I blink, so surprised by the unexpected apology I almost fall off the horse. “For what?”
“For letting them get to you,” he says, his tone gruff but genuine. “I should have been more vigilant. You shouldn’t have had to go through that. We should’ve guarded you better.”
Despite everything—the fear, the shock—I can’t help the wry smile that tugs at my lips. “I thought you’d be glad to be rid of me.”
He’s silent for a moment, and I can’t tell what he’s thinking. Finally, he speaks, his voice low and even. “That’s not actually what I want. And definitely not like that.”
“But did you… did you have to kill them all?” Iask quietly, my voice barely more than a whisper in the darkness.
Rylan is silent for a moment, and I wonder if he’s going to answer me at all. Then his voice comes, low and steady. “Sometimes, you have to do what you don’t want to,” he says, his tone matter-of-fact, as if he isn’t talking to me about life and death. “Making those decisions… it separates people.”
“Into good and bad?” I ask, trying to understand, though my heart already feels heavy with the implications.
“No,” he replies, and there’s something in his voice that makes me turn my head slightly, trying to catch a glimpse of his expression in the dim light. “Into those who can live with themselves after and those who can’t.”
I hesitate, the question almost too heavy to ask, but I need to know. “And what happens to those who can’t live with themselves?”
Rylan is quiet for a long moment, the silence stretching between us. When he finally speaks, his voice is softer, tinged with something I can’t quite place—regret, maybe, or something deeper. “They become ghosts,” he says, his words carrying a weight that chills me to my core. “Haunted by the choices they made... or didn’t make. At some point, you learn which type of person you are. And you’re not always going to like the answer.”
His answer lingers in the air, heavy with the weight of a confession I hadn’t expected. It’s more than just a response—it’s a truth, one that’s clearly shaped him, one that he carries with him every day. I can’t shake the feeling that I’m standing on the edge of something dangerous, something that could change me just as it’s changed him.
As the sky begins to lighten with the first hints of dawn, I realise that I’m no longer just a prisoner. I’m something more to him—something worth protecting. And that thought, more than anything else, both terrifies and comforts me.
FIVE
Eirabella
“Mathis,”I say softly, trying not to draw too much attention when we finally stop later that morning, “do you have another wound kit by any chance?”
He raises an eyebrow but nods, reaching into Grellor’s saddlebags to pull out another small, worn leather pouch. “Here you go.”
“Thanks,” I reply, taking it and heading to the far side of the camp. Rylan has disappeared into the woods, and I take the opportunity to sit, turning my back to the others. I can hear them murmuring behind me, their voices low, but I ignore it.
The needle and thread in the kit are sturdy, if a little rough, but they’ll do. I thread the needle and start working on the tear, focusing on the tiny stitches, letting the task calm my nerves. After a few minutes, the murmuring grows louder, and I catch the edge of a raised voice. Rylan. I roll my eyes, wondering what’s set him off this time.
Suddenly,a shadow falls over me, blocking the light. I look up, startled, to find him towering over me, his expression a mixture of anger and concern. His presence is overwhelming, as always, and I can’t help but bristle at the way he’s glaring at me.
“Why the fuck didn’t you tell me you’re hurt?” he says, his voice low and rough. There’s an edge to his tone that makes my heart skip a beat.
I blink up at him, momentarily at a loss for words. “I’m n—” I start to say, but he doesn’t give me a chance to finish. Before I can protest, he’s scooped me up off the log as if I weigh nothing. His hands move over my arms and sides, checking for injuries.
“What in the realms? Put me down, you creep!” I yell as he spins me around, his hands running down my back, feeling my ribs. I squirm in his grip, but he’s relentless, his touch surprisingly gentle despite the gruffness of his actions.
“Where are you hurt?” he bellows.
“I’m not!”
He falters for a second but then continues his inspection. “Then… why did you ask Mathis for the wound kit?”
“Because—ugh, let go of me, you boar-fingered oaf!” I huff, pulling away from him as much as I can. Finally, I yank up my skirt, revealing the tear in the fabric. “I’m fixing a tear in my dress, you dolt!”
He stops, his eyes flicking to the skirt, then back to my face. There’s a moment of silence as the realisation sinks in, and I can see the flicker of sheepishness mixed with relief in his eyes, though he doesn’t say anything right away. His gaze, however, lingers on the bare skin of my leg where the skirt has ridden up, and I feel a flush of heat rise to my cheeks.
“Oh,” he mutters, his voice suddenly gruff again as he sets me down with a bit more care than before. But I don’t miss the way his eyes darken, how they trace the outline of my legbefore he looks away, and heat flares in the pit of my stomach. Just as I think he’s about to move away, he grabs me again, flicking the tear on the skirt to the side. “You are hurt.”
I push his hands away. “It’s nothing. It’s just a bruise. That happens when you get dragged through the woods. But I’m fine.”
He kneels down and gently pushes the skirt aside again. Before I can argue, he holds his hand up. “Shut up. Let me check it. And if it is, as you say, just a bruise, then that will be that.”
