Page 75 of The Ascended
I took it, grimacing at the deep ache that would definitely bruise. The moss clung to my palms—thick, slimy, reeking of rotting fish. Gods itreeked.I inspected it, rubbing it through myfingers then looked down. I scraped away a patch of the moss with my boot, revealing pale threads like spider's silk woven through the dark soil beneath. Hylock moss.Shields fungal veins from the elements.
Two weeks ago, I wouldn't have known that.
Perhaps I’d absorbed more of Xül’s teachings than I thought.
A cry split the air above us. We both looked up to see a flash of silver between the leaves. The eagle. It circled once, its wings trailing light like a comet's tail, before disappearing into the canopy.
Catching that won’t be as easy,I murmured, frustration bleeding through the bond.
Not at all,Thatcher replied.
We pressed on, heading northwest now, the ground beginning to slope upward. After maybe half a mile of steady climbing, a stone mass appeared between two trees. It sat in a natural depression, sheltered by the rising slope behind it—a perfect spot between two of the northern peaks' foothills.
Smoke rose from a chimney. The door was solid and bound with iron, and when I tried the handle, it didn't budge.
"This is strange, Thatcher." My voice came out raspy, jagged with growing panic. "Why is there a building here? Why the smoke?"
He examined it, running his hands along the stone. "I don't know…"
We both stared at it for a moment longer.
Keep moving,Thatcher sent.Whatever this is, we can't afford to get distracted.
And so we did.
A clearing opened ahead, and we decided height would give us an advantage. Thatcher laced his fingers together, and I stepped into the makeshift stirrup, letting him boost me up.
I had to stretch to reach the first solid branch. Once I had my footing, I leaned down to help Thatcher up?—
But we weren't alone anymore.
Another contestant perched in a neighboring tree, settled into the crook of two massive branches. His bow was drawn, arrownocked, aimed at something above us. Everything about his posture screamed competence. Patience. A trained hunter?
When he shifted his grip on the bow, I caught sight of black ink on his wrist—crossed swords beneath a crown. The mark every soldier received upon entering the royal forces. Not a volunteer. Not a hunter. Military.
Our eyes met.
My heart stopped. Started. Stopped again.
He was older than us—maybe thirty, with stoic features and dark hair pulled back in a knot. I recognized him vaguely from the Choosing, though we'd never spoken.
His gaze held mine for one breath. Two. Three.
My hand burned, sparks tingling my skin, but I knew any sudden movement might trigger him to loose that arrow. Behind me, I felt Thatcher go equally still, his power coiling like a spring.
Then, without warning, the other contestant simply... relaxed his draw. Lowered his bow. He held my gaze a moment longer before melting back into the foliage. One moment there, the next gone, as though he'd never existed at all.
Well,I sent to Thatcher, trying to calm my racing heart.Someone didn’t want company.
We should move somewhere else just to be safe. We’re sitting ducks now if he has a change of heart.
We found a different section of forest to continue our hunt.
"Someone else is in this area," Thatcher observed, pointing to boot prints crossing our path. "Recent." I studied the tracks. A dragging left foot. Someone favoring an injury.
A figure darted between distant trees—brown hair, that same nervous gait I'd noticed before. He was maybe fifty yards away, moving carefully but not carefully enough. When he paused to check something in his pack, I saw him pull out what looked like a dead moon-hare.
So he'd had some success. Good for him.
