The smell hit first.
Bravhessa stank like a place that hadn't forgotten how to bleed. Smoke, iron, sweat, old fish. It clung to the air like memory, thick and sour. The city gates weren't even visible yet, but already I could hear it—the clatter of hooves, shouting vendors, smith-hammers in rhythm with footsteps that never stopped. Bravhessa didn't sleep. Not like the forest did. It twitched. It murmured. It paced in circles.
I pulled my hood a little lower.
We walked along the dusty path, where the trees had given way to brittle shrubs and worn-down fences. Scarecrows leaned in empty fields, half-rotted and mostly ignored. Dogs barked in the distance. Somewhere, a crow called once, sharp and cruel.
Sel kept close. Closer than usual. One hand on her knife belt, the other drifting just near mine like a net ready to catch. She still cracked a few jokes—bad ones—but there was a different edge to her now. Not fear. Just… tension. Her eyes never stopped moving.
"See that house?" she said quietly, nodding toward a crumbling shack with no roof. "Probably safer than half the inns here."
"And fewer rats," I muttered.
"You're optimistic. I bet at least three of them run that place."
We didn't laugh. Not really. But we both smiled a little. Just enough to keep walking.
⟡
Bravhessa's gates weren't grand. They were rusted iron, cracked stone, and half a dozen guards who didn't care who entered, so long as they didn't bring fire or questions. No one stopped us. No one even looked up.
Inside, the city unfolded like a wound that refused to heal. Narrow alleys. Slanted roofs. Children ran barefoot between market stalls while men argued over crates of rotting vegetables. I saw a woman slap a merchant hard enough to draw blood. No one interfered.
The noise was everywhere. Shoes on cobbles. Bells. Steam from some engine-cranked forge. Someone was singing on a rooftop and someone else was screaming at him to shut up. The city had no rhythm. Just noise.
I hated it. I didn't realize how much until now.
"I want to go back," I muttered under my breath.
Sel heard. She brushed her shoulder against mine, light as wind. "We will. Someday. When we can burn what needs burning and not flinch after."
We walked past a man curled in the corner of a dead-end alley, his face covered in old bruises. A beggar—no older than Calden, maybe—stretched out a hand as we passed. I reached into my pocket out of instinct, though we had nothing.
And then he flinched.
Not like I'd hit him. Not like fear.
Like… recognition.
His hand retracted. Eyes wide. His mouth opened—silent. His gaze followed me even after we turned the corner. He didn't ask for coin again.
Sel noticed. She always noticed.
"Something wrong with my face?" I asked, trying to sound casual.
"Your aura," she said. Quiet. "It's thick again."
I looked down at my hands. I couldn't see anything. No shimmer. No glow.
Just fingers I hadn't cleaned in three days and a boy's skin wrapped around something older.
"I'm not doing anything," I said.
"Maybe that's the problem."
We didn't talk about it after that.
⟡
By the time the sun dropped low enough to scrape the rooftops with gold, we'd circled two merchant squares and four streets full of nothing but barbers, weavers, and old men arguing over dead kings. Sel made us stop at every tavern sign that didn't look cursed. Most were too loud. One was full of mercenaries already passed out. Another had Church flags over the door. That one we didn't go near.
Whispers had started to follow us. Not loud. Not urgent. Just enough.
"You hear about the boy?" someone asked behind us in a butcher stall.
"The ghost-eyed one?"
"No. That was in Cavharest. This one's from Tharionne. Some noble's son gone rogue. There's a price now, I think."
A price.
Sel moved faster after that.
We turned down a side street of cracked bricks and hanging laundry. And there—like it had been waiting for us—a crooked little inn stood with one lamp still lit and a faded sign that read: The Fiddler's End.
"Charming," Sel said. "Maybe it doesn't have bedbugs. Just fleas."
"Or ghosts."
She grinned. "My people."
⟡
We got the room after some silver I didn't want to part with. The innkeeper didn't ask questions. Just handed us a key, muttered something about no food until morning, and vanished into the back like smoke. The hallway creaked. The door stuck. And the room…
One bed.
One cracked basin.
A warped window that barely latched.
It was heaven.
Sel shut the door behind us with a sigh and slid the lock. "Alright," she said. "You stink. I stink. We both stink."
"Is that a confession?"
"It's a curse. I can feel the grime crawling on my soul."
I dropped Ashriven against the wall and peeled off my outer cloak. My legs ached. My arms ached. My heart… didn't know what to feel.
I went to the basin, grabbed the chipped pitcher, and poured in cold water from the wall spout. It fogged immediately. I touched it with two fingers. Ice-cold.
Sel handed me a rag.
"You go first," she said. "Unless you want me to show you how it's done."
I didn't reply. Not right away.
Instead, I held my hand over the water and closed my eyes.
Focus.
I could hear Nareva's voice. Not loud, not clear. Just the shape of it.
"Heat is motion. Vibration. Touch the Weave. Pull gently. Let it slip into your breath."
I inhaled. Reached.
The water trembled.
A flicker of warmth spread through the metal basin, steam rising faintly.
Sel blinked. "Did you…?"
"I remembered," I said. My voice felt far away. "Just enough."
She looked at me like she wanted to say something. But didn't.
⟡
We washed without words. Not at the same time. Not touching. But not distant either. There was something fragile about the silence in that little room. Not cold. Not awkward. Just… honest.
When I finished, hair dripping, face raw, I sat on the edge of the bed and stared out the window at a sliver of stars. My eyes didn't feel like mine.
Sel joined me a moment later. Her hair hung damp and wild around her shoulders. She looked less like a warrior, more like a child. Like we both were.
She didn't speak.
Then—gently, slowly—she reached out and took my hand.
I didn't pull away.
Her fingers were warm. Real. Anchoring.
"You're not alone, Kaelen," she said.
I nodded. Just once.
Outside, the city shifted.
But inside, the world stilled.
And for one breath, I believed her.
⟡
The mattress creaked beneath us as I leaned back, her hand still in mine.
She didn't let go.
Not even when I shifted, not even when I blinked long enough for my breath to hitch. Selaithe stayed still—unnaturally still, like a cat ready to pounce or sleep or vanish into the night. I could feel the tension in her fingers. Not fear. Not uncertainty.
Readiness.
Outside the shuttered window, someone shouted. A laugh. A crash. Then nothing. The inn walls were too thin to keep the city out completely. But here, at least, it felt quieter than the street. The scent of soot was replaced with old wood and linen and something faintly herbal—maybe the soap she'd scrubbed herself with.
I thought of Nareva again.
Her voice, her hands folding over mine, guiding the shape of a spell. I thought of the way she used to speak when no one else was listening—calm, precise, fond without saying it.
"Sel," I said softly.
She tilted her head.
"Do you think they're still chasing us?"
A pause.
Then, "Always."
Her thumb brushed the back of my hand once. "They won't stop just because we crossed a river. The Church has long arms. The Academy even longer. And your family…" Her voice dipped low, bitter at the edges. "Well. You already know what they're capable of."
I swallowed.
"I don't want to run forever."
"I won't let you."
I turned to her, surprised by the edge in her voice. It wasn't a promise. It was a threat. Not to me—but to everything out there.
"If they try to take you," she said, "they'll find out what it means to chase a ghost through thorns."
"You're the ghost," I said. "I'm just tired."
Sel's expression softened. "You're more than tired, Kael."
"I'm broken."
"No," she said firmly. "Just… bruised. Badly. But not broken."
Her other hand lifted, brushed my hair back from my forehead with a touch so careful it made my throat tighten. She studied me for a long moment. "You look different when you're not pretending to be fine."
I didn't answer. I couldn't.
I was seven. I was older. I was someone who had burned. I was someone still trying not to cry.
Selaithe leaned closer, and for a breath I thought she might kiss me.
But she didn't.
She just rested her forehead against mine.
A quiet press. A surrender. A silent promise that didn't need words.
I closed my eyes.
And in the space between our skin, I felt something settle—like a weight I hadn't realized I was carrying, shared for just a moment.
⟡
Later, I laid down on the bed, facing the wall. The sheet was rough. The pillow too thin. But I was warm. Dry. The water stain on the ceiling above me looked like a cracked eye.
Sel hadn't moved.
She sat at the edge, watching the window like a sentry.
I let the silence stretch.
Until finally, I whispered, "You're staying up?"
"For a little," she said.
I nodded.
Then added, quieter: "You can sleep here, too."
A pause.
"You sure?"
"There's only one bed."
Another beat of silence.
Then the mattress shifted as she slid in beside me.
She didn't touch me.
Not right away.
But I felt the space between us shrink. Her breath, her presence, the soft rustle of her hair against the pillow.
And after a while, her hand found mine again in the dark.
Fingers intertwined.
No words.
No vows.
Just warmth.
And for the first time in days, I slept.