Page 65 of Tethered In Blood

Oberon’s voice sliced through the fog, pulling me back to the moment. The entryway was empty except for us. The vast space swallowed the echo of his words, making them heavier than they should have been.

He didn’t know. He didn’t mean it.

My breaths shuddered through me, uneven, but I made myself move. I pulled my shoulders back, straightened, and curled my fingers into the fabric of my dress to conceal the fresh bloom of blood soaking through the bandages.

Oberon watched me with an intensity that peeled back layers I didn’t want him to see. I took a deep breath and forced a smile, tilting my chin enough to make it convincing. “I tripped, but I’m fine.” The dim morning light filtered through the tall windows, highlighting his face. The muscles there flickered taut beneath his skin.

He didn’t call me on the lie. But it was clear he didn’t believe it.

His gaze shifted toward the dark staircase ahead of him. His body remained tense, with a restrained energy thrumming beneath the surface, though I wasn’t sure whether it resulted from frustration, caution, or something else. “Don’t go back out there alone,” he ordered. A flicker of warmth brushed against the chill in my bones. Not because of his words, but because of how he said them. No anger, no irritation. Just command.

I pressed the moment deep into the recesses of my mind, where it could fester in silence. If I ignored it long enough, the tremor in my hands might fade. Maybe the past wouldn’t claw its way to the surface. Maybe. The laugh escaped me, thinner than I intended, brittle at the edges. “Oh? And here I thought it was safe.”

Oberon didn’t share my humor.

His expression remained impassive, carved from stone, as he positioned himself in front of me in one swift motion. The shift was so sudden and decisive that my feet stopped. My pulse quickened as a wall of solid muscle and unwavering will stood between me and my way forward. His onyx eyes fixated on me. Oberon’s expression had always been unreadable, but there was an unfamiliar weight to it, a quiet intensity that held me in place. He didn’t just gaze at me.

He saw me.

“Dilthen Doe.” The words were soft. The low timbre of his voice sent goosebumps along my spine, but the plea beneath it unsettled me.Don’t.No elaboration, no demand.

My fingers dug deeper into my skirt, and the rough fabric pressed against my palm, the sticky warmth of my blood seeping through the bandages. He wouldn’t move until I acknowledged him. So, I lifted my chin enough to shift the balance. “I wasn’t planning on it.” It wasn’t a lie. Not entirely.

Oberon’s gaze raked over me. His lips parted as if he hadn’t decided what to say, but knew he wanted to respond. A tense pause settled between us before he exhaled sharply through his nose, signifying restraint. His jaw tightened, and he stepped aside. I moved past him before he could see any deeper, before his perceptive eyes could peel back the layers I wasn’t ready to expose. I kept my steps even, my shoulders straight, willing my heart to return to its proper rhythm.

I wasn’t sure what he’d find if he looked deeper into me, and I wasn’t ready to find out.

THEMORNINGINVaelwickwas a stark contrast to the night we arrived. The village stirred awake with the rhythm of daily life. Vendors arranged their wares, and the smell of fresh bread drifted through the narrow streets. Children darted between legs, their high-pitched laughter filling the air. On the surface, it was ordinary, familiar, and just like any other place. But beneath the hum of routine, wary eyes observed.

It wasn’t the idle curiosity of strangers passing through or the grudging acknowledgment of outsiders. This was different, more deliberate. Conversations tapered off as we passed. Voices dropped into hushed murmurs as if lingering too long on our presence might summon something worse. Heads turned, only for glances to flick away just as quickly, as though we carried misfortune in our wake.

It was as ifwewere the ones stalking the night.

I slowed near a group of villagers gathered outside a weathered stall, their fingers knotting dried herbs into bundles. The smell of rosemary and sage lingered in the damp air, masking a more acrid smell. The five of them—three women and two men—worked in silence, their hands never still even as they exchanged glances at my approach.

I wasn’t welcome. That much was clear.

“Excuse me,” I said, forcing a polite smile that I hoped wouldn’t betray my unease. “I was wondering about the trinkets around town that hang from the eaves and posts. What are they made of?” For a moment, only the rustling of herbs answered me. Then, an older woman with silver streaks in her thick braid met my gaze with a measured look. Her fingers worked on a small, carved figure between them.

“Bones. Wood. Twine,” She said with a voice rough as worn river stones.

Nodding, my eyes followed the contours of the tiny effigy. It was humanoid, but only just. Its features were too distorted, its limbs too thin. “And they symbolize…?”

A younger woman, just out of her teens, spoke up. “Protection, warnings. Prayers, sometimes.”

I followed her gaze to a nearby doorway where someone had drawn a sigil in what I hoped was chalk. Darker streaks bled into the wood grooves, resisting the rain that ought to have washed them away. “And the markings?” I asked.

The older woman’s hands stilled for a moment. “The same,” she said. The hair on my arms stood on end. She spoke those words as if they carried immense weight, as though voicing them could unravel something best left undisturbed.

The younger woman hesitated, then added, “Each family has its signs, some older than the village itself.”

Something unsettled twisted in my gut. Older than the village? The black wheat swaying in the mist, untouched by the wind, refusing to rot. “And the field?” I asked carefully. “The black wheat?”

The shift was immediate.

Their fingers stilled. The air thickened with an unspoken tension. The younger woman swallowed, her lips parting. The older one shot her a quick look. “It’s cursed,” the girl muttered, ignoring the warning.

A muscle feathered in the older woman’s jaw. One man, broad-shouldered and lined with age, looked at me. His expression was stern. But his voice was taut, a rope stretched too thin. “You don’ belong here, Herbalist.”

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