Here's Chapter 6 of Ashes of Duskmoor (target:
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Chapter 6 – The Weight of Shadows
The mist lay heavier tonight, thick as spun glass around Elera's shoulders. Each step toward Caelen's cottage felt heavier than the last, as though the moor had stolen a fraction of her strength during the day. The trial in the Ash Hollow had taken more than a memory—it had taken the easy rhythm of her breathing, the way her heartbeat once felt simple.
Yet when the cottage came into view, with its small windows glowing like amber eyes, something inside her stirred with fragile relief.
Caelen stood in the doorway, one hand braced against the wood, waiting.
"You stayed too long by the Hollow," he said softly, voice roughened by worry. "The moor… feeds on that."
Elera swallowed, throat dry. "It already has."
He did not ask what she had given. Perhaps he sensed it in her eyes, the hollow place where a memory had been carved away. Instead, he stepped aside, letting her pass into the warmth of the firelit room.
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The scent of herbs clung to the air—lavender and ash-bark, sharp yet soothing. Caelen had set a kettle over the fire, and the soft bubbling filled the silence between them.
"You're trembling," he said after a moment. He reached for a blanket draped across a chair, shaking it free of dust. "Sit. Let the room settle around you."
She did. But it wasn't only the cold that made her shake. It was the realization that she had lost the memory of her father's laughter. She knew she had once loved it—knew it had been warm and rich and familiar—but she could no longer hear it in her mind. The sound was gone. Only the shape of its absence remained.
"You've done this before," she whispered. "Paid the moor."
Caelen did not answer immediately. His gaze fell to the flames, shadows cutting sharper lines along his face. "Many times."
"And… what have you lost?"
He stirred the fire with an iron poker, sending sparks spiraling upward like golden fireflies. "Enough that I do not remember what I've forgotten."
The answer should have frustrated her, but instead it drew her closer to him. She rose from the chair, leaving the blanket pooled behind, and stood at his side. The fire cast a halo around him, yet his eyes were storm-dark—carrying the same sorrow she had glimpsed when she first found him among the ruins.
"Then why stay here?" she asked, almost a whisper. "Why not leave? Why not let it all fade?"
His jaw tightened. "Because I cannot. The moor does not let go of those it has claimed."
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They stood close now, so close she could feel the faint heat from his sleeve against her arm. And for one dangerous, unspoken instant, she wondered if his tether to this place had less to do with vows and more to do with her.
But before the thought could root itself, he stepped back, gathering two cups of steaming tea from the table.
"Drink," he said gently. "You'll need strength for what comes next."
"What comes next?"
"The moor will show you more of your mother's path," he replied. "But each vision draws you closer to its core. The cost rises with every step."
Elera took the cup, fingers brushing his for a fleeting second. "And if I refuse? If I turn away?"
"You won't," Caelen said, gaze steady. "Not after what you've already given."
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They drank in silence. Beyond the cottage walls, the mist coiled and sighed like a restless dream. When the cups were empty, Caelen stood, pulling a cloak from a peg.
"Where are we going?" Elera asked, though a part of her already knew.
"To the River of Whispers," he said. "Your mother went there before the end. If the moor still remembers her voice, it will be there."
The name sent a chill down Elera's spine, yet her resolve did not falter. She stood and drew her own cloak around her shoulders.
"Then lead the way," she said, voice steady now.
But as Caelen opened the door, a strange hush fell over the moor—heavier than before. It felt almost expectant.
And somewhere in the mist, a whisper stirred.
Not the moor's whisper.
A man's.
Calling her name.