Page 16 of Rebel's Fated Mate

Annis's gaze anchored the very air around us. "Her very existence is bound to that sacred obligation," she said, her voice thick with implications I was only beginning to grasp.

She nodded toward Lyra, who had stood quietly beside us, a silent observer to our discussion. "Food for our ally, girl. He will require sustenance before beginning the path that lies before him. And show him where to clean all the blood on his hands."

Lyra nodded. "Would you care to join me?" Her voice was soft, inviting, yet there was an undercurrent of seriousness that matched the somber mood her mother had set.

I shrugged, the tightness in my shoulders releasing as I realized how cramped I felt, how much I needed to stretch my legs,and perhaps my mind. "Yes, that would be good," I murmured, standing up to follow her.

We walked side by side to a small clearing where a few rebels sat sharpening their weapons.

Behind a large tree, she showed me a wooden bucket filled with water and a clean cloth. "You can wash here," she said, her tone gentle yet firm. "It’s not much, but it will do."

She handed me a fresh shirt, simple but clean. "Here, put this on. Your current attire is quite...marked."

I took the shirt with a nod, grateful for the opportunity to clean up. I waited until she had walked out of sight before I pulled my soiled shirt off.

As I washed the blood from my hands and face, the cold water helped to clear my mind as well.

Changing quickly and feeling somewhat restored by the small acts of normalcy, I returned to find Lyra. She ran appreciative glance over me and without a word, guided me to a log set away from the others, where the quiet would allow us to speak without interruption.

As she prepared a simple meal, I watched her move with a grace that was almost as mesmerizing as her mother's commanding presence. She handed me a bowl filled with a hearty stew, and as we ate, she began to open up about the rebels' ways and their hopes for the future.

"The rebellion is not just about overthrowing a tyrant," she explained, her eyes alight with a fervor that spoke of deep conviction. "It's about building something new—something better. My mother believes that with the right guidance, we can create a society where power is shared, where everyone has a voice."

I listened intently, the warmth of the stew and the sincerity in Lyra’s voice grounding me. Her words painted a vision of hope, a stark contrast to the violence and bloodshed I had just endured. It was a reminder of why this fight mattered, and why it was worth continuing, despite the personal cost.

As Lyra continued to share her dreams and aspirations for the rebellion, I couldn’t help but admire her passion. Her enthusiasm was gentle, but contagious, lighting up her features, making her seem both otherworldly and intimately present.

We were seated close, the warmth of the fire flickering reflections in her eyes, casting a soft glow on her face. It felt natural, comforting even, to be here with her, sharing this quiet moment away from the turmoil of my own troubles.

As the conversation flowed, I found myself comparing her vibrant spirit to the fierce presence of the woman in my dreams.

Lyra was real, tangible, her hand occasionally brushing against mine as we spoke, her laughter light and genuine. Yet, each laugh, each touch, strangely deepened the void within me, where echoes of my dream visions stirred restlessly.

She glanced at me thoughtfully. “Are you ready for tomorrow?” she asked.

I let out a loud shaky breath. “I will never be ready, but I accept my fate for what it is.”

Lyra nodded, understanding in her eyes when her hand reached out, her fingers brushing against mine, tentative yet seeking.

It was a simple gesture, meant to comfort or perhaps to bridge the gap between camaraderie and something more. But as her fingers closed around mine, a vivid flash of the woman from my dreams seared through my mind, her intense gaze piercing me with a magnetism I couldn’t ignore.

I gently withdrew my hand, meeting Lyra’s eyes with an apologetic softness. “I’m sorry, Lyra,” I said quietly. “You’re... you’re wonderful, but there’s something—I have to figure this out.” Her expression shifted from surprise to understanding, a gentle nod conveying her acceptance.

I left her, feeling her eyes on my back as I moved away from the warmth of the fire and the possibility of what might have been.

Climbing back to the high cradle of the oak tree, I sought refuge in its towering boughs. From here, I could watch over the rebel camp, my eyes scanning the shadowy outlines of tents and the quiet figures moving within. Here, high above the ground, I felt closer to the elusive threads of my dreams, the whispers of destiny that seemed to pull me in their wake.

As the day began to give way to evening shadows, I remained seated high in the oak, wrapped in the solitude of my thoughts.I could not shake the feeling of being torn between two worlds. Below me, the camp breathed a collective rhythm of peaceful activities, unaware of the restless guardian above.

I did not join the rebels for their night meal around the fire, but I observed them as afterward, they settled in for the night, each finding his own comfortable space and bidding his or her neighbor a good night.

Hours later, I remained awake, watching as the new day broke, washing the camp in hues of pink and gold, the rebels gathered in a clearing encircled by ancient trees. The ground beneath my feet was carpeted with fallen leaves, and the air was fresh with the scent of morning dew and pine.

This was where I would be formally woven into the fabric of the rebellion, and every detail of the ceremony was imbued with the deep, resonant pulse of ancient tradition.

At the center of the clearing stood a stone altar, rough-hewn and covered in creeping moss. Beside it, a large bonfire crackled, its flames reaching skyward, as if in silent homage to the ancestors who had founded this covert resistance. The rebels stood around in a solemn circle, their faces serious, their eyes reflecting the fire’s glow.

Annis, wearing a long robe embroidered with the intricate sigils of their lore—twisting vines and crescent moons—stepped forward. She held a wooden staff, its top carved into the shape of a bear’s head, symbolizing strength and ferocity. Her presence commanded attention, the air around her almost shimmering with the force of her will.

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