The heavy poundingof hooves echoes in my brain. Geralt has been racing flat out for at least twenty minutes while Solan keeps pace. Sweat soaks my shirt and plasters my hair to my forehead. The hammering of my heart is so intense, it’s difficult to register where we’re going or what we’re going to do.
I don’t even know if we’re heading in the direction of Solan’s, where I hope Jamie is safe inside the thick walls of rock.
Geralt shakes his head. He’s almost done. Such a fast-paced run, especially after the exertion of yesterday, is more than he’s used to.
I risk a glance over my shoulder, not seeing anything but trees and jagged rocks. “Is it safe to slow down?” I holler, hoping the wind doesn’t steal my words and carry them to the guards in pursuit.
How has this become my life? How did the thought of my words carrying into the distance become a fear so terrifying that it threatens to make me numb?
Solan’s intense gaze is on me in an instant, ensnaring me. The moment gives me barely a reprieve, a minuscule distraction, but then he parts his lips and says, “Head to the grove of silver drungas.”
I follow his line of sight and spot towering spikey silver stalks that look a little like bamboo. They’re slimmer, though, and covered in thorns I absolutely don’t want to get close to even as I steer Geralt in that direction.
We remain silent as we reach the copse of drungas, and I finally ease back on the reins, slowing Geralt down when Solan reduces his pace. Without the wind blasting my face, I inhale deeply. It’s shaky, and fuck if it doesn’t remind me of the time when I was twelve and was out on a muster with my dad and Uncle Dirk and had been responsible for riding to the nearest ranch for help when Uncle Dirk broke his leg and collarbone.
Until this moment—hell, the past forty-eight hours—that had been the most frightened I’d ever been. There’s nothing like an interdimensional clusterfuck to remind you that you’re only human and nothing can prepare you for shit being this insane.
“Can you breathe okay?” Solan’s gruff concern has fresh goose bumps springing to life while I jerk my attention to him, taking in his expression. His whole body is rigid, his hands clenched at his sides, a couple of his digits twitching.
The motion reminds me of what it felt like when he held my hand. In fairness, he gripped the fuck out of it and tugged hard as we ran as if a pack of… well, like a goddamn army was after us. But now, it’s easy to recall the sensation. Which is weird, right? That I can remember the touch of his skin. The flare of heat before it cooled and seemed to match mine, feeling almost like his body was an extension of my own.
Yeah, definitely strange as fuck.
A rough whine-like sound grumbles out of Solan. I widen my eyes at the noise. He sounds distressed, and from the force of his gaze, it takes me barely a second to register that I’ve been staring at the palm of my hand. I didn’t even realise I’d lifted it.
“Yeah.” I clear my throat, returning my hand to the reins. “I can breathe okay. Geralt needed a break.” I have no issue using my horse as an excuse for my meltdown.
Solan’s gaze remains fixed on me, and even in the heavy silence, the intensity of it anchors me more than I care to admit. His brow furrows slightly, and he nods, accepting my explanation about Geralt’s exhaustion. He continues to study me before he bobs his head and focusses on the path ahead. For a few tense moments, we catch our breaths in the shade of the towering silver drungas. We’re shielded from prying eyes, but their spikes feel like a warning of their own.
Without another word, Solan gestures for us to follow him eastwards, skirting around a thick copse of low-hanging branches. The relentless gallop slows to a quiet but steady jog, allowing Geralt some relief and my pulse to calm. My mind’s still swirling—fear and adrenaline mixing in a potent cocktail that keeps me from asking more questions. But Solan keeps glancing my way, waiting.
Finally, I give in, forcing my breathing to even out. “What’s the plan?” I ask. “Where are we going?”
His gaze sharpens as if the question grounds him. “East first. Then we’ll double back, avoid the merge point entirely. After that, we’ll follow a path the guards don’t often patrol.” He glances over his shoulder, ensuring we’re not followed. “But first, we’re going to see my brother-in-law’s father.”
“The chief merchant?” I ask, recalling what he told me earlier.
Solan’s lips tilt upwards just slightly. “That’s right. To Myra’s Crossing. His store is like a Schwarzenegger safe house. Not exactly impenetrable, but he’s got enough muscle to keep most people from poking their noses in. And enough hiding spots should they be needed.”
The comment catches me off-guard, and I laugh, partly because of the absurdity of Schwarzenegger even existing in this world and partly because I could use the levity. Solan’s chuckle is rich and low, a warm rumble that has me grinning despite myself.
“All right, fine. If we’re heading to your Arnie’s stronghold, do I need to do anything? Like… blend in?”
He grins wider at that, glancing at me with that playful spark that feels like a lifeline right now. “Yes,” he says with mock severity. “We’re going to make you as inconspicuous as possible. And that’s where the flowers come in.”
He stops at a break in the trees where a trickling stream runs over a rocky bed, the water glistening under the sun. Blooms that are a bright almost neon blue cluster along the stream, their five-petalled heads stretching towards the light.
“These flowers can be used to make dye,” he explains, kneeling by the stream to gather a handful, while I make sure Geralt drinks. “It should help you blend in better once we get to the market town.”
Wiping the sweat off my brow, I push off my dusty Akubra. “So, what? We just… rub the petals on my face and call it good?”
He grins, shaking his head as he begins to crush the petals into a thick paste with water. “It’s not quite that easy. Hold still.” He glances at my shirt, nodding. “You’ll need to remove that. It’s the only way the dye will cover evenly.”
My pulse quickens, though I tell myself it’s from adrenaline alone. I pull my shirt over my head and glance up to find Solan staring at me, his own cheeks a slight shade darker than normal. For a moment, we’re both frozen in place, tension humming in the air between us, thick as molasses.
“All right,” I murmur, swallowing hard, “just get on with it.”
He dips his hands into the paste, then spreads a warm layer of blue across my shoulders and down my arms, his touchcareful, almost reverent. His fingers move smoothly, but each pass over my skin leaves a tingling trail of warmth that makes it hard to breathe. Every now and then, I sneak a glance at him, his focus so intent on the task, it’s almost disconcerting.
