By late afternoon the forest light turned gold, stretched thin through bare branches. The children hadn't cried since we'd cut their chains. That almost unsettled me more than if they had.
They walked behind us in a knot—small feet dragging, heads lowered, wrists rubbed raw. Not a word, not even a whimper. Just the sound of them breathing, and Sel humming under her breath as if the tune alone could keep them stitched together.
I tried speaking once. "You're safe now."
No answer.
Sel tried too. "Hungry? Thirsty?"
Still nothing.
It wasn't until we paused near the road, and I knelt to refill a skin that one of them spoke. A girl, maybe five or six, with hair like river-mud and eyes sharper than the rest. She lifted her chin just enough to meet my gaze.
"They're dead, aren't they?" she asked.
Her voice didn't tremble.
I hesitated, then nodded. "…Yes."
She looked away. "Good."
That was all she said. But the others shifted closer around her, as if her single word gave them permission to breathe again. Poor kids must've gone through a lot.
⟡
We stopped by a brook before dusk, where the water ran shallow over stones.
"I'm going to wash myself. I feel sticky with blood all over me," Sel announced before I could argue and tossed her knife onto the bank as if daring me to try and stop her.
"Keep your eyes on the kids," she said, smirking as she stripped down to her shift. "Or on me. Your choice."
"Selaithe…" I scowled and sat cross-legged with Ashriven across my lap.
The children clustered near the bank, staring at the water like it was some strange creature. None of them touched it.
I watched them for a long while, letting the sound of water dull the noise still clanging in my skull. One boy curled against a tree root and fell asleep instantly. The wolf-eared one just sat hugging his knees, ears twitching at every splash Sel made.
"Um… Mister…" One of the kids mumbled.
"Yes?"
"Where…" The boy gulped nervously, his ears twitching, "Where are you taking us?"
His voice was so small it almost got lost in the wind.
"To the nearest village," I said after a pause. "We should be there by tomorrow and then…" My tongue caught on the rest. Then what? Then we drop you off and leave you to strangers? Then we trust that the world won't spit you back into chains?
I cut the thought short. "And then you'll be safe."
The oldest girl narrowed her eyes. Suspicious already. "Then what? You're planning on selling us too?"
The words hit like a knife. My chest tightened.
"What!? No, no—of course not!"
Behind me I heard Sel laugh. Not kindly. Not cruelly. Just amused at how easily I stumbled. I ignored her.
"We're trying to help you," I said, forcing the words steady. "Keep you safe. That's all."
"But…" The wolf-eared boy's voice came out low, almost a growl. "We don't even know your names."
Names.
I froze.
If they knew my real one—if it slipped out, if it spread—how long until the Grand Church sniffed it up? How long until Veyr's shadow crawled back over me?
My throat worked, but I forced something out. "I'm Kae—" I bit down on the rest. No. Not that. Not now. Not ever.
Think. Lie. Something simple.
"This is the Wild Fang," I said, pointing toward Sel where she was crouched by the brook, rinsing her face. Her blue hair dripped silver in the morning light. "And I am…" My lips moved faster than my head. "Drenn."
The word hung there, half-born, and I hated it instantly.
The children eased back a little. The fear in their eyes thinned, replaced with the fragile hope only children could hold onto. A girl leaned against a tree trunk. One of the smaller boys sat cross-legged in the grass, still trembling but not crying. For the first time since we'd cut their chains, they didn't look ready to bolt.
Selaithe's voice carried from the brook, flat with disbelief.
"Drenn? Cut Shadow? Really?"
Heat rushed to my face. I turned toward her. "And what's wrong with that? You've got a cool title, so I needed something. A cover name."
Sel glanced over her shoulder, eyes glinting. Her grin spread sharp and slow. "Cover name, huh? You make it sound like you've got something worth covering."
I muttered, "Forgot about Veyr and Calden already?"
"Yet Calden let you free at the forge."
"None of your business."
Her laugh rippled through the air, quick and bright, like water skipping over stone. The kids stared at her, then at me, and I realized—for better or worse—we were the only anchors they had left.
⟡
The air cooled as the sun slid lower. Shadows stretched long, and fireflies began testing the air above the brook. I reached my hands toward them without thinking—the threads of the Waeve brushed my skin, fragile, tempting. But I pulled back before the glow inside me could crack open. Yet, for a moment, I was at peace, as if I belonged to those ripples only I could see.
It was quiet. Sel's humming drifted across the water. The kids breathed soft and uneven around me. I didn't mean to speak aloud when I did.
"…Tomorrow, I'll be eight."
No one answered. Not the children. Not the brook. Just silence and the faint drip of water down stone. I almost wished the river would carry the words away before anyone heard.
But Sel did. Of course she did.
From the other side of the brook came her voice, low and sing-song. "Eight, hm? And here I thought you were sixty already, with how you brood."
I glared at the rippling water. "You forgot! We're the same age anyways."
She laughed, splashing once just to make the fireflies scatter. "I didn't forget. I just didn't expect you to be the type to count."
I turned away, pulling my cloak tighter. "It's not— I wasn't—"
Her humming cut me off again, softer this time. "I'll make it up to you, Kael." The water shifted as she waded closer to the bank. "Tomorrow, I'll give you a gift."
I frowned. "What gift?"
Her smirk curved in her voice. "Not telling. Then it wouldn't be a gift, would it?"
The wolf-eared boy twitched his ears at her tone, the mud-haired girl tilted her head, but the others stayed quiet. Only Sel could sound like she was both joking and serious at once—half teasing, half promise.
"Don't make it something stupid," I muttered.
She laughed again, wringing water from her hair, and for a while the air felt less heavy.
The children settled in close around the fire we coaxed from damp wood. They didn't ask questions. Didn't reach for us. But when Sel sat down, the little girl with mud-hair leaned against her side like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Sel met my eyes across the flames, one brow arched, smug.
I looked away, but couldn't hide the way my mouth almost curved.
⟡
The road wound thinner the further north we went. Bare trees lined the ditches, their branches clutching at the pale sky like blackened fingers. The children followed in a cluster behind us, too quiet, too obedient, each step too practiced. Not children at all. Not anymore.
By noon, the fields opened up—thin strips of dirt and frost-hard grass, carved into furrows that looked like scars across the land. Smoke curled from crooked chimneys ahead, and the faint outline of a shrine bell poked through the trees.
"The village," Sel said simply, pointing with her chin, "I heard it's not part of Velmire. The people there aren't very talkative either—but that's good for us, 'Drenn.'"
I ignored her teasing.
She slowed her steps as we approached, her eyes darting, weighing every fencepost, every figure moving among the fields. I copied her without thinking—shoulders low, cloak pulled close. The kids just trailed us like shadows.
When we passed the first hut, a woman paused from cutting wood. She stared at us. Not at Sel. Not at me. At the children.
Her lips pressed thin. Then she turned and shut her door.
⟡
The square wasn't much of a square. More like a muddy scar in the earth where wheels had carved ruts too deep to heal. A stone well sat in the center, its bucket half-rotted, rope fraying like old hair. Two carts leaned against one another as if too tired to stand alone, and a handful of cottages hunched close, wood warped by damp and smoke.
Off to the side, a shrine leaned on its foundation, roof sagging, the carving of some forgotten river-god blackened by rain and soot. Its face had melted into nothing—just grooves where eyes once were.
And the eyes. Not the god's, but the villagers'.
Dozens of them. Watching from shutter cracks, from gaps between fence slats, from doorways where boots lingered just out of mud.
No greetings. No welcome.
Sel clicked her tongue, muttering something sharp in Elvish that I only half-understood. Then, louder, she said, "Told you. Folk here don't ask questions."
She made it sound like a strength. Like freedom.
But in my stomach, it felt heavy. Not asking questions also meant not caring.
The kids clustered closer to us, thin shoulders brushing mine, clutching at Sel's tunic. None of them cried, though their faces were pale and empty as the ash left after a fire.
A man finally broke from the watchers. Thick-shouldered, wrapped in a patched coat stiff with years of use. His beard was iron-gray, his boots caked with clay. He stopped a few paces away, arms crossed over his chest.
His gaze slid over Selaithe first—lingering, measuring—then found me.
No, not me. The sword. Ashriven's hilt jutted over my shoulder like a challenge.
"You bring trouble, boy?" His voice was low, gravel worn down by years of smoke and ale.
I shook my head. "No. We… found these children."
"Found." His eyes narrowed, suspicion like a blade sliding from its sheath. "That so."
Sel moved before I could. She stepped forward, her hand twitching near her knife before she forced it still. Her mauve eyes burned hotter than the firepit back at our camp.
"Slavers had them," she said, words sharp enough to cut. "We cut the chains. They're yours now, if you've got the stomach for keeping your own safe."
The murmurs started then. Low voices rolling from the cottages like stirred embers. Doors cracked wider, faces leaned closer. Old women with their hair bound back in kerchiefs, men with thick hands scarred from work, even a boy no older than me gripping a crooked spear.
The man spat into the mud. A heavy sound, final. "Slavers, eh. That explains it." He sniffed, grimaced, and nodded as though confirming something only he could see. "Explains the smell of coin on your shadows."
His gaze shifted. Softer now—not much, but enough to look at the children without venom. One by one. The wolf-eared boy clinging to Sel's leg. The smallest girl whose hair was so matted it hung like rope. The twins, hollow-eyed, holding each other's hands too tightly.
"We'll take them," he said at last. His voice wasn't warm, but it wasn't cruel either. "Feed them if we can. Better here than the road."
Sel didn't move. The boy pressed harder against her side, as though sensing she might let go. Her hand drifted down, brushing his tangled hair. She said nothing, but her eyes cut into the man like steel.
She didn't trust him. Didn't trust any of them.
Neither did I.
But what else could we do?
I swallowed, feeling the weight of Ashriven at my back. I wanted to say something—to tell the man to treat them right, to threaten him if he didn't. But the words burned in my throat and died. Because if he said no? If this village turned its back? Then what?
We weren't parents. We weren't saviors. We were two half-broken strays carrying a sword too heavy and a past too bloody.
And yet—Sel's hand didn't leave the boy's hair. Mine didn't move from the hilt of my blade.
The silence stretched long and taut, until finally a woman with a flour-dusted apron stepped from one of the cottages. She knelt in the mud, arms out, and the smallest girl staggered forward into them. The woman gathered her up, no hesitation, no words, just a long hum under her breath, old and sweet.
The others followed. Slowly. Carefully.
By the time the boy let go of Sel's leg, the villagers had stopped watching us like wolves.
Not friends. Not family. But not enemies either.
Just people.
For now, it was enough.
⟡
It took time. Too much time. Villagers trickled forward, some with baskets, some with rope, some with nothing at all. They spoke little, but their silence had weight. One by one, the children peeled away from our side, drawn by rough hands and murmured promises of bread.
The mud-haired girl was last. She looked at me, her eyes sharp even in that small, dirt-smudged face. Not a plea, not thanks. Just a long look, like she wanted to memorize me. Then she followed the others.
And just like that, we were alone again.
The square emptied, doors shut, smoke rose. The village swallowed them whole.
Sel exhaled hard. "I hate it."
My throat felt raw. "It's better than leaving them chained."
"Better doesn't mean good."
Her voice was flat, but I heard the anger under it. She turned from the square, stalking down a side path that led toward the riverbank. I followed, because I always did.
⟡
The room they gave us was little more than four walls of timber, a straw-stuffed mattress, and a cracked window where the wind whispered through. Still, it was warmer than the road, warmer than Bravhessa's alleys. For a village that asked no questions, they'd shown more generosity than I expected—bread left by the door, a chipped clay jug of water, even a blanket that didn't smell entirely of mold.
Sel had already claimed the only chair, her legs drawn up to her chest, hair spilling over her shoulder in a blue tangle. She was working at something with her hands, the firelight catching a glint of thread and leather. I lay on the mattress, staring at the ceiling beams, listening to the small noises of her needle pushing through hide.
It had been a long day. Too long. I thought she'd let me drift into silence, but of course Sel never did.
"Kael," she said finally, not looking up from her work. Her voice was soft, quieter than usual. "You've gone all quiet."
I shrugged, eyes still on the beams. "What's there to say?"
"That you're a year older."
I blinked, turning my head toward her. "…You remembered?"
She smirked without lifting her eyes. "Of course I remembered. I told you I'd give you a gift, didn't I?"
I frowned. "You don't have to. Not after today. Especially not after—"
She cut me off by standing in one motion, crossing the short space between us. Her hands smelled faintly of smoke and leather. She held something behind her back.
"Close your eyes," she said.
I scowled. "Why?"
"Because I said so."
Her tone left no room for arguing.
I hesitated, then sighed and did as she asked. The air in the little room was cold, but she was close—too close. The sound of her breathing filled the space between us.
Something soft brushed my cheek. Quick. Light.
My eyes shot open.
Sel stood there, a faint grin tugging at her lips, mauve eyes bright in the firelight. Her hand lingered suspiciously near her mouth like she was holding back laughter.
"There," she whispered, voice smug but low. "Gift."
I froze, heat crawling up my face hotter than the fire in the hearth. "That's not—" I started, stammering.
But then she brought her other hand around, finally revealing what she'd been working on. A scabbard—rough leather stitched with uneven thread, but sturdy, shaped just right for Ashriven's weight. The hide was patched, the work clumsy in places, yet it was whole. Whole in a way I hadn't felt in weeks.
She thrust it into my arms before I could find words. "Made it from scraps. Not pretty, but better than carrying that sword in cloth like a beggar."
I held it, stunned. The stitches were crooked, the dye uneven, but it fit. It was hers, made by her hands, and somehow that mattered more than if it had been forged by kings.
Sel crouched back, watching me with a grin that was too sharp to be gentle, too soft to be cruel. "Now you've got two gifts. Try not to drop either."
I touched my cheek, still warm, then the leather scabbard in my lap. My chest tightened with something I couldn't name.
"I… don't know what to do with this," I admitted.
"Easy," she said, flopping back into her chair, arms crossed smugly. "Use it. And remember who gave it to you."
Her grin widened when she caught me still blushing, and I knew she wouldn't let me forget either gift—ever.