Chapter 32 — Ash on the Wind

The night was almost kind. Merlin slept without twitching, his glow steady. Elira hummed as she braided herbs into cords, the firelight catching in her braid. For the first time since the circle, I thought we might be safe until dawn.

Then the smell reached us.

Not woodsmoke. Ash. Acrid and sharp, carried low on the breeze.

Elira froze mid-hum. She sniffed once, twice, then swore softly under her breath. "Scouts."

My grip tightened on the club. "Bandits?"

She shook her head. "Worse. The Caller's men burn resin in their fires. Stinks like tar, carries far. Lets the world know where they've been." She scattered the herb dust into the fire, killing its flame down to coals. "And now it tells us they're close."

Merlin stirred, ears pricking. A low growl rumbled in his chest.

We crept to the edge of the ruins, crouching behind broken stone. Between the trees, far down the slope, a glow moved. Torches. Three, maybe four. The smell of resin thickened as the wind shifted.

Elira whispered, "They'll sweep the forest in a net. They're not hunting food—they're hunting you."

I stared at the sword lying in the grass beside me, its iron hilt dull in the starlight. Pulled from stone like a bad joke. And yet—if they found us, if the Caller learned I carried it, the joke would end bloody.

Merlin pressed against my leg, warm, steady. His eyes burned pale in the dark.

Elira leaned close, her voice hard. "We move at first light. Quiet, fast, and far. If we stay, we're ash by nightfall."

I nodded, throat dry.

The forest whispered around us, silver leaves shifting as though listening. The torches moved closer, their glow weaving through the trees.

There was no peace in this world. Seldom safety. And never for long.

— Fourteenth day, night, the Caller's scouts approach —