The Things We Don’t Say

The next morning, we packed in silence. Not out of tension, but out of ritual. Each of us knew our role now—who would lead, who would watch the rear, who would track the stars if the path twisted strangely. The five of us moved like parts of a single, bruised organism.

We left the broken cottage behind with the embers of our brief peace still glowing in its hearth.

The trail wound up into the forested arm of the mountain, the trees denser here, the light less forgiving. Mist clung to the roots like spider silk, and branches arched above us like ribs. The temple lay somewhere ahead, nestled between stone and time.

But before we made it another hour up the path, Herold dramatically sniffed the air, gagged, and announced, "If we don't bathe soon, I will set myself on fire out of courtesy."

Seraph raised an eyebrow. "That bad?"

"I'm pretty sure a bird dropped dead mid-flight just passing over me," Herold said, deadpan.

I hated to admit it, but he wasn't wrong. We'd been traveling for days—from the Crownlands to Erin, then across the bleak Wastelands, and now into the mountains—and none of us had touched water that wasn't rationed for drinking. Even I could smell... myself. A mix of dirt, sweat, and pure suffering.

"There's a river," Valtor said, nodding toward the slope beside the cottage. "Heard it last night."

"Valtor, you glorious, judgmental man," Seraph muttered. "Lead us to salvation."

We followed the slope down into a grove where sunlight broke through the mist just enough to make the water gleam. The river looked clear, cold, and quiet. The kind of river that promised dignity could be restored—if only briefly.

Everyone was starting to peel off gear like wild animals when it hit me: Elara.

I cleared my throat. "Wait."

The others paused. Elara looked at me, one brow raised.

"She's the only woman here," I said, voice cracking slightly. "Let's not... you know... act like we were raised by goats."

Seraph blinked. "Were you not?"

I ignored him and pulled a neatly folded, travel-worn blanket from my pack. It smelled faintly of lavender—I might've enchanted it once to mask the smell of horses, but I wasn't about to admit that.

"Elara, you can go first. We'll stay up the hill and stand guard," I said, handing her the blanket.

She looked surprised. Then she smiled, and I felt like someone had lit a torch in my chest.

"Thanks, Aric," she said gently, taking the blanket and heading toward the water.

Behind me, Herold leaned in with a whisper. "Did you iron that blanket too? Should we expect tea service?"

I gave him my most withering scholar-glare. He didn't flinch.

Seraph clapped a hand on my shoulder. "You are painfully ready for this expedition. Seriously. I bet you've got a second blanket in case the first one gets emotionally overwhelmed."

I didn't dignify that with a response.

We waited up the slope, sitting in awkward silence, pretending not to be awkward.

I tried to keep my eyes on the trees, the sky, the shape of a passing cloud—anything that didn't remind me a girl was bathing just a few yards away. A very capable warrior girl who could shoot frozen arrows through a man's chest, yes. But also... a girl.

The river below was quiet now, save for the occasional splash. Then, after what felt like both an eternity and not nearly long enough, we heard the soft steps on the path.

Elara returned.

Then I heard a sharp inhale beside me.

Herold's eyes were wide. Too wide. They had the kind of wide-eyed panic usually reserved for haunted statues or unexpected math.

A soft, stunned "Oh no," escaped him under his breath. His face had gone bright red.

Seraph, beside him, was faring no better. His mouth had dropped open in an exaggerated 'O,' and he turned to Herold like he'd just seen a ghost. Or a goddess. Possibly both.

My mouth went a little dry.

Her damp hair was tied back loosely, strands curling slightly from the water. Her cheeks were flushed from the cold, and her skin—freed of dust and travel grime—seemed to catch the dappled sunlight like it had been painted that way. She looked calm, composed. Radiant. Like someone had plucked her straight out of a sacred tapestry where all the heroines looked unbothered by mud, death, or long-distance travel.

She wore a fresh set of travel clothes—simple, practical, but somehow still graceful on her. Her old clothes, now washed and drying in the sun, clung slightly to her figure where they were still damp, draped over a nearby branch. The blanket I’d given her was wrapped around her shoulders like a makeshift cape, the edges fluttering a little in the breeze.

A part of me was just relieved she looked safe and at ease. Another part—the part that had apparently developed a very inconvenient sense of awareness—was suddenly aware of how beautiful she was.

She gave us a soft, simple nod. "All yours."

I nodded back, trying to look casual. Cool. Collected.

In my mind, I was the picture of princely decorum.

In reality, I was probably blinking too much and sitting like someone had just asked me to solve an ancient riddle in four seconds flat.

Herold let out a low whistle. Seraph elbowed him.

"Eyes forward," I muttered, though I wasn't doing much better.

Herold immediately snapped his head forward like a puppet on a string. "I wasn't. I'm blind now. Actually, my eyes don't even work. I'm just here for emotional support."

Seraph elbowed him sharply again, face still burning. "Do you think we should say something?"

"Like what, 'Wow, Elara, you've successfully redefined the concept of beauty in our exhausted male brains'?"

"No," I snapped. "Just—no one say anything. Be normal."

Herold gave me a sidelong glance. "You're not being normal. You're blinking like a broken lantern."

I sat up straighter. "I'm being perfectly normal."

"Sure," Seraph muttered. "If by 'normal' you mean 'looks like he just discovered human emotions for the first time.'"

I exhaled through my nose and rubbed my temples.

But then Elara glanced back—just once—and let out a soft chuckle at our reactions. Or maybe she was just checking to make sure the blanket didn't fall. I didn't know.

Herold made a small wheezing sound, like a kettle boiling.

"Okay," Seraph muttered, "we're doomed."

Valtor, to my surprise, didn't even look up from where he was brushing his horse's mane. Completely unfazed. Either he didn't notice, didn't care, or had mastered the art of focusing on his mount like it was a sacred duty passed down through generations of emotionally distant royalty.

He continued brushing down his horse with single-minded focus, like nothing had happened. Either he was entirely disinterested, or he had the willpower of a saint.

Unclear.

I smiled. Wait, I smiled? Why?

I shook my head, pushing away whatever thoughts were currently surfacing in my mind.

Herold, still flushed, leaned toward me. "Does he not have hormones?"

"Or maybe he's just seen a much prettier person before," Seraph whispered. "Unlike us."

I buried my face in my hands.

Elara was gone now, heading back up toward the slope, hair swaying behind her. And all I could think was: we were supposed to be investigating a temple today. A dark, ancient, possibly haunted temple. And yet somehow, this was the most terrifying part of my morning.

And I wasn't sure I'd survive it.

"Well," Seraph said, stretching. "Time for us swamp trolls to take the plunge. Simultaneously. All at once. Let's go."

"Wait," I said quickly. "Maybe I'll go last. Just in case someone needs to, uh... stand watch."

Herold gave me a long look. "You mean you're shy."

"No," I lied unconvincingly.

"You're adorably shy," Seraph added. "This is delightful."

"I grew up in the Priesthood. We bathed modestly. In robes."

"That explains so much," Herold said, shaking his head. "You know, I was starting to think you were perfect. But now I find out you're just... modest. And polite. The horror."

I turned pink; I could feel it. "Can we not—"

Valtor didn’t wait.

He was already at the river, pulling off his tunic with the effortless grace of someone who simply didn’t care who watched. Which, naturally, made it worse.

The sun caught him just as he moved into the water, light gleaming off his back—broad, muscled, and unfairly perfect. His skin, pale with a touch of bronze, looked like it belonged in one of the old statues that stood in the royal courtyards—those ones that made young priests avert their eyes during training.

I, too, averted my eyes.

Or at least, I tried to.

But the sunlight, the water, the quiet strength in his shoulders—it all kept pulling at the corner of my vision. My gaze kept slipping. Accidentally. Completely accidental. And fleeting. Mostly.

Seraph leaned in, catching my expression with that infuriatingly smug grin of his.

“I give you ten seconds before you panic and sprint into the woods.”

“I give me five,” I muttered, hugging my robe a little tighter.

Despite the embarrassment, I followed eventually. Carefully. Cautiously. Still half-dressed because modesty was apparently something only I cared about in this group.

Both Herold and Seraph were already in the river, shouting and laughing like children on festival day. Seraph was attempting to drown Herold in retaliation for an unprovoked splash, and Herold was shrieking something about the river being cursed. Water glinted off them like stars.

I stood at the edge like I was about to step into a divine ritual I hadn’t studied enough for.

I walked a little downstream, giving them space. Giving myself space.

I waited until I was sure no one was paying attention—until I could breathe without my pulse jumping—then stepped into the water. It was cold, biting cold, but strangely welcome. Like the world reminding me I was alive.

I kept to the edge, half-hidden by the riverbank and a few boulders. Scrubbed at my arms. Washed my face. Let the water soak into my hair and rinse away the grime.

Then I stood—robe still on, because unlike the rest of them, I wasn’t born without shame—and pulled it tighter as I rose from the water.

Which was, apparently, a mistake.

The fabric clung to me immediately, wet and unforgiving. It outlined everything I didn’t want outlined, especially not in front of a group of emotionally stunted royal misfits.

A low whistle echoed upriver.

I turned, startled—and, of course, it was them.

Herold had one brow arched like a villain in a play. “Didn’t realize you had such a slim figure, Aric. All those dusty scrolls must’ve counted as ab workouts.”

“I—what—no, this robe is just old—”

Seraph cackled and slapped the water. “No wonder the Queen made you a prince. Look at that princely posture. That’s a royal spine if I’ve ever seen one!”

I nearly slipped on a rock trying to turn away. “I will drown myself right now, I swear.”

Behind them, further upriver, Valtor stood in the shallows, half-submerged, arms crossed as he watched the chaos unfold.

No expression. No teasing remark.

Just watching. Quietly.

And for some reason, that made me more self-conscious than any of Herold or Seraph’s taunts.

What was he thinking?

Why was he watching?

He looked away and pinched the bridge of his nose.

I quickly turned away too, feeling heat creep up my neck despite the cold water. I ducked beneath the surface again and scrubbed my face, muttering something about this entire expedition being cursed.

Because apparently, I could fight shadows and live through haunted cottages—but I wasn’t prepared for this level of embarrassment or danger.

Social vulnerability.

And damp fabric.

But then again, I still found myself smiling.

Still, for the first time in days, we weren’t running, bleeding, or making life-or-death decisions. We were just… people. Stupid, stinky, ridiculous people.

And it felt kind of nice.

***

Herold rode ahead with Seraph, their horses weaving side by side. Seraph was mid-monologue, dramatically recounting how he once defeated a bandit lord with nothing but a frying pan and a glare. Elara trailed behind, probably wondering for the hundredth time why she hadn't joined a quieter squadron.

Valtor rode beside me. As usual, he didn't speak unless he had to.

Also, as usual, that didn't stop me from noticing him.

"Do you always send your attendants away when danger's close?" I asked, if only to break the silence.

He glanced at me, brow cocked. "Are you suggesting I lack concern for their well-being or that I'm hiding something?"

"Both," I said, because that was safer than admitting the truth: I was trying to understand him. And it terrified me a little.

His lips twitched, amused. "They would've slowed us down."

"That's not all," I said, quietly. "You weren't afraid for them. You were afraid of what they might see."

Valtor's silence was heavy this time.

Bingo.

He didn't deny it.

"It's not cowardice," he said finally. "When you've been bred to lead, you learn what your presence costs. The people who love you are always the first to bleed."

There was something in his voice—something raw and too honest—and I didn't know what to do with it.

So I looked away.

Don’t stare too long. Don’t let him see too much.

“The temple might not even be intact,” I muttered, shifting the conversation like a shield. “There’s a chance it’s just ruins. Or worse, some shadow spawn’s been nesting in it for years. I don’t know.”

Valtor didn’t respond immediately. I felt the weight of his gaze still on me, unnervingly steady. He had a way of looking at people like they were puzzles he’d already solved but was still waiting to see if they’d surprise him.

“And yet you still want to go,” he said quietly.

I tightened my grip on the reins. My knuckles turned pale against the worn leather. “I have to.”

He didn’t mock me. Didn’t scoff or roll his eyes like I half-expected him to. He just waited.

“It’s not just about the mission,” I continued, my voice quieter now, almost swallowed by the sounds of the forest. “It’s… It’s a piece of where I came from. Vellorien Temple wasn’t just a place of worship—it was the only home I ever had. Not the one we’re headed to now, but… still. It’s part of me.”

Valtor said nothing, but I could feel his gaze shift—sharp, attentive. He was listening. Really listening. That alone startled me more than it should have.

“I was left outside the gates of the Vellorien Temple in Varethiel—the City of Scholars, on the Island of Varethiel. Just a baby, wrapped in a sun- and moon-marked cloth. No note. No name. Nothing.”

The wind brushed through the leaves above us, but he stayed quiet.

“The priests raised me,” I went on. “They gave me a name. A purpose. It was quiet there. Peaceful. Everything was built around learning—rituals, languages, magic, and even ethics. Some of them had abandoned noble bloodlines; others never had titles or crowns to begin with. Just knowledge and service.”

I hesitated, feeling the ache of memory rise up. “You’d think growing up in a temple would feel lonely. But it didn’t. Not until it was gone.”

Valtor’s expression had shifted slightly. His usual unreadable mask was still there, but there was something softer at the edges. A flicker of curiosity… or maybe understanding.

“They were the only family I knew. And when the temple burned, when Master Aldric died saving me… I wasn’t just mourning people. I was mourning everything. My whole world.”

He exhaled through his nose and pinched the bridge of it—quiet, but sharp. A break in composure. His fingers twitched slightly on his reins, like he wanted to say something but didn’t know how.

“You lost more than a home,” he said finally. “You lost your foundation.”

I looked at him, surprised by the clarity of his words.

“Yeah,” I said. “Exactly that.”

He nodded slowly, eyes forward again. “That kind of loss doesn’t go away.”

His voice sounded like he was speaking from his own experience.

“You’ve lost things too,” I said carefully.

Valtor didn’t answer right away. For a long moment, only the sound of hooves and wind through trees filled the silence. The path ahead curved gently, and our mounts moved slowly as if sensing the heaviness in the air.

Finally, Valtor spoke. His voice was quieter than I’d ever heard it. Almost careful.

“I was five the first time I entered a temple,” he said, voice low and measured. “The world decided what I was before I could speak. Crowned me in expectations I never asked for. And every time I failed to meet them, someone else paid the price.”

I turned to look at him, surprised by the quiet weight in his words. His posture remained relaxed—reins held loosely, shoulders at ease—but his eyes weren’t. They were distant. Guarded. Like he was speaking from somewhere far behind the present, dredging up a memory he usually buried.

It struck me then—this was the first real conversation we’d ever had. No sarcasm. No scathing remarks or cold silences. Just… truth. Or the edges of it, anyway. And I didn’t know what to do with it.

I wasn’t sure what I felt. Curiosity? Unease? A strange, reluctant understanding?

He stopped talking after that. Fell silent like a shutter being pulled closed. But something in me stirred—a low, persistent itch at the back of my mind.

I wanted to know more.

Not because I was prying.

Not because I wanted leverage over him.

But because—for the first time—I saw him differently. Not just the golden heir with a chip on his shoulder. Not just the storm-crowned prince the others feared or followed. But someone shaped by burdens too heavy for a child to carry. Someone who had been placed in a role before he even knew who he was.

And I wondered… was that why he looked at me the way he did? Like I was some impossible thing—an outsider who wasn’t crushed by expectation, but carved by it?

But then he turned his gaze forward again, jaw tight, lips drawn into a firm line.

A subtle warning not to push.

Still, his next words caught me off guard.

“Do you remember it clearly?” he asked, tone softer now, almost careful. “The halls? The faces?”

The question wasn’t sharp or defensive—it was genuine. And it felt… oddly intimate.

I blinked, surprised he’d asked. “Yeah,” I said slowly. “I do. Every line of stone. Every crack in the floor. The way the candles flickered during morning rituals. The scent of old paper and ink. Even the faces of the elders—I remember how each one smiled when I passed by.”

He didn’t speak, but I saw his fingers flex around the reins—just once. A small, silent response.

“It was the only place I ever felt… safe,” I admitted, eyes drifting toward the horizon. “Even after the war began to bleed into the world. Even when danger crept closer. The temple was a world apart.”

Valtor didn’t answer. But I didn’t need him to.

For a brief moment, I felt like the space between us wasn’t quite as wide.

“You think it has answers,” he said. “To what happened in Erin. To what’s spreading.”

I nodded. “The priests kept records of ancient magic, rituals, bindings… even theories about the old wars. If something is awakening, something dark and older than us—I have to know. I have to see what’s left.”

He didn’t speak again right away. Just looked ahead, his eyes unreadable.

We rode on in quiet, the forest closing around us again, and for once, it didn’t feel uncomfortable.

Just necessary.

Ahead, the forest began to shift. The trees grew taller, older. The air held the scent of rain and stone and something faintly metallic—like old magic or blood.

Seraph pulled his horse beside us. "This place gives me the creeps."

"That's because it's older than your sense of humor," Elara called back.

Seraph turned, grinning. "That's impossible. My humor predates time."

But I barely heard them. My gaze locked on something in the distance.

Rising from the mist, half-swallowed by vines and cracked stone, was the temple.

It looked as if it had been carved from the mountain itself—pillars that were more tree than architecture, spires that pierced the fog, a domed roof crumbled in places but still majestic in the way forgotten things can be.

A place that had once been holy.

Now, it waited. Quiet. Watching.

Just like the shadows.

We halted at the edge of the clearing. The horses pawed nervously at the ground. The trees around the temple were dead—withered to black bark, as if scorched by magic long ago.

"I'll go in first," I said, swinging off my saddle.

"Aric," Elara said softly, but I shook my head.

"I'll be careful," I promised. "I just... need to see if there's something still alive in there—some piece of the old Order—I'll feel it."

Valtor stepped beside me, close enough for our shoulders to almost brush. "Then I'm coming with you."

His tone left no room for argument. It wasn't about pride. Or leadership.

It was about me.

And that scared me more than the shadows ever could.

Together, we stepped toward the threshold of a place time forgot—where gods might have once whispered and monsters might now sleep.

And something inside me stirred.

A memory.

Or maybe a warning.