It had been seven months since we left the children in the villagers' care. Seven months of lingering just long enough to make sure they were safe. Long enough that the village almost forgot we weren't theirs. Almost.
Sel moved through the crooked lanes like a shadow, slipping between smoke-blackened walls and stacked woodpiles. Her steps were light, her breath steady. She looked more like a wisp of night than a girl, her hair catching what little dawn-light dared push through the clouds.
I stumbled after her, a sack of apples clutched in my arms like treasure. My boots slid in the mud, splashing dirty water up my legs, nearly spilling everything before I righted myself. My chest heaved, and I muttered a curse under my breath.
"Selaithe!" I hissed. "Wait up!"
Her head peeked around the corner of a leaning hut, mauve eyes glittering with mischief. "Too slow, Kael." She grinned, sharp and triumphant. "Old Lenner nearly saw you."
"Nearly," I wheezed, clutching the apples tighter. "He's got eyes like a hawk. And a stick like a warhammer. If he catches me—"
"Then you'll get a bump on the head. Builds character." She vanished again, melting into the narrow alley between two cottages.
I groaned and forced my legs to move. The sack felt heavier with every step, the stolen fruit inside bruising against each other. The smell of smoke, wet hay, and boiling herbs clung to the air. The village was waking—dogs barking, doors creaking, someone calling to their goats.
Behind us, a door slammed. A man's voice barked: "Thieves!" The rough bark of Mr. Lenner himself. My heart leapt to my throat.
"Sel!" I yelped.
She didn't answer, but I caught a glimpse of her darting over a chicken coop, as if the whole village was her playground. I bit down on panic and followed, trying not to imagine the old man's stick smashing across my back.
By the time I scrambled over the fence, Sel was already waiting under the gnarled branches of the village's only ash tree. She had one apple in her hand, tossing it up and down like she hadn't a care in the world.
"Easy," she said when I skidded to a stop beside her, clutching the sack like a lifeline. "We've done this a dozen times. You worry too much."
"You don't worry enough," I muttered, but the relief spilling through me tasted almost like laughter.
Sel bit into her apple, juice dripping down her chin. "See? Sweet victory."
I shook my head, finally letting myself breathe. Maybe we'd get caught one day. Maybe old Lenner would swing his stick and knock me flat. But for now, with the stolen apples in my arms and Sel grinning beside me like mischief incarnate, it almost felt like we belonged here.
Seven months, and this was what we'd been reduced to. Ghostborn heir and Thal'Zurein, running from an old man with a limp because we couldn't pay for apples.
Maybe that was the strangest thing of all: it almost felt… normal.
⟡
Suddenly, the soft morning calm shattered.
A distant thunder rolled across the fields—hoofbeats. Slow at first, then growing into a steady, deliberate rhythm. My whole body stiffened. Horses. More than a few.
Strange.
No one in the village owned horses. The paths were too narrow, the people too poor. Even traders came on foot.
Before I could turn toward the sound, Selaithe's hand clamped around my wrist.
"Down," she hissed.
She yanked me with a force that knocked the breath out of my lungs, dragging me into the mud beneath the ash tree's roots. Her body pressed against mine for cover, her hand covering my mouth before I could speak.
"Shut up," she breathed, barely a whisper.
I swallowed hard and nodded. My heart hammered so loudly I was sure the entire forest could hear it.
Through the branches, past the crooked fences and tilting huts, shapes emerged on the far ridge—dark at first, then sharp against the grey sky.
Horses.
Riders.
Metal glinting.
And then the wind shifted, carrying a flicker of color into view.
Gold and white.
Three vertical bars.
A sunburst crowned in thorns.
The Grand Church's banners.
My stomach turned to ice.
Selaithe's fingers tightened on my shoulder until they almost bruised. Her eyes had gone flat and cold, the way they did right before she killed someone.
"They're not passing through," she murmured. "Look at the spacing. Look at the scouts."
I did. And I wished I hadn't. There were too many riders for a simple patrol. Too organized for a lost detachment. Their formation cut across the land like a knife carving a line of ownership.
"They're here for the border," Sel whispered. "They want to reclaim the land…"
A chill crept down my spine.
Reclaim.
The village wasn't part of Velmire. A pocket of independence. Not under the Church. Not under the Crown. For generations, they'd been too small, too stubborn, too unprofitable to bother with.
Until now.
Selaithe exhaled slowly, the sound barely more than the rustle of leaves.
"If they take this place," she said, "everyone here pays the price. The Church doesn't leave loose ends. And they definitely don't leave orphans that don't belong to them."
I glanced toward the cluster of cottages—the children sleeping inside, the old men tending their morning fires, the carefree laughter that had almost made us believe this place was safe.
Almost.
"What do we do?" I whispered.
Sel's jaw tightened. "We need to run. Calden and Veyr are probably with The Church now..."
⟡
Sel's words hit harder than the thunder of the approaching hooves.
Calden and Veyr are probably with the Church now.
I hated how much sense it made. The burn of Tharionne. The pursuit. The letter. The growing silence around us the last months. Of course the Church would sweep up whatever remained of Velmire's "elite"—and Calden, whatever he had been, was valuable. Veyr was theirs from the start.
But hearing it out loud felt like the ground was tilting under me.
"We need to run," she repeated, voice low and steady. "Now."
I looked back toward the village—the crooked roofs, the muddy paths, the half-frozen gardens… the place that had stopped feeling temporary somewhere along the way. The people weren't warriors. They weren't even prepared. They had barely enough to feed themselves. And the children…
"The kids," I whispered.
Sel's eyes flicked toward the huts. A heartbeat of hesitation. Big enough to tell me she felt it too. Small enough to vanish beneath the steel of her resolve.
"We can't save them by staying," she murmured. "Not against them. Not like this."
As if to underline her words, a horn cut through the morning—a long, low, commanding note. The kind that wasn't a warning, but a declaration.
The riders descended the ridge.
A dozen in front. Twice that behind. Plate and half-plate, chain shimmering like frost. Their horses snorted plumes of smoke into the cold morning air. Banners fluttered behind them—gold, white, the sunburst crowned in thorns.
The Church didn't send a force like this to negotiate.
"What if they search the homes?" I whispered, throat tight. "What if they find the kids alone?"
Sel didn't answer immediately. Her jaw clenched hard enough for the muscles to tremble.
"They will," she finally said, voice barely audible. "But if we stay, they'll find you. And if the village tries to hide you—"
Her breath hitched, only for a split second. "They'll burn for it."
A tremor ran through me.
The Waeve around us thrummed—tight, anxious.
"But running means leaving them defenseless," I said.
Sel's eyes snapped to mine, fierce, painful, real.
"They weren't defenseless the last seven months." Her voice softened just a fraction. "Because you helped make sure of it."
My breath faltered.
"You gave them time, Kael," she said. "You gave the children a chance. But now we have to protect the only thing we can still save."
"Us," I murmured.
Her fingers brushed my knuckles—brief, grounding.
"You," she corrected. "They want you. And if they get you, everything ends. The Waeve shakes around you, Kael. They feel it. They need you under their chains."
The Church riders reached the first outer fence.
Villagers poked their heads from windows. Confused. Curious. Unaware of what a holy banner meant when it arrived uninvited.
A second horn blast.
More riders crested the hill behind them.
My pulse roared in my ears.
"They'll ask questions," Sel whispered. "They'll search every hut. Every loft. Every shadow."
"And they'll find our room," I said.
Sel gave a single, tight nod.
"We need to be gone before the scouts reach the south side."
My hand tightened on the apple-sack without realizing it. The ridiculous symbol of our everyday life here. A seven-month routine shattered in a single morning.
"Okay," I breathed. "Okay. We run."
⟡
Sel didn't hesitate. She slipped out from the roots, pulling me by the wrist again—this time not to hide, but to move.
"Stay low," she murmured.
We darted through the tall frost-bitten grass at the edge of the village, weaving between stacked firewood and crooked fences. The apple sack thumped against my back with every step. Stupid thing suddenly felt like a beacon.
Behind us, hooves clattered across the frozen ground. Too close. Too organized. The Church's formation tightened like a net being drawn.
"Faster," Sel hissed.
Smoke from a dozen morning fires mingled with the cold. Doors opened one by one. Faces leaned out—confused, unbothered, curious in the way only people who had never feared banners could be.
Old Lenner stepped onto his porch, squinting at the crest glinting atop the lead rider's spear.
"Churchfolk?" he muttered aloud. "Huh. That's rare."
Rare.
He had no idea.
A priest in gleaming half-plate dismounted, boots splashing into the mud. He surveyed the huts like a man inspecting livestock. His gauntleted hand lifted lazily, signaling the rest forward.
Twenty riders fanned into the narrow paths between homes.
Sel shoved me behind a stack of hay bales, breath hot against my ear. "They're sweeping inwards. Classic border purge formation. If we don't get out now, we're boxed."
The word purge lodged itself like a thorn under my skin.
"Sel…" My voice cracked. "What if they see us running? What if they shoot?"
"They won't get the chance."
She slipped one knife from her belt. Its edge didn't shine. It simply was—a quiet, deadly thing.
A shout rose from the village square.
"Gather in front of the well! By Veth'Solarin Thael'Mir!" The Hallowed Order of the Sunborn Radiance
Villagers shuffled from their homes, wiping hands on aprons, leaning on canes, carrying toddlers on hips. Oblivious. Trusting.
My stomach twisted.
"Sel, the kids—"
"They'll be told it's a census," she said quickly, firmly. "A land claim. Something harmless."
"But it won't be."
"No." Her voice broke, just once. "It won't."
We reached the back path—little more than a deer trail hugging the treeline. It led north, toward the old quarry, then deeper into the forest.
Our escape route.
We were steps from slipping into the safety of the brush when a voice cut through the air:
"You two! Stop!"
I froze.
Sel didn't.
Before I even turned, she grabbed my shoulder and forced me down behind an overturned cart.
The rider was alone—a scout, light armor, a shortbow already in hand. Not drawn. Not yet. His expression wasn't hostile, just suspicious.
"Kids shouldn't be out by the woods," he called. "There's an inspection. Follow the others."
Sel leaned close to me, whispering so quietly the air barely moved.
"When I stand, go left. Into the brush. Don't wait."
"I'm not leaving you."
"You are."
Her hand pressed the back of my neck, the same way she did before every fight since Tharionne. A silent command wrapped in concern.
The scout frowned. "Are you deaf? I said—"
Sel stood.
Not slowly. Not fearfully.
Like a blade lifting from a sheath.
"Sorry," she said, voice sweet as honey. "We're a little shy."
The scout relaxed half a breath.
Just enough.
Selaithe moved.
A blur of blue hair, steel, and impossible grace. Her foot slammed into his wrist, knocking the bow aside. Her knee drove into his gut. Her blade kissed the exposed flesh at his neck, not cutting—warning.
He gasped, crumpling to his knees, breath stolen by shock.
I stared, heart pounding.
She could kill him.
I knew she could.
She didn't.
"Sleep," Sel whispered.
The hilt of her knife tapped the base of his skull. He slumped into the frost-covered grass.
Sel grabbed my wrist.
"Now."
⟡
We sprinted into the treeline just as another horn blasted through the village—louder this time, sharper, unmistakable in its meaning.
The signal for a full lockdown.
I stumbled after her, branches whipping my shoulders, snow-dusted leaves cracking underfoot. The Waeve around us vibrated with a strange, skittering tension—like it remembered fire, remembered smoke, remembered the moment everything burned.
Sel didn't slow. She didn't look back.
But I did.
Through the branches, the banners of the Grand Church swallowed the village like wolves descending on a sleeping flock. The sunburst symbol gleamed cruelly in the cold light.
Seven months of safety. Seven months of near-normal life.
Gone in the time it took a horn to sound.
And somewhere beyond the armored riders, beyond the banners and smoke, the children we'd left in the care of these villagers were being herded into the square—scared, confused, alone.
My chest squeezed painfully.
"We can't just—"
Sel's voice sliced through the thought.
"Kaelen."
She stopped. Turned. Face fierce and drenched in resolve. Her hand gripped my jaw, forcing my gaze up to hers.
"If we die here," she rasped, "no one saves them later. No one saves you later. And Veyr wins everything."
Her thumb brushed my cheek—gentle, grounding, unshakably certain.
"Survive now," she said.
"So we can fight when it counts."
And then she pulled me deeper into the forest—
away from banners,
away from fire,
away from a village that had almost been home.