‘I have found where the kitten is held,’ Misty murmured into Del’s mind, her tone languid, but with an edge sharp enough to draw blood. ‘Two meat-bags, one barker, and a shack held together by mould and bad intentions.’

  Del halted mid-step, crouching behind a tangle of thorns. The forest around them had fallen into that late-night hush—the kind that makes every breath feel loud. Misty’s presence was just ahead, golden eyes gleaming faintly beneath a low-hung bramble.

  She turned, tail curling like punctuation, and brushed against Elara’s leg as she passed. The elf reached down and ran gentle fingers along Misty’s back—earning, from the cat, a low purr that somehow managed to sound judgmental.

  Then Misty vanished into the dark with fluid disdain, her thoughts slipping back into Del’s mind.

  ‘She’s adjusting well. You, on the other hand, are twitching like a rookie. Need me to hold your hand?’

  Del didn’t respond. Not aloud.

  His grip tightened around his bow. She wasn’t wrong—his nerves were coiled tight. Not fear. Just the sense that this was it. The last piece. The last risk. Naomi was close, and the wrong move now would turn victory into ruin.

  Ahead, Misty reappeared as little more than a silhouette against the darker dark. Her head turned slowly, then again. She was scanning.

  ‘Shack’s no more than a hundred yards past the treeline. One fool with a spear by the door. One feeding the fire like it owes him a favour. And the mutt—big, black, ears like knives, eyes like rot-amber. An ashound. Ugly, even by dog standards.’

  Del swallowed. ‘Ashound?’

  ‘Yes, oh mighty hunter. A real brute. But lacking subtlety. I’ll handle it. You just try not to embarrass yourself.’

  He glanced sideways at Elara, who knelt beside him, gaze locked and steady. No tremble in her breath. No doubt in her face.

  Del ignored Misty’s tone, grounding himself in the facts. Layout. Movement. Wind. He scanned the clearing ahead—shadowed edges, wavering firelight. The embers of the small campfire cast long, uncertain silhouettes across the shack’s front wall, turning its warped slats into shifting bars. Smoke hung low, threaded with the smell of scorched wood and old sweat.

  He felt Elara beside him, silent and coiled. Her breath shallow. Her fingers curled tight around her bow. Ready—but wound. The light played off her skin in flickers, painting her not quite elven, not quite mortal. Something between.

  “You take the one by the fire,” he whispered. “I’ll handle the spear. Misty—”

  ‘I told you, I shall deal with the ashound,’ came the reply, clipped now. ‘It’ll chase me. It’s all teeth, no thought. The rest is up to you.’

  Del nocked an arrow. “You left, me right?”

  Elara nodded once, sharp and precise. Her eyes gleamed in the dark. No nerves. Just something fierce, barely leashed.

  They waited, a beat longer than comfort allowed.

  Then Misty stepped from the brush.

  Not stealthy—serene. She emerged like smoke, every movement fluid and deliberate. She didn’t slink; she announced. Her paws touched the moss with no sound at all, but her presence was loud—radiating challenge, disdain, bait.

  The ashound stiffened, its ears slicing up like blades. Its head swung toward her. Eyes caught the light—gold, molten, hungry. It growled low, a rumble that rolled across the camp like distant thunder.

  Misty met its gaze. Hissed and arched her back in a perfect curve. And with queenly contempt, turned, her tail raised like a banner and sauntered away.

  The beast lunged.

  Its claws ripped furrows in the dirt as it gave chase, a blur of shadow and rage. Misty vanished between the trees, barely disturbing a leaf. The ashound thundered after her, snarling, the ground shaking beneath its sprint.

  The two guards rose, fumbling for weapons, half-formed shouts on their lips.

  Elara breathed. “On three. One... two—”

  “Three,” Del said, releasing.

  Twin arrows flew, slicing through the air with soft menace. His struck the guard by the door dead centre—punched through the sternum, knocked him back like a ragdoll. Elara’s arrow took the other in the throat just as he turned, silencing whatever command he might have barked.

  He collapsed backward into the fire, legs spasming.

  They moved. Fast and low.

  Elara reached him first, booting the corpse clear of the flames with no hesitation. Sparks scattered into the air like startled fireflies. Del reached the shack’s wall, bow still raised. He scanned the treeline, the road beyond, the shadows inside the shack’s windows.

  No movement. No sound beyond the fire’s guttering.

  The night held.

  ‘The barker is dealt with,’ Misty purred in his mind, the words slow and smug. ‘Try not to trip over the corpses on your way in.’

  The shack’s door groaned as Del pushed it open. The interior smelled of sweat and old smoke, the sour tang of decay thick on the air. A table sat off-centre, littered with cracked bottles and gnawed bones. A straw mattress lay in one corner, its blanket soaked through with damp.

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  In the far corner, beneath a heap of cloth and trash, something caught his eye—carved wood, edges too clean to be refuse. But he left it. Not now.

  A heavy padlocked door occupied the back wall.

  “This must be it,” Del muttered.

  “I can break it,” Elara said, already testing the hasp with her fingers. It groaned under her grip.

  “No need.” He drew a thin pick from his belt. The lock gave after a few seconds, clicking open with reluctant grace.

  The door creaked wide.

  Naomi.

  She was slumped against a thick wooden post, wrists bound tight, iron chains wound round her middle like a restraint and a warning both. Her dress, once pale blue, was soaked through with sweat and filth. Her skin had the waxy pallor of illness—lips dry and cracked, cheeks hollowed. Listwort. The bitter, acrid stench of it hung thick in the air, clinging to the damp walls, to her hair. A small patch of vomit had dried on the floor beside her. Around her mouth, flecks remained.

  She looked… emptied.

  Elara inhaled sharply beside him. “She is heavily drugged.”

  Del didn’t answer. He was already at Naomi’s side, dropping to his knees in the straw.

  Her eyes were closed, lashes stuck together with sweat. Her chest rose and fell, but only just. Shallow. Fragile. Like each breath might be her last, or her first.

  He reached out, hesitating an inch from her shoulder. His hand trembled.

  “Elara—help me.”

  Together, they moved with quiet precision, freeing knots, loosening rope. Del found the key on a rusted hook hammered into the wall and turned it in the iron hasp. The chains fell with a clatter far too loud for the moment.

  Naomi sagged forward into his arms, head limp against his chest.

  Her weight was negligible. Bones and cloth. She barely felt real.

  Del’s jaw clenched. He’d pictured this moment a hundred times—her smiling, maybe laughing, safe in someone’s arms again. Not like this. Never like this.

  “She’s out of it,” Elara murmured, brushing damp hair from Naomi’s forehead. Her touch was gentle. Protective. “But she’ll make it. I’ll carry her.”

  Del hesitated—but nodded.

  Elara gathered Naomi up with care, cradling her as if carved from glass. The girl gave a low moan in her throat, then went still again.

  Quickly leaving the cloying cell, Elara stepped toward the door. Del followed, but paused just once. He turned back to the cluttered table, spotted the corner of a wooden chest buried beneath mouldering cloth, and yanked it free.

  “What’s that?” Elara asked, shifting Naomi’s weight in her arms.

  “No idea,” Del muttered, giving it a quick shake. Something rattled inside. “Only thing in here not soaked in piss or blood.”

  Elara glanced down at the unconscious girl. “Apart from Naomi, obviously.”

  They moved fast through the trees, the forest opening up ahead. A warm, acrid smell met them long before the house came into view—the last wisps of smoke staining the air.

  The barn was smouldering. Tendrils of smoke curled from the collapsed skeleton, glowing embers threading through the blackened timbers like veins of fire. Joel stood near the house, gripping a long-handled rake, his shirt streaked with soot. He was dragging at the smouldering wreckage, trying to keep the heat from catching again. Mara bolted down the steps at the sight of them, apron flapping. “Is she—?” Her voice caught.

  “She’s fine,” Elara said, steady. “Just needs rest.”

  Mara didn’t ask more. She reached for them, guiding Elara inside. “Bring her in. I’ll get a blanket. And tea. I’ve got valerian.”

  Her voice was brisk, but her hands trembled.

  Joel caught Del’s eye and nodded once. No words. Just understanding.

  The yard was strewn with corpses—bandits sprawled in undignified shapes, limbs twisted where they’d fallen. Blood had soaked into the soil in ugly blotches. The house still stood. But the air reeked of violence.

  Del set the chest down by the porch and rolled up his sleeves.

  Joel didn’t hesitate. He grabbed a pitchfork from where it leaned against the side of the house and crossed to the smoking ruin of the barn. What remained of it still smouldered—half its frame sunken in, the roof a broken spine of charred timber.

  “Still got heat in it,” Joel muttered. He prodded at a pocket of glowing embers with the fork, then reached for a bundle of dry kindling stacked under the eaves. “We can make it burn again.”

  Del grabbed a second pitchfork and joined him. “We should clear space first. Make sure it won’t spread.”

  They worked in silence at first, dragging loose boards clear, reshaping the perimeter of what was once a barn into something controlled. The fire didn’t roar. It pulsed. It breathed. As they fed it, it came slowly back to life—low flames licking at the wood, smoke turning thick again.

  Then came the bodies.

  One by one, they dragged the dead from the yard. Some were heavy with armour, others light and ragged, barely more than boys. Most bore wounds too violent to look at for long. Del grunted with the effort, jaw tight. Joel worked beside him with the grim set of someone tending to animals gone bad.

  “This ain’t something a man should have to do on his land,” Joel said at last, voice low. “But I’ll not have them rotting in my field. They brought ruin here. Let the ruin take them back.”

  Del nodded, shifting the weight of another corpse over his shoulder. “They don’t deserve a marker.”

  The heat from the rekindled fire was fierce now—enough to sting the eyes, to drive sweat from every pore. They moved methodically, a rhythm forged in necessity. Lift. Carry. Burn.

  By the time the last body was fed to the flames, the yard looked less like a battlefield and more like aftermath. Blackened patches where blood had soaked the soil. Scorch marks still smoking. But no more corpses.

  Joel wiped his brow, eyes on the fire. “Barn was old,” he said at last. “Roof leaked. Walls sagged. I always meant to rebuild it.”

  “Not like this,” Del said.

  “No.” Joel exhaled. “But it’ll do, for now.”

  Inside, the house was warm. Mara’s voice bounced off the walls, giving orders to no one and everyone. Naomi lay curled on a cot near the hearth, a blanket drawn tight around her. Her breathing had eased.

  Misty sprawled near the fire, grooming a paw with slow, smug elegance.

  Wren, curled in a chair, was already asleep.

  “You two stink,” Mara said without looking up. “Wash, then sit. You’re not dragging burnt arse and ash through my floors.”

  Joel laughed. A real laugh this time.

  They took turns at the pump. The cold water scoured their hands clean, but not their minds. By the time they came in, Mara had laid out bread, cheese, cold cuts, and tea.

  Elara sat with a mug cradled in her palms. She looked up as Del entered.

  “Sleeping soundly,” she said. “She’ll be alright.”

  Mara nodded, satisfied. “And you.” She jabbed a finger at Del. “Eat. You’ve done more than enough for one night.”

  He didn’t argue. The food was plain, but every bite was a quiet anchor. Joel sat beside him, silent and solid.

  They talked about repairs. Fences. The new barn. Elara listened quietly, her eyes often drifting to where Naomi slept.

  Later, Mara brought out something strong in a brown glass bottle. They toasted survival, toasted stubbornness. Misty dozed by the hearth, one paw twitching as if chasing dreams. Elara rose once to tuck Naomi’s blanket more securely around her, fingers brushing the girl’s brow, then returned without a word.

  The fire crackled. The house felt warm again—lived in, not just survived in.

  When the meal was finished and the quiet had grown long, Mara stood, collected the mugs, and gave them both a look. “The spare room’s made up like before. Go. Sleep. You’ve done enough.”

  They didn’t argue.

  Del carried the small chest upstairs and placed it beside their bed. The scent of smoke still clung to their clothes, but the sheets were clean, the silence heavier now.

  Elara came in after him, her face soft with exhaustion. She yawned and sank down beside him, nestling in close, her mug balanced loosely on one knee.

  “We did good,” she murmured, her gaze distant but calm.

  “Yeah,” Del said, eyes heavy. “We did.”

  The wind whispered past the window. The fire below crackled faintly.

  “We’ll help them tomorrow,” he added, his voice trailing. “But we need to reach Hybern soon.”

  Elara nodded, her head settling to his shoulder. “We’ve a lot to talk about too.”

  Sleep came fast.

  And outside, far below, the embers in the barn glowed low beneath the ash.