The road west was quiet.

  Damp earth softened beneath their boots. Mist clung low among the trees, blurring the forest into shadowed greens and grays. Somewhere beyond the canopy, birds stirred—but even their calls felt far away.

  Karin walked ahead, brisk and silent, her shoulders locked with tension. Her cloak snapped in the breeze behind her like it was doing the shouting she refused to.

  Elsha followed a few paces back, steady under Ysar’s weight.

  He leaned into her just enough to make the walking easier—for both of them.

  “You think,” Ysar said, louder than necessary, “she likes him?”

  Elsha didn’t answer. Just gave him a long side-eye.

  So he continued, watching Karin’s back. “I mean, I’ve seen angry. I’ve seen disappointed. But this? This feels more like… jealousy. Is that the term?”

  “Ysar,” Elsha warned.

  “I’m just saying,” he went on, ignoring the look. “It’s normal, right? You survive all this together—fire, blood, beasts—and then boom. He walks off with some ice-blooded beauty he barely knows.”

  “Shut your mouth.”

  “Can’t,” he said, grinning faintly. “It’s the only part of me not wrapped in bandages.”

  Karin didn’t stop walking.

  But her pace… faltered. Just slightly.

  Ysar noticed.

  He lowered his voice a little. “You know she heard that, right?”

  Elsha sighed. “Good. Maybe now you’ll get burned alive.”

  But Ysar’s grin faded. His gaze still followed Karin’s back—then softened.

  “It hurts… right? The way he left.” This time, his tone had no humor in it.

  He paused, then stopped walking altogether. Ahead of them, Karin came to a slow stop too.

  “He’s carried it his whole life,” Ysar said. “That silence. That question no one ever let him ask. You can see it—in the way he walks. In the way he draws his sword.”

  His eyes lingered on Karin’s back.

  “It’s his right. His father, the exile, the shame… Maybe this is the first time he’s done something just for himself. Even if he didn’t say it out loud.”

  Then—Karin’s voice.

  Quiet. Raw. Trembling.

  “Do you think I don’t know that?”

  Ysar blinked.

  “But I’m pissed he didn’t see us… didn’t see me as someone who could walk beside him. Not behind. Beside. Through all of it.”

  The words fell heavy—measured and sharp.

  “I’m furious,” she whispered. “Because it’s true.”

  Elsha didn’t move. Ysar didn’t push.

  Karin stood still a beat longer, then turned and started walking again—her stride tighter, sharper.

  Ysar let out a long breath and glanced at Elsha.

  “…I still think she likes him.”

  “Ysar,” she hissed.

  “What? Oh right—forgot you like him too.”

  “Can you stop talking.”

  “Can I, though?” he grinned.

  Elsha shook her head, halfway tempted to drop him in the mud.

  And they kept walking.

  The northern path was narrow.

  Roots twisted beneath their boots, slick with morning mist. Branches swayed overhead, casting dappled shadows as the wind murmured through the trees.

  Zafran and Isolde walked side by side.

  Not trailing.

  If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  Not leading.

  Just walking.

  Silence stretched between them—only the soft press of footsteps and the hush of leaves overhead.

  Then—

  “Do Ocean Tide knights usually travel with two women who look at them like the sun rises behind their head?” Isolde asked.

  Zafran glanced her way, brow drawn. “What?”

  “That Flame-touched girl and the quiet one. Both looked ready to stab me the second you said you’d come with me.” She tilted her head slightly. “Knight protocol?”

  He exhaled. “They’re friends.”

  “Mm.”

  Just that—light, amused, far too knowing.

  She kept walking.

  “…It’s not like that,” he muttered after a moment.

  “Oh, I know it’s not,” she said, tone dry as dust. “But do they?”

  He shot her another look.

  She still wore a faint smirk, but there was no sharpness in it. Just something lighter than she’d carried in days.

  “They’re both stronger than I’ll ever be,” Zafran said.

  Isolde gave a small hum. “That’s not what I was talking about.”

  He didn’t reply.

  She chuckled once, soft. “I thought Fyonar politics were messy. But this? This is worse.”

  Zafran shook his head faintly. “You talk more than I expected.”

  She blinked—just once—and looked away again, eyes back on the path.

  Like she’d just realized.

  A beat passed.

  “I suppose I do.”

  Her voice quieted. The teasing slipped away.

  And silence crept back in.

  Zafran didn’t press.

  And Isolde didn’t speak again.

  The wind passed between them—quiet, soft, unresolved.

  The sun dipped low, casting long shadows across the woodland trail like reaching fingers. The air cooled with the coming dusk, mist curling again along the forest floor.

  They hadn’t spoken in hours.

  Then—finally—Zafran broke the quiet.

  “It’s getting dark. We should stop for the night.”

  Isolde raised an eyebrow, but didn’t argue. “Yeah,” she murmured.

  “You rest. I’ll handle the camp.”

  She didn’t protest—just sank slowly onto a mossy patch beside a low tree, favoring her side. The arrow wound in her shoulder still showed fresh red where bandage met skin.

  Zafran worked in silence. A fire bloomed to life with flint and dry leaves, flickering softly in the clearing. He set their rabbit to roast over the flame. The scent of char and herbs drifted upward, folding into the cooling air.

  Once it was done, he carved off a piece and offered it to her.

  Isolde didn’t reach for it at first. Her eyes moved from the fire, to the food, then to him.

  Zafran’s gaze lingered—just briefly—on her shoulder.

  “You shouldn’t have done that,” he said.

  She turned slightly, brow lifted.

  “The arrow,” he clarified. “You took it for me.”

  Isolde scoffed faintly. “Would’ve gone through your eye if I hadn’t.”

  “Maybe,” he allowed. A faint smile touched his lips.

  They ate quietly. The fire crackled between them, casting light that made the trees sway like ghosts.

  After a while, Zafran asked, “You always travel alone?”

  Isolde’s eyes flicked up. “Easier that way.”

  He gave a nod. Didn’t pry.

  The silence stretched again—longer this time. Not heavy, not light. Just… still.

  She leaned back against the bark. “Now I’m not sure if I’m hunting an ally or chasing a ghost.”

  Zafran stirred the embers absently. “That’s how most truths feel. The closer you get, the more you forget what you were looking for.”

  She glanced sideways. “That sound like experience.”

  “It is.”

  She looked at him longer. “So what are you chasing?”

  He didn’t answer right away. Tossed the carved stick into the fire instead.

  “Not sure yet,” he said. “But I think I’ll know it when I find it.”

  “Not very knightly of you.”

  “I was banished before I was knighted.”

  Isolde tilted her head. “A squire, then?”

  He nodded. “A squire.”

  She smirked faintly. “And here I thought I was traveling with an Ocean Tide knight who could protect me.”

  Zafran’s smile was small, crooked. “Someone like you doesn’t need protecting.”

  She didn’t look at him. Just let the smile linger.

  The fire danced. The night deepened.

  Eventually, Isolde stood, slow and deliberate, and crossed to a large tree near the edge of the clearing. She lowered herself with a breath, pulling her cloak tight. Her sword rested close. Her eyes, half-lidded. Her voice, quiet.

  “Good night, Ocean Tide.”

  It slipped out like something said in half-sleep.

  Zafran blinked, surprised by the softness in it.

  He didn’t respond right away. Just watched the fire.

  And the forest settled around them once more.

  The outer quarter of Jadinthar sprawled like a living maze—markets layered over old stone, bridges stretching between towers, rooftops vanishing into low mist. The great inner walls loomed farther in, pale and imposing, but the trio never got close.

  Guards at the forest gate barely glanced their way.

  A healer’s guild—marked by floating sigils and glowing banners—sat tucked between two old bell towers. The moment they saw Ysar’s condition, they moved fast.

  Elsha stayed with him.

  Karin lingered at the edge of the steps, watching as they vanished inside.

  She didn’t follow.

  Later, a light rain touched the stone. Karin sat beneath the awning of a small market stall, pulling her cloak tighter, hood down. She didn’t look up when Elsha returned.

  “Got us a ride,” Elsha said. “Merchant caravan. Southbound. Leaving at first light.”

  Karin nodded once. “How’s the loud one?”

  “Sleeping. He tried to flirt with the healer and passed out mid-sentence.”

  A breath of a smile touched Karin’s lips. “Classic.”

  They stood there a moment, watching the slow drip of water from the awning’s edge.

  “He asked me,” Elsha said quietly, “if you were going to be okay.”

  Karin glanced sideways. “That’s rich. He’s the one leaking from three places.”

  “You scared him.”

  “I scare everyone.”

  Elsha didn’t laugh. “You scared me.”

  Karin’s voice softened, not defensive—just tired. “I didn’t mean to.”

  “I know.”

  A pause.

  Karin finally straightened, rolling her shoulders. “Alright. Enough guilt for one day. If I’m going to sulk, I’d rather do it somewhere that doesn’t smell like boiled herbs and wet socks.”

  By morning, the rain had passed.

  The merchant caravan waited beyond the south gate—dozens of carts, heavy with crates and covered wagons. The roads would take them through guarded trails, past border farms, and eventually toward the coast.

  Karin took a seat by the window, leg curled beneath her. Ysar collapsed across the opposite bench, snoring softly, a blanket halfway off.

  Elsha watched the road ahead.

  The city vanished behind them—stone fading into forest.

  “Elsha,” Karin said absently, voice quieter now, less brittle, “if I ever get that dramatic again, just hit me.”

  Elsha raised an eyebrow.

  “I mean it,” Karin muttered. “Monologues in the mist? Who do I think I am?”

  Elsha almost smiled. “You were upset.”

  “I was a whole tragedy play.” She sighed. “Next time I brood, at least let me wear a cape properly.”

  Elsha’s smile lingered, but didn’t spread.

  Karin’s gaze drifted out the window. Her tone was casual again—but not empty. Just carefully held.

  “I’m still mad,” she said softly. “But it’s cooling.”

  She didn’t say more.

  And Elsha didn’t ask.

  Outside, the trees passed in blurs. And the wind carried them east.