The road north of Greyspire was narrow and winding, its edges littered with broken stones and wild grass. The siege's scars still lingered—burnt carts by the roadside, arrow shafts half-buried in mud.
Ezra walked slightly ahead, scanning the ground as her fingers brushed over stalks and blossoms. She plucked certain leaves with practiced precision, tucking them into the small leather pouches that hung from her belt.
"You've been quiet," Eliakim noted, adjusting the straps of his satchel.
Her eyes were on a pale-green moss clinging to a fallen branch. "Blackmere Forest had this same moss. Back home, the air was thick with it—dark canopy overhead, wet earth underfoot, the fog curling through the roots like it was alive. My grandmother taught me which herbs heal, which ones kill, and which ones do both depending on the dose. Emberroot's soil smells the same."
Gideon grunted. "That's not comforting."
"It's not meant to be," she replied, slipping the moss into her pouch.
By midday, the flat dirt road dipped into a narrow vale where the wind carried an odd rustling—too heavy to be leaves, too rhythmic to be random.
Skyling's feathers flared. Movement ahead.
From the underbrush, three hulking shapes emerged—snow-white fur rippling over massive, muscular bodies. Their eyes glowed faintly pink, and their long ears twitched with predatory precision.
"Those… are rabbits?" Gideon asked.
"Not the kind you keep in cages," Eliakim said, drawing his blades.
The Great Marsh Hares lunged in unison—fangs bared, claws like hooked knives. The fight was fast and brutal:
Gideon's twin blades blurred, carving deep arcs through fur and sinew.
Ezra's hands flared with a sudden burst of frost, freezing one hare's hind legs before Eliakim's strike finished it.
Skyling swooped low, slashing at eyes and throats with talon and flame.
Within minutes, the creatures lay still, their white coats streaked red.
They made camp before sunset on a flat stretch of ground beside a shallow creek.
Eliakim staked the tent poles and spread the bedrolls. Gideon vanished into the trees, returning with an armful of thick branches for the fire. Ezra knelt by the creek, cleaning hare meat with precise, efficient cuts.
From her pouch, she produced the day's gathered herbs—bitterroot for flavor, moss-shred for its regenerative properties, and blueleaf to restore stamina. She set a small pot over the fire, the scent of slow-cooking meat and fragrant greens rising into the night air.
When she ladled out the steaming soup, its effect was immediate.
Gideon flexed his arm, where a hare's claw had left a deep cut. The wound was already knitting together. Eliakim felt the ache in his shoulders fade into warmth. Even Skyling, perched on a nearby rock, seemed livelier, her feathers glossy in the firelight.
Ezra leaned back, a smug little tilt to her chin. "That, gentlemen, is called skill."
Night settled like a heavy blanket.The fire crackled softly, casting long shadows on the grass. They set a watch in shifts—Eliakim first, then Gideon, then Ezra—each one keeping the others safe so they could rest.
The wind from the north carried a faint, unfamiliar scent.It was sharp. Metallic.Like the air before a storm.
Ezra lay awake during her shift, her eyes fixed on the darkness beyond the firelight. In her mind, the trees of Emberroot blurred with those of Blackmere, and the silence seemed too deep… like something was holding its breath.