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Chapter 17.

​The mirror in Rhiannon’s room told a new story. The hollows beneath her cheekbones had begun to soften, filled in by the rich mountain game and Sora’s thick stews. Her skin no longer looked like thin grey paper, and her stride, while still careful, had lost its frantic, bird-like tremor. She was becoming something solid.

​"The lowlands are calling today," Fenris said, appearing at her door as she was adjusting the leather boots. He wasn't in his heavy furs; he wore a dark traveling cloak over a simple tunic, though the silver hilt of his blade still peeked from his hip. "A merchant caravan has crested the pass. It’s time you saw the world beyond the stone."

​The trek down the mountain was a testament to Rhiannon’s progress. She navigated the curves of the road with a quiet focus, her eyes on the ground, learning the language of the shale. When they reached the valley floor, the air changed- it grew thick, heavy with the scent of damp earth, spices, and the pungent aroma of pack animals.

​The caravan was a riot of color against the grey mountain backdrop. Human merchants in quilted coats shouted over the braying of mules, unfurling bolts of silk and displaying crates of salt.

​As Fenris and Rhiannon approached, a sudden, sharp silence rippled through the crowd.

​Rhiannon felt the old, familiar instinct to flinch, to find a shadow to hide in. These were normal humans- the kind who lived in the cities, the kind who turned a blind eye to the rot-heaps. But as she watched them, she realized they weren't looking at her with cruelty. They were looking at Fenris.

​The head merchant, a stout man with a weathered face, stepped forward and bowed low- not out of mockery, but out of a deep, trembling reverence.

​"Lord Nightshade," the man rasped. "The pass was clear of bandits, as promised. Your scouts kept the perimeter well."

​"The peace of the mountain is my word, Samuel," Fenris replied, his voice a low, commanding rumble that made the human's knees visibly shake.

​Rhiannon watched the exchange with a strange sense of displacement. To these people, Fenris was a terrifying deity, a dark force of nature that kept the monsters of the world at bay. They feared him, yes, but they respected the order he provided. He was the barrier between them and the chaos in this area.

​Fenris nudged her gently toward a table laden with curiosities from the south. "Look. Don't hide."

​Rhiannon drifted toward the stalls, her senses overwhelmed. She moved past jars of pickled ginger and bundles of cinnamon until her gaze caught on a small, dusty wooden box at the back of a trinket stall.

​She reached out, her fingers trembling as she touched a small, carved whistle made of rowan wood. It was crude, but the grain of the wood was unmistakable. It was the wood of her home. It didn't have the magic of her wand, but when she touched it, a faint, ghostly vibration hummed against her skin- a memory of the Whispering Woods.

​She didn't ask. She didn't have any gold, and she had spent her life learning that wanting something only made it easier to take away. She began to pull her hand back.

​A large, calloused hand reached over her shoulder. Fenris picked up the whistle, tossed a heavy silver coin to the merchant without a word, and pressed the wood into Rhiannon’s palm.

​"Keep it," he said simply. "The wood remembers you."

​Rhiannon gripped the whistle, the scent of rowan stinging her nose. She looked up at him, her dark green eyes searching his blue-gold gaze. He didn't look like a nightmare; he looked like a man who understood that some ghosts were worth keeping.

​"Thank you," she whispered.

​As they turned to begin the long climb back toward the fortress, Rhiannon froze.

​The static in her head suddenly cut out, replaced by a sharp, crystalline pull. It wasn't the "River’s Path" of the mountain or the hum of the glen. It was something else- a tether, vibrating with an intensity that made her chest ache. It was coming from the dark, unexplored density of the woods at the opposite end of the valley, away from the path home.

​She looked toward the deep shadows of the trees, her breath hitching. "Fenris... I feel something. A pull. It’s... it’s over there."

​Fenris didn't demand they return to the safety of the Hall. He didn't growl about the encroaching dusk. He looked at the woods, then back at her, his expression unreadable but supportive.

​"Then follow it, Rhiannon," he said, stepping back to give her the lead. "The mountain isn't the only thing that has a memory. Go see what’s calling you."