue twitching behind his teeth.

“You’ve already won.”

I lean in, pressing the blade harder. “How long have you been working for Akares?”

“What… what are you talking about?”

His eyelids twitch.

His eyes look too much like the Scourge’s, pale and glassy. A chill runs down my spine.

“Don’t play games. Answer me.”

“I—”

“How long?”

“What’s wrong with you?” He shakes his head, smearing cyan hair into the dirt, the strands turning brown with soil.

“Answer me!”

“I’ve never worked for—” He swallows. “For him. Why would you even?—”

“Don’t lie to me.”

“You think I?—”

“The ring. The red one.” I lean in, the stench of his breath curling in my nose.

“What about it?”

“You tell me. You’re the one wearing it.”

“I don’t understand?—”

“How in the fires do you live with yourself?” The words burst out of me, raw and sharp. “You’ve been spying on Netharu’el!”

He licks his lips.

“No. I haven’t?—”

“You’ve been feeding Akares information, haven’t you? Passing it along.”

“No, you have to believe me?—”

“Maybe through that ring.”

“Listen—”

“Admit it!”

He blinks. Too quickly. He’s hiding something.

Or maybe he’s scared, Iszaelda.

Scared?

“I can’t confess to something that isn’t… true. I?—”

“Then tell the truth!”

“I got the ring from Kathraanis.”