Page 15 of Shade of Ruin

Maybe it was. Especially with how she always got her way with Aunt Prudence when it came to me.

“If my tutor was Fae, what does that even mean?”

Cole shrugs. “I wouldn’t know. Most Immortals in Draenyth have multiple tutors. Especially those who are from the Great Houses. Now that you mention it, I don’t know if I’ve ever heard of another Wyrdling being given an Immortal tutor. That doesn’t seem very common. Your tutor was obviously hired by your mother as your father wouldn’t have been able to afford an Immortal.”

It feels like so much of my past has been a lie. Or at least secrets. Why would my mother hire a tutor for me but not stay with me? Why didn’t my father just tell me my mother was Fae? Why hadn’t Vesta told me I was a Wyrdling or that she was Fae?

Someone should have told me the truth. Maybe then I wouldn’t have gotten so angry with Hazel yesterday. Vesta knew what I was capable of. She should have told me.

But she did warn me. She’d warned me, over and over again, to not let anyone make me emotional. It was one of the few things she pushed on me almost daily.Emotions are the storms of humanity. They’re loud and messy and rarely have any benefit, and if you let them steer your course, you’ll almost certainly end up capsized. Hold tight to the rudder when thestorms of emotions cross your path. Seek the quiet of the forest and let them pass without ever giving them control.

She had warned me.

I turn to face the fire just as Cole is. Vesta had been Fae. My mother had planned to have someone take care of me, someone who knew what I was. But why’d my mother leave? Why hadn’t they just told me what I was?

My whole life has been a lie, but does that change anything? I don’t know. Maybe it changes nothing, or maybe it changes everything.

Chapter 8

The longer we stayed, the more creatures were touched by magic. These have become the Fae and live Immortal lives because of its touch. When we leave, every one of them will die when the magic leaves with us. This cannot happen.

~Vyran the Black, A History of Magic and Dragons

Days passed in silence.Cole adamantly refuses to become a talker during our daily walks. Mile after mile, we’ve made our way north on the path away from Blackgrove. The summer sun has only gotten worse as we moved far beyond the world I knew, and it feels like every mile is more exhausting than the last.

Just like I’d said, every evening when we set up camp, I’ve scampered off into the woods to catch our dinner while Cole silently makes the fire. Somehow, silently hunting in the forests I’ve never visited is so much more enjoyable than walking mileafter mile beside Cole. I don’t mind the silence in the forests, but silence on the road is miserable.

Each tree I touch calms my need for chatter. Each bird that screeched at me makes me smile. Maybe I’ve been talking without words. Maybe I can have a conversation with the forests without making a sound. Yet, with Cole, the silence is exhausting.

That’s why I’m thankful that I’m crawling under a low hanging honey locust tree branch instead of furious. The thorns that cover the bark of the tree are longer than my thumb, and they’re both a blessing and a curse to the hunter. If I weren’t paying attention, it would be easy to put my hand on it, like I touch so many other trees. I’d come back looking like I’d fought a porcupine and lost.

But those same thorns are perfect at catching bits of fur from the creatures that brush past it. Little tufts of rabbit fur dot the bottom few inches, but all of it is old. Higher up, though, there are a few turkey feathers stuck. Turkeys are a pain to hunt with a spear, but all I’ve eaten for days is rabbit, and it’d be nice to have something with a bit more fat on its bones.

I know from my time in the forests of Blackgrove that turkeys tend to roost in the same spots regularly. It’s not a guarantee, but hunting never is. I’ll keep my eyes out for signs of rabbit, too, but my mind’s already gone to the idea of a nice juicy turkey cooked on a spit tonight.

I take off, following the path away from the honey locust tree that I would expect a turkey to follow. While turkeys can fly, it’s rare that they choose to when they can walk instead. They’re lazy birds, and I’m thankful for it.

The forests this far away from Blackgrove aren’t all that different from the ones I’m used to. Trees and plant life are becoming thinner and less leafy. The unending tree coverage hasmore clearings and more light, which only makes the summer heat worse.

The animals are the real change. While there’s more game, it’s… different. The same turkeys and rabbits and wolves and deer inhabit these words, but their activities are wrong. I heard a pack of coyotes calling at midday yesterday. It was scorching hot, but those were hunting cries. Why would they be out?

I notice a tuft of turkey down caught on a broken branch and know that I’m on the right trail. I move faster, doing my best to find the roost before the sun has gone all the way down and I lose all visibility in the trees.

Then I hear a sound that I’ve never heard before. A… broken thing. I slow down immediately and begin creeping toward the noise. It’s a turkey, but… but wrong. Sad almost? Mournful?

The screech is so similar to when turkeys are calling their poults to them, but it’s slow and languished. Not in pain… at least not physically.

I stalk forward, not entirely sure what I’ll find. I don’t know why anything would sound like this, but it tears at my heart. Even though it’s a turkey that I’m trying to kill and eat for dinner, that sound gets into me.

Then I see it. Head down, roosting in tall grass next to the trunk of an oak tree. It doesn’t lift its head as it sends out another haunting call. I don’t know what this call is. After spending at least some part of every day for more than twenty years in the forest, I’ve never heard a turkey sound like this.

No matter how much it bothers me, I’m in this forest to hunt for Cole’s and my dinner. I lift my spear in my right hand, my thumb pressing against the glyph as I get ready. The turkey hasn’t realized I’m here, so if I’m fast, I should be able to close the twenty feet between us before she has a chance to fly.

The turkey makes that dreadfully sad call again, and I take it as my cue to move. Sprinting, I race to her, and she hears me.She doesn’t fly, though. She just looks at me as I race toward her, spear in hand. Our eyes meet, and I know that something is very wrong. So wrong that it shakes me enough that I falter for half a second. There’s so much sadness in those eyes that I don’t think she wants to escape.

Even as I thrust, an obvious attack, she doesn’t move. The fire-hardened tip pierces her breast, and she goes silent. Her haunting call is ended before it's finished. It’s a clean kill, and her body goes limp as I pull the spear out.

Part of me is still bothered by the look I saw in her eyes and the sounds she was making, but the other part is glad that I have food for dinner. Then I realize she wasn’t just sitting on the ground. She was sitting in her nest. Branches have been arranged to hold her eggs inside while she sits on them and keeps them warm at night.

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