Page 9 of To Scale the Emerald Mountain

“And you’ve been on the move for how long?” Locane looks me up and down, fully assessing the tattered state of my pitiful shift and my feet that are filthy and torn. His perusal is like he’s studying me under a magnifying glass and judging the sad state of the creature he sees.

“Half a moons’ cycle,” I say airily. He scoffs at me. “What?”

“Well, honestly, I would think after this long you would have some idea of where you are going. So you really are just meandering aimlessly? You’re—what—just going to live in and off the forest?”

“Perhaps I will,” I say defiantly, crossing my arms over my chest.

Locane begins walking again, setting a much more brisk pace than earlier. “You’re just going to be some feral forest child hopping from one hole to the next?” he asks with dark amusement.

“I already told you, I am not a child! I’m twenty-three.”

Yes. I am. Another precious morsel of who I am. Maybe having someone to talk to is beneficial and will help me rediscover more pieces of myself. Even if I cannot stand him.

“Good for you, Ellya.”

He doesn’t sound like he thinks it’s good for me at all.

The rest of the day we move quickly, the terrain easier to travel across. It’s a hot summer day, the air thick and stagnant.

Locane moves gracefully, his feet falling surely every step.

It’s difficult not to notice the flex of his long, powerful legs on confident strides. The way the sweat sheens on the rich complexion of his forehead as he turns back to check on me. How his midnight black hair occasionally comes loose from its tie and falls into his brown eyes, so dark they appear as onyx as hislustrous strands from a distance.

The light of the sun starts to lower. Blinding rays turn into a softer orange, and the intense heat begins staving off. As the sky starts to turn to swirls of periwinkle and pink, I wonder how much longer he intends to go. Exhaustion has been hitting me hard all day, and I know I won’t be able to walk straight much longer.

As if on cue, Locane calls from much farther ahead, “We will stop here tonight.”

There’s a small clearing between a cluster of denser foliage with a bed of long, soft grass and will make for a comfortable night of sleep.

It looks utterly divine.

Locane offers me softer eyes than his usual cutting glare. “Sit, rest. I’ll prepare a fire and make bread for us to eat tonight. I also have some dried meat.”

“Make bread? Here? You must be joking,” I laugh.

“I’m not. I have a jar of dough ready to go. If you don’t prepare it soon enough it turns into more of a sourdough, but good nonetheless.”

He gets the fire going, embers crackling merrily. After several minutes he removes some of the hot coals to the outer edge with a small metal spade from his pack. He throws the dough right on top of them and then covers the top of the rounded loaf with more coals.

Locane sits and removes the other necessary items for our small meal with a quiet, pensive face. We sit in silence watching the fire crackle and pop, the warmth of the day cooling into a balmy summer evening.

The silence between us isn’t quite awkward but more…taut.

Who is this man? I find it odd that in such a desolate part of this forest, he just happened upon me. When I was in imminentdanger. After escaping from a dungeon. And he has very few questions about a damsel in distress who claims to know nothing about who she is or where she came from.

I am suspicious.

My mouth opens to start asking some of my brewing questions when Locane swiftly moves from his position against a felled log to crouch before the fire and uncover the bread. Another small drip of blood falls from my nose, and he silently hands me a small piece of cloth to wipe it.

“Your vision has taken a toll,” he remarks, and I nod, unsure of what to say.

The exterior of the bread is black and charred and looks highly unappetizing. I’m about to give him a snide remark about not being confident in his bread making—hoping to ease some of the strange silent tension—when he pulls a knife from his pocket and efficiently slices the loaf in half.

I’m immediately hit with a warm and yeasty scent, the fresh steam tickling my nose and making my stomach clench hungrily. Charred outside or not, it smells amazing. I let out a slight moan of pure satisfaction at the first bite, so hot I burn my tongue.

Locane gives me a small smile and tells me, “I saw the uncertainty on your face. It is very satisfying to see it so thoroughly wiped away in a second.”

Asshole.