Chapter five “A Glance, a Choice, and Fear”
The forest was darker than usual, as if the trees had conspired to block out the sun. The air hung thick, laced with the scent of wet leaves and a silence so dense it seemed to echo.
Matthew moved with effort, supporting Ryan against his shoulder as they pressed forward through the tangle of branches, their steps clumsy, desperate.
Ryan's blood trailed behind them in quiet drops, staining the forest floor. He hadn't uttered a word since they entered the woods. His eyes, half-lidded, clung to the last threads of consciousness like a man teetering on the edge of sleep and death.
Matthew's breath came ragged as he spoke,
"Hold on… There's shelter nearby. We'll find it. Just a little further."
Ryan gave no reply. He merely closed his eyes for a moment—then forced them open, wide and wild, as if fighting off something unseen.
At last, they reached a massive tree, its leaning trunk curving downward It offered a semblance of shelter.
With great care, Matthew eased Ryan to the ground, propping him gently against the bark. Then he crouched low, tearing a strip from his royal cloak and pressing it to the bleeding wound.
His voice dropped, firm but edged with dread.
"Ryan… I have to go. I need to find help—someone from a nearby village."
His hand paused. Their eyes met—briefly, quietly, yet with everything unsaid between them.
"There might be. A healer. Someone can stop this bleeding. I'll bring them I promise."
Ryan didn't speak, but the look he gave was enough. There was no other way.
Matthew hesitated, then said more softly, as if trying to convince himself,
"I won't be long. Stay here…"
He turned, and without another word, vanished into the trees—running, alone, toward the unknown.
And Ryan remained, slumped against the tree's great trunk, his gaze drifting after Matthew, watching as his friend disappeared into the shadows.
Matthew pushed his way through the forest, the branches swaying above him, the ground groaning faintly beneath his boots.
The stillness was suffocating—no birdsong, no trickle of water.
Only the wind.
But that wind…
It was not silent.
It carried with it echoes of what he thought he'd left behind.
"No harm must come to the Queen's personal knight."
The words rang out in his mind, sudden and sharp.
He halted, closed his eyes for a moment, and conjured her face—the dignity, the control, the unfathomable mystery she wore like a crown.
He stood still in the heart of the woods, staring at the light trickling through the branches above.
He drew in a slow breath.
She wasn't only afraid for me…
She was afraid to show it.
The thought came to him, quiet and inward:
"She always says what must be said… but never what she feels."
A faint, bitter smile curved his lips as he resumed walking.
"And for her… that's enough."
He kept moving, his eyes scanning the forest ahead.
But he wasn't alone.
The memories walked beside him.
The trees began to thin. Light crept in, golden and hesitant, until at last the edge of a village emerged before him Raiverstone.
It looked alive—truly alive.
He didn't step forward at once. He paused at the treeline, breath held, watching the villagers in silence… the smoke curling from rooftops, the movement of life resuming as if untouched by the weight of the world.
His eyes wandered—until they landed on a young man at the far end of the village, stacking firewood beside a small cottage.
Matthew approached slowly, his steps soft but deliberate.
When he drew close enough for the sound of his boots to carry, the young man looked up. Their eyes met—but the boy didn't flinch.
Matthew spoke, voice tired but steady:
"Is this the village of Darvenil ?"
The young man stepped forward, wiped the sweat from his brow, and replied,
"No. This is Raiverstone Who are you?"
Matthew gave a short nod.
"Raiverstone, then."
He hesitated, then added cautiously,
"I'm one of the Royal Guard. We were attacked by bandits. My friend is wounded—deep in the forest. The injury is… severe. Is there a healer in the village?"
The boy paused, considering. Then he set the firewood aside and said:
"Oh. My mother's a healer. I'm Leo… Come. I'll take you to her."
While Matthew was walking behind Leo through the paths of Riverstone, searching for a glimpse of salvation for his injured friend,
life in the palace continued at its usual pace.
On the upper floor of Elios Palace,
Kara was beginning her morning as she did every day—
The room was filled with the scent of lavender and dried roses,
and the heavy curtains were half-open, letting rays of sunlight lazily slip onto the marble floor.
Thalia, wearing the simple uniform of the servants, was crouched on the ground, wiping the dust in silence.
And on the balcony chair, Kara sat, watching her over the rim of her teacup—
her eyes never leaving the servant's movements, as though she were observing a painting she couldn't quite comprehend… but couldn't look away from.
Kara said in a cold tone, hiding subtle mockery:
"You know, Thalia… I've always wondered about the Queen's and the Dowager Princess's fondness for you.
None of the other servants ever received that much interest."
Thalia paused for a moment, glanced at her briefly… then returned to wiping the floor.
Kara continued, crossing one leg over the other:
"I used to wonder… what makes you special?
A silent girl who doesn't speak, with no remarkable skill."
She smiled to herself, and spoke more softly:
"But now I understand. It's not because you're skilled… it's because you're deaf.
People prefer those who won't share their secrets."
She placed her teacup down and leaned in slightly,
and whispered:
"That's why I was so insistent on making you my personal maid."
She paused, then turned and sat on the bed, speaking slowly:
"You know what intrigues me more?
You can't speak… not even write.
And that, in itself, is a blessing for the people you serve."
She stared at her with eyes full of cunning:
"Sometimes… when I look at you,
I wonder: how can a servant like you… be the mother of the Royal Guard's greatest commander?"
Thalia's hand trembled for a moment.
Kara went on with a light laugh:
"Yes, Ryan… even he doesn't seem convinced you're his mother.
And me? I'm sure he isn't."
Then she leaned toward her and whispered:
"They say a mother gives her son a name… and something of herself.
And you, Thalia… you gave Ryan the gift of silence."
Those words dropped like a stone into still water.
Thalia's breath faltered, her hand hesitated over the floor.
She didn't move, but something flickered in her eyes—
as if an old pain had suddenly awakened, waiting to rise.
Slowly, she set the cloth aside,
and stood with a heavy stillness, bowing formally to Kara—
but her movement revealed something else: a quiet break that didn't want to be seen.
She picked up the bucket, turned toward the door,
and walked away with slow, heavy steps—
as if every step carried the weight of what had just been said.
On her back, there was sorrow…
And on her shoulders, a burden that had no words.
In the dim hallway, Sherafis was making his way toward the royal hall.
When his eyes met Thalia's, he paused and said quietly:
"Thalia… Thalia… do you know how curious I am to learn what secrets you've uncovered lately?"
He stepped closer, stared into her eyes,
and said in a tone tinged with mischief:
"Who's digging whose grave this time?
You? You don't write… or so you let them believe that
So tell me, Thalia… what do you know?"
She remained silent. Her hands clenched the bucket handle, but she didn't move.
He studied her for a moment, then cleared his throat and said:
"As you wish…
But remember—too many secrets are dangerous.
In the end… the body breaks."
And as he passed her, he added in a low, cunning voice:
"All those souls you've buried…
One day, they'll rise, one by one…
To come for us.
So be ready, Thalia."
And Thalia… stood frozen in place,
as if her feet had taken root in the floor.
But in her eyes…
was something that could never be spoken.
And while Thalia remained standing in the corridor, burdened by her silence,
her son was facing a different kind of silence…
In the heart of the forest, beneath a pair of beautiful eyes—eyes that feared him.
Ryan was slumped against the trunk of an old tree,
his chest rising and falling with effort,
his eyes half open,
fighting off the weight of his wounds and the blood that had crusted over his uniform.
He held no sword.
He had no strength to move.
But his mind remained alert—
listening for any sound… any sign.
Suddenly—
a faint rustle among the trees.
Then, a low growl.
A massive black wolf emerged,
its eyes gleaming with deadly awareness, its stance radiating merciless intent.
Moments later, a white she-wolf followed, standing at his side, her ears perked,
sniffing the air as though catching the scent of blood.
Ryan tried to rise… but his body betrayed him.
All he could do was lift his gaze—expecting the end.
Dark crept forward,
his growl deepening.
Then—a voice echoed through the woods, unfamiliar yet human:
"Dark! Vala! Where are you?!"
It was Liara, weaving lightly through the branches.
But the moment she glimpsed the figure leaning against the tree—
she froze.
Her eyes widened in fear.
Royal armor.
The insignia of the Guard, clear as day.
A sword at his side.
His eyes—barely open—yet she could feel his gaze.
A wounded man…
"…No. Impossible."
She whispered to herself,
taking a step back, heart pounding wildly in her chest.
Dark let out a louder snarl, but Liara called out:
"Dark, Vala… come!"
The wolves retreated to her side,
but she remained standing, breath shaky, staring at the injured man.
"He's from the Royal Guard."
She said inwardly, trembling.
"Did he come for my father?
Does he know who we are?
Is he going to kill us?"
Her gaze wavered.
She took half a step forward—then stopped.
Part of her whispered: Help him.
The other part screamed: Run.
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The next chapter is already in the works…
More fire is coming soon.
Much love,
ROA (Author of The Wings of Ash)