Chapter 4 – Ashen Hollow

The river carried them farther than Delwyn expected.

Her arms ached, her ribs burned, and her lungs felt like they were lined with ice. Every kick through the freezing water sent sharp pain lancing through her battered body, but she didn't stop. Couldn't stop.

They drifted downstream, past the looming walls of Blackreach, past the watchtowers still ablaze with torchlights.

Only when the glow of the city had faded into the black of the dense northern forests did Vaelor pull himself onto the riverbank.

Delwyn followed, collapsing onto the damp earth, chest heaving. The night air was just as cold as the water, and it bit at her soaked skin.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke.

The only sounds were the wind whispering through the trees and the distant hum of Blackreach, still alive with soldiers searching for them.

Then, finally—

"We can't stay here," Vaelor muttered. He was already pushing himself up, already moving.

Delwyn groaned, dragging herself upright. "Give me a damn minute."

"We don't have one." He shook the water from his sleeves. "They'll search the riverbanks by morning."

He was right. She hated that he was right.

Delwyn exhaled sharply, forcing her legs to move. One step at a time.

They trudged into the trees, the wet leaves slick and slippery beneath their feet.

It was a long walk—longer than she liked, shorter than she needed.

Finally, they reached it.

A crumbling old hunting shack sat nestled in a grove of ash wood trees, barely more than a skeleton of wood and rot.

"The Ashen Hollow," Vaelor murmured.

Delwyn arched a brow. "You named it?"

"I didn't." He stepped onto the warped porch, testing the strength of the wood. "This place has been here longer than you or I."

It was half-collapsed, leaning like an old drunkard, but it would do.

Better than the prison cell she was in. Better than the grave she would have been thrown into.

The shack was bare.

A few old crates, a rusted pot, and a pile of half-rotted furs in the corner. Vaelor tossed one to her without a word.

Delwyn peeled off her soaked tunic, wrapping the fur around her shoulders. It smelled like mildew and dust, but it was warm.

Vaelor knelt by the hearth, fiddling with flint. Sparks danced, and soon, a small flame flickered to life, filling the space with soft faint orange light.

Delwyn sat against the wall, stretching out her sore limbs.

The silence stretched.

She knew she should rest. She knew she needed it.

But exhaustion wasn't enough to quiet the questions knawing at her mind.

She glanced at Vaelor, still crouched by the fire, eyes sharp and unreadable.

Finally, she broke the silence.

"You risked a lot back there," she said.

Vaelor didn't look at her. "So did you."

She frowned. "I didn't have a choice."

"And you think I did?"

Delwyn studied him.

"Why?" she asked. "Why break me out? Why risk your own damn life for someone you don't even know?"

Vaelor finally met her gaze. His expression didn't shift.

"Because you're not the only one who wants the king dead."

Delwyn studied him, her fingers tightening around the damp fur draped over her shoulders.

Because you're not the only one who wants the king dead.

The words sat heavy between them, as thick as the smoke curling from the small fire.

She let them hang there for a moment, watching Vaelor's face. Sharp lines. Unreadable eyes. An elven man built from secrets.

"You planning to kill him yourself?" she asked, stretching out her legs, ignoring the stiffness in her bruised ribs.

Vaelor didn't answer immediately. Instead, he pulled a dagger from his belt, rolling it between his fingers. A slow, methodical habit.

"I'd like to," he admitted. "But I'm not arrogant enough to think I can do it alone."

Delwyn smirked. "So you broke me out to make your job easier?"

"If I wanted easy, I would've let them take your head," Vaelor said dryly.

Delwyn chuckled, wincing as the movement pulled at her ribs. "Fair enough." She shifted, adjusting the fur. The warmth of the fire was starting to seep into her bones, but the cold was still there—deep, buried, impossible to shake.

She flicked her gaze back to him. "So? Who the hell are you, Vaelor? You don't fight like a common sellsword."

Vaelor was silent for a long time. The firelight flickered across his face, casting deep shadows under his cheekbones.

Then, finally, he spoke, "I was born in Vael'thir."

Delwyn blinked. That caught her off guard.

Vael'thir. The hidden city of the Elves. A place so few had seen that most thought it a myth.

"You're lying," she said automatically.

Vaelor huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. "You think I'd choose that lie?"

Fair point.

She narrowed her eyes. "So what, you're some exiled elven prince or something?"

"Not quite." He leaned back, resting against the rotting wall. "I was born to the Vael'sharen. The Nightborns."

Delwyn frowned. "Is that's supposed to mean something to me?"

"It should," Vaelor muttered. "But your kind forgets quickly."

Delwyn rolled her eyes. "Great. A history lesson."

Vaelor gave her a flat look. "The Vael'sharen were the last line of warriors who protected our people. We were trained from childhood. Born into it, whether we wanted it or not." His gaze flickered, almost distant. "And when our king fell to madness, we were the ones who refused to follow him."

Delwyn tilted her head. "And let me guess—he didn't take that well?"

Vaelor exhaled through his nose. "You could say that. He had us hunted like animals. I was one of the few who made it out."

Delwyn studied him. The way his shoulders had tensed, the way his grip had tightened on the dagger. She knew that look. The look of someone who had watched everything they loved burn.

"You lost people," she said quietly.

Vaelor's jaw flexed. "We all have."

Silence settled between them again, filled only by the distant howling of the wind outside.

Delwyn shifted, staring into the fire.

"You knew my name before I told you, "She said. "How?"

Vaelor didn't hesitate. "Because I've been watching you for a long time."

She tensed. "Excuse me?"

Vaelor huffed another quiet laugh. "Not like that, princess."

"Don't call me that."

"Noted." He flicked the dagger between his fingers. "I knew your name because your reputation spreads farther than you think. Delwyn Aldsund, the 'Oathbreaker.' The king's most loyal dog—until she wasn't."

Delwyn scoffed. "Didn't feel like I had much of a reputation when they were spitting on me in the streets."

"Reputation doesn't come from the crowds," Vaelor said simply. "It comes from the people who matter."

She shook her head, staring at him. "You're a strange bastard."

He smirked. "So, I've been told."

For a moment, just a moment, the tension lifted.

The fire crackled, warm and steady, and Delwyn realised for the first time that her hands weren't shaking anymore.

But the peace was temporary. It always was.

Because outside, beyond the fragile walls of the Ashen Hollow, the king's men were still hunting them.

And they wouldn't stop until she was dead.