Page 108 of Trials of Dusk and Dreams
“I doubt it,” she scoffs. “You’re not just anyone.”
I roll to my back and stare at the sky, hunting for stars behind the clouds. Maybe she’s right. “I just . . . I just feel like I’m drawn to them. To you all. Even if I don’t want to be”—my voice drops to almost inaudible—“a queen. Is that weird?”
“Not really,” she yawns. “I mean, you’re also part wolf. We’re like your pack.”
I stare at her in the darkness, waiting for more, but she’s already asleep.
I close my eyes, but all I see are the dissenters’ hollow cheeks and desperate eyes. Their silent pleas echo in my mind. I’ve always known I was different, caught between two worlds. Human, wolf, magic, then not. Maybe that’s not such a badthing. I identify with both sides. Maybe instead of trying to pick one, I could be the bridge between.
Chapter 44
Willow
The third day of our journey feels off. We continue our routine, checking for signs of Nightmare activity and fae creatures, but the lack of results is unsettling. Each scouting group returns empty-handed, the disappointment palpable in their faces. Even the dragons grow restless and return to their hosts more frequently.
Last night, only three from our troop projected dreamscapes, including Max. I managed to wake him before anyone saw his nude teaching escapade, but the incident leaves me uneasy. Why only three? Are we all too exhausted to dream, or is something else at play?
As we trudge through a rocky valley near Heliodor, the memory of Legion’s map, dotted with sighting pins, haunts me. This doesn’t add up. I make a mental note to find out at the first opportunity.
Suddenly, Heliodor emerges from the mist, a vision of gleaming white stone and intricate carvings. It’s breathtaking, but the beauty can’t mask the underlying sense of danger. Claw marks on the walls and crumbled turrets serve as reminders of the Baleful Hunt’s presence—or should, at least.
Intricate carvings adorn the city’s boundary wall, telling stories of ancient battles and long-forgotten magics. One particular deity takes the forefront. Dagda is a towering figure with a beard resembling a cascade of pebbles. He carries a great hammer that shapes mountains and a cauldron carved from a single, massive boulder. It’s easy to tell he’s a god because two polished gems are inserted into his eyes every time he’s depicted.
What’s stranger is the sound coming from the wall—whispers and the occasional song pitched too low to understand.
“It’s . . . incredible,” Colin breathes, his eyes wide with wonder.
Geraldine nods. “It’s like something out of a fairy tale . . . if fairy tales had teeth and claws.”
I grip my sword’s pommel, its weight comforting. “It’s odd how decorative it is when the House representatives dress so boring, don’t you think?”
Max snorts. “Maybe they save all the flair for their architecture.”
As twilight descends, we’re instructed to camp outside the city gates while the Radiants decide what to do next. The looming walls cast long shadows over our camp, the intricate carvings now eerie in the flickering firelight. I shiver whenever I pass near them.
Suddenly, a screech pierces the air. I whirl around, heart pounding, and for a split second, I swear I see a Nightmare flitting between the trees. But as I blink, I realize it’s only Styx, his dark form melting into the shadows as he walks the perimeter.
Geraldine sidles up to me, her voice low. “I don’t like this, Willow. It feels like we’re being watched.”
“We probably are,” Max murmurs, his eyes darting from shadow to shadow. His hand rests on the hilt of his weapon,mirroring my stance. It’s remarkable how much he’s grown on this journey alone.
I catch Bodin’s worried expression as he enters his tent, the furrow between his brows deeper than ever. The desire to go to him, to seek comfort in his arms, is almost overwhelming. But I can’t. Not here, not now.
As I help set up a campfire, my mind wanders to Emrys back at the castle. What is he doing? Is he taking care of Fox and Varen? Or has he forgotten without Styx there to remind him? The thought of the Six not remembering their true selves, their history with me, sends a pang through my chest.
Crouching to light the kindling with a flint, my eyes dart to Ignarius and another Radiant, their heads close together in conversation two camps further down. A chill runs down my spine as I consider the political implications. If we return empty-handed, both the Earl and Legion will look foolish. And what about the whispers of martial law?
A terrifying thought occurs to me: what if someone intercepts the Nightmares before we can find them? Goodfellow couldn’t manage that alone. He’d need help—perhaps from someone in our very camp.
My gaze lands on Styx again, now done with his perimeter check and approaching Ignarius with a deceptively casual stride. The tension in his shoulders and his gaze darting around the camp seem off. No, I think. Not Styx. He wouldn’t betray us . . . would he? What would he gain? I dismiss the thought almost as quickly as it forms. If it was Styx, why would he have erased the S-word from everyone’s minds back at the Nexus?
Our meal’s rich,savory scent lingers in the crisp night air, mingling with woodsmoke from the campfire. I scrape the last vestiges of gravy from my bowl, savoring the unexpected treat. Finally, someone passed down scraps of the Fever Hunt’s latest charred carcass for our stew. Bodin’s overprotectiveness chafes; he won’t even let me hunt. Earlier, I spotted a plump rabbit during our scouting mission, but I knew chasing it would earn his disapproval.
We’ve been waiting outside Heliodor for hours, but we’ve made camp, eaten, and swept the perimeter multiple times. It’s a far cry from the chaos of three days ago. Now, we’ve settled into a natural hierarchy. If Bodin isn’t barking orders at our troop, it’s me. If I’m not directing, it’s Geraldine or Becky. The rest of our eclectic band are first-timers in the exhibition, each bringing unique skills from their former lives.
Sarah, a former paramedic—some kind of traveling healer, I’m told—has already proven invaluable. Her steady hands deftly tended to Ji-Soo when she sprained her ankle on an exposed root. Jack, once a high school gym teacher, now leads our physical training. I catch snippets of his nostalgic chats with Max about their old vocations. Lena, an ex-librarian, has become our unofficial lore keeper, absorbing every scrap of information about Avorlorna with voracious curiosity. She and Geraldine have bonded over their shared thirst for knowledge. A former chef, Miguel has elevated our camp meals from bland rations to something almost resembling cuisine. I suspect he sweet-talked someone further up the line to score us tonight’s smoked carcass.
As I watch them chatting around the campfire, their determination to survive—to thrive—in Avorlorna is clear. I almost believe in the certainty of their return to a happy life. But then Miguel’s words to Colin make my ears twitch.
