The sun's light only filtered through the thick canopy barely as Kaelen moved, the rope still tightly in place around his wrists. The hut fell quiet now, Aeryn gone to deal with her council, him alone with Lysander, who leaned against one wall as if he wasn't doing anything better. The mage's silver-runen robes glinted what little sunlight did penetrate, and Kaelen felt the intentional gaze fixed on him.
"Comfortable, sunshine?" Lysander asked, voice silky, mocking, but not yet ungentle.
Kaelen laughed thinly. "If comfort is a broken bench and rope."
Lysander cocked his head to one side, smiling. "It's meant to remind you that even animals like you can be contained."
Kaelen's eyes ran over the hut again, cataloging everything—the carvings in the beams, the woven mats on the floor, the trunks bound in iron against the walls. Wards carved into beams hummed softly, a magical vibration only someone sensitive to energy—Kaelen—would notice.
"The northern clans," Lysander began, moving slowly, "have never been easily disposed towards strangers. Aeryn's people have… unconventional methods of defense. Some call it superstition. I call it being smart."
Kaelen creased his brow. "Clever planning, or paranoia?"
"A little of each," Lysander admitted, his lips twisting into a smile. "The forest is a weapon. Hazards are hidden in plain sight, and anyone who enters uninvited is either clever… or dead."
Kaelen settled back, letting the rope tug on his shoulders, regarding Lysander. "And you're the forest champion, I take it?"
"Something like that." Lysander's eyes flared. "I keep the clan from killing dogs like you before Aeryn gets to determine your destiny."
The crunch of boots on the forest floor made them turn. Aeryn entered, hair still in tight braids, tattoos glimmering faintly as she moved. She moved with an ease and confidence that reminded Kaelen why she'd survived and thrived here.
"Breakfast is ready," she said brusquely, gazing at Kaelen. "Eat. You'll be needing your strength if you hope to survive the day."
Kaelen nodded and came up behind him, his senses sipping the village as he moved. Children were laughing in the middle of the village, playing at tag around serpent-tattooed stone fountains, their water bubbling with a soft glow—a magic to keep it clean and poison-free. Smoke curled in delicate spirals from fire pits, carrying the aromas of roasted root vegetables and spiced meat, pungently countering the metallic sting he'd caught last night.
Each hut was unique. One had intricate patterns of flame in burnt-orange paint, one was embroidered with runes that glowed pale when seen out of the corner of the eye. The villagers hustled about, but there was melody here, some type of harmony that made Kaelen realize: this place wasn't just concealed—it lived.
They approached a long, low building that was the meeting hall. The walls were covered with shelves of scrolls, herbs, and magical reagents. A great center table was covered with maps of the surrounding forests and mountains, marking hidden paths, rebel camps, and Imperial patrol routes.
Aeryn waved Kaelen into a seat. "We'll speak to the council. You'll give us information on your. employer and mission. Nothing more, nothing less."
Kaelen's brow rose. "Employer?"
She didn't answer right away. Instead, she turned her attention to Lysander, who shrugged at her in a small way. "The Empire sends us a lot of things. Soldiers, assassins. messages. You're one of those messages, Kaelen."
The council advanced. Older men and women, all of them displaying signs of leadership and magical power. There was one woman, with white hair and storm-grey eyes, who stood over him, as if reading the script off the parchment hidden under his coat. Another was a large man with copper-colored skin, who quietly spoke in one of those tongues Kaelen recognized only distantly—an old clan dialect imbued with power.
He listened, answered cautiously, his answers measured, speaking only what he had to. The council probed him, searching for allegiances and weaknesses. Every glance, every gesture, revealed more of the rebels than words could.
Kaelen recognized that he was in over his head, but every detail of their village, every blaze of fire in Aeryn's tattoos, every learned hesitation of Lysander's smile, was information. This was, these were—if he could navigate through them—useful.
When the council ejected him, Aeryn trailed behind, close enough that he felt her warmth but far enough that her superiority still existed.
"You may proceed cautiously," she said to him. "But can you stay in front of the forest?"
Kaelen's smile was thin and teasing. "Depends on who's chasing me."