Itch for Silence, Cottage for Bruises

Aric's POV:

I couldn't even tell myself where we were anymore. We'd been riding for over three hours now—ever since we left the Wastelands behind us—pushing our horses through terrain that only grew more unforgiving with every mile. And still, we followed Valtor, who seemed to know exactly where he was going... though I was starting to doubt even that.

The dense forest had slowly thinned into rocky earth, which then gave way to sand-swept nothingness. Now, we were riding through a landscape so barren it felt like even the wind had given up.

We were somewhere between misery and delirium—and Valtor was at the front, riding like he had the gods whispering directions in his ear.

For all I knew, we could've been circling that same dead oak tree for hours.

The ride from Erin to this part of this wasteland had chewed through my body.

My ribs ached from the last shadow beast we fought. Or maybe it wasn't the monster at all—maybe it was this power inside me, constantly tearing itself apart.

My thighs were sore from days of riding, my arms stung with shallow cuts, and my brain—oh my poor, overworked brain—was swimming in questions.

Why were the shadows growing stronger the farther we ventured into this forgotten corner of the kingdom? What was feeding them—what had awakened them?

And why did they look at me... recognize me?

It wasn't just battle instinct anymore. It was something deeper. Like they knew who I was—or perhaps what I was meant to become. But what would I become, then?

It felt like they were drawn to the chaos churning beneath my skin—the light and the darkness that refused to live in peace inside me.

What were they really after? Why attack the villages, the innocent people? Was it chaos they wanted... or were they searching for something—someone?

And then there was Valtor.

He rode like he was chasing the ghost of something only he could see. Like every step we took was bringing him closer to a truth he hadn't dared to share with the rest of us. His silence wasn't just about strategy. It was hiding something. A direction. A purpose. A secret.

But even more dangerous than the questions clawing at my mind was the one I kept trying not to ask:

Why, in the middle of all of this, with bruises on my skin and ash in my lungs... did I keep looking at him?

And why, every time I did, did I feel like he was the only one who might already know the answers?

But asking any of those would send my thoughts into a black hole, and frankly, I didn't have the energy to get sucked into existential spirals right now.

So I said nothing.

None of us did.

Until Valtor finally, finally, stopped.

Thank the heavens!

He dismounted his horse in front of a half-collapsed cottage, barely more than a few walls, a sagging roof, and what might've once been a doorway.

"We'll rest here," he said simply, his voice hoarse with exhaustion but still infuriatingly commanding.

We dismounted like sacks of potatoes being thrown from a cart. My legs wobbled when they hit the ground, and my knees nearly gave out.

I stumbled toward Elara, who hadn't said a word in the last hour.

She winced again when she stepped down, her face twitching.

I narrowed my eyes. "You're limping."

Elara exhaled, tried to wave me off. "Just a scratch."

"Elara," I said in that half-stern tone that made her roll her eyes but obey anyway, "sit."

I pointed to the lopsided wooden chair that had miraculously survived in the ruins of the cottage.

She did.

Herold was already pacing around the perimeter, hand on his illusion charm, scanning for any signs of danger. Paranoia looked good on him.

Meanwhile, Seraph—of course—was hovering behind Elara like a child waiting to poke something just to see what it'd do.

"Would you stop breathing over her shoulder?" I muttered, crouching near my travel bag.

He grinned, arms crossed. "Just watching our little priest-turned-prince-turned-walking-bomb transform into a quack doctor. What's next? Are you going to deliver someone's baby in the wastelands?"

"Give me five minutes and a blanket, and I'll consider it," I replied dryly.

Seraph cackled and wandered off, probably to annoy Herold next.

Then, I pulled out my field salves, some herbal medicines I had learned to prepare during my time in the Priesthood of Knowledge, an antiseptic liquid to heal wounds and prevent infection, and clean cloths.

I knelt in front of Elara and gently rolled up the torn fabric around her leg. The scratch wasn't deep—thank God—but it was red and raw. I poured some alchemic alcohol on a cloth and pressed it against the wound.

She hissed, and I winced with her.

"Sorry."

"No, you're not."

"True," I smirked. "Suffering builds character."

As I wrapped the linen around her leg, I felt a shift in the room—well, in the...cottage-shaped suggestion of a room.

My eyes flicked up—more out of instinct than intention—just in time to catch Valtor at the broken table, his tall frame hunched over a worn, creased map he had just flattened out with a single sweep of his hand.

The table groaned beneath the motion as if it, too, was tired of being dragged through this journey.

His hand gripped the edge of the wood, the tendons along his wrist taut, his knuckles raw like he'd punched stone. Thin, jagged cuts lined his fingers, dried blood dark as ink webbed over the skin, long since clotted but still angry and red.

And then there was his forehead—partially hidden by those unruly strands of dark hair, now caught in the flickering glow of the oil lamp Herold had placed on the nearby shelf. A fresh scrape traced just beneath his hairline, sharp and uneven, faintly bleeding.

The kind of wound that would sting later when the adrenaline faded.

The lamp's flame made everything sharper—too sharp.

His storm-gray eyes narrowed in deep focus, lips pressed into a thin line. The muscle in his jaw twitched with silent tension, and for a second, he looked like something carved from the very mountains we'd passed—chiseled, still, and entirely unreadable.

I looked away too fast—so fast I nearly dropped the healing tincture in my hand.

"Your forehead's bleeding," I said, rising to my feet, clearing my throat like I was trying to cough out the heat rising in my chest.

"I am fine."

"You're not."

"There are more pressing matters than my wounds," he muttered, still focused on the map like he could will the answers from it.

"That might be true," I replied as I stepped closer, "but your bleeding on the map probably won't summon the answers any faster."

He glanced at me then, finally. "Is that another priestly proverb?"

I smiled thinly. "It is now."

Without waiting for permission, I dipped the cloth in the disinfectant again. He didn't flinch when I touched his skin, which honestly surprised me. I'd half-expected him to swat my hand away or at least snarl.

Instead, he stayed still.

Too still.

My fingers brushed through his hair to clear it from the cut, and he exhaled sharply through his nose—not in pain, but something else.

A sound that vibrated with restraint.

His storm-gray eyes flicked up at me from beneath thick lashes, unreadable as ever, but there was a flicker of something—curiosity, maybe. Or challenge.

"You have a surprisingly gentle touch," he murmured, voice low and far too amused.

"I'm good with wounds," I replied, dabbing the cloth in my hand with calculated care. "I've had practice."

"Self-inflicted, I assume," he said, a corner of his mouth twitching like he'd just scored a point.

I gave him a dry look. "Not all of us enjoy being dramatically stabbed every week for the glory of it. Some of us prefer not bleeding all over our companions."

His lips curved—more smirk than smile. "You say that like you're not jealous."

"Of the stabbing?" I raised a brow. "Not particularly. Though I do admire your flair for collapsing in the most scenic spots."

"Stage presence is important," he said smoothly. "Especially in leadership."

"Oh, is that what we're calling it?"

The silence that followed wasn't exactly awkward. It hovered between us, thick with something else—something warm, electric, and far too noticeable.

It crackled in the narrow space between our bodies, in the way he tilted his head just slightly when I pressed the cloth against the scrape on his brow.

This time, he leaned into my touch—not much, just enough for his breath to fan across my neck.

I hated how it made my heartbeat go traitorously uneven, which led me to bite the corner of my lips just to push away whatever this was.

He raised an eyebrow. "You're staring."

"No," I said evenly, though my voice betrayed me with the faintest crack. "I'm making sure you don't bleed into your eye socket. You'd lose all your brooding appeal."

"That would be a tragedy," he said solemnly. "What would you have to glare at, then?"

"I don't glare," I muttered, still dabbing carefully.

"You do, actually. Especially at me. It's almost flattering."

I clicked my tongue. "Turn your head."

He obeyed, slow and deliberate, and his cheek brushed far too close to mine in the movement. The air between us shifted. I thought he might say something else—another jab, another tease—but he didn't. He just looked at me.

No smirk. No smoldering arrogance.

I just... looked.

I swallowed and cleared my throat. "There. Done."

He didn't move right away. His gaze lingered for half a heartbeat longer than necessary.

Then he leaned back, just slightly. "You'd make a decent battlefield medic. For a scholar."

"And you'd make a decent prince," I said, rising to my feet. "For a pain in the ass."

He chuckled—an actual chuckle—and I blinked. The sound was rare. It echoed in my chest far longer than I'd like to admit.

Herold and Seraph returned with arms full of firewood, their voices echoing even before they stepped into the ruined cottage.

“We could’ve brought a damn log cabin at this point,” Herold grumbled, struggling under a pile of uneven sticks that looked more like tree limbs than firewood.

Seraph, naturally carrying fewer but much cleaner-cut pieces, smirked and flexed one arm like he’d just returned from a glorious hunt. “You’re just mad mine are thicker.”

“You’re compensating,” Herold muttered.

Elara, half-wrapped in a blanket on the ground with her eyes closed, cracked one open and muttered without looking, “If I hear one more ‘log’ joke, I’m hexing someone into the next realm.”

Could she really do that? I wonder.

“Worth it,” Seraph said, tossing his logs beside the fire pit with flair.

I let my legs give out beneath me and sank down to the ground, back leaning against one of the crumbling half-walls. Every muscle in my body cried out in protest. My arms were scratched, my ribs ached, and my magic still simmered just beneath my skin like an ember refusing to go cold. My head felt like it was packed with fog and questions.

Across the room, Valtor sat again, elbows on the table, eyes locked on the map like it held the answer to everything we hadn’t dared ask. The fire wasn’t lit yet. The food wasn’t even close to cooking. The wind still howled outside, slipping through the cracks of the cottage like it belonged there.

And then he glanced up.

Just a flick of his storm-gray eyes toward me—but he didn’t look away as quickly as he used to. No sharp comment followed. No sneer. Just… a look.

Like he saw me.

Really saw me.

It wasn’t much. It wasn’t dramatic. But somehow, it hit harder than it should’ve.

That quiet moment—among cracked stone, half-walls, and a roof barely clinging on—felt like the first flicker of warmth we’d had in days. A heartbeat of stillness amid chaos.

My breath caught for a second. Then I let it out slow, watching Seraph and Herold argue over who would light the fire faster while Elara hummed something soft under her breath.

My mouth quirked up at the corner without permission.

Quack doctor. Recently crowned prince. Walking magical detonation. Former priest.

And now—somehow—unofficial caretaker of one ice mage, one chaos duo, and one insufferable heir with very distracting cheekbones and a silent habit of staring like he had something to say but wouldn’t say it.

I leaned my head back against the stone.

Just five more minutes, I told myself.

Five minutes before I had to care again.

Five minutes where, for once, everything wasn’t burning.

Except maybe… something I didn’t quite have the name for. Yet.