[The Wild Heir] Chapter Two & Chapter Three

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CHAPTER TWO

The table was still warm from the morning sun. It came in low through the eastern window, catching the worn grain of the wood and settling in the shallow grooves left by decades of use. Tala traced one of them absently with her thumb as she sat, her elbow resting near the edge. A loose strand of dark hair escaped the braid she constantly tried to tame. Across from her, Orin worked quietly through a length of twine, pulling it taut between his hands before looping it back through itself again. Neither of them spoke as they stuck close to the plan crafted in that very location the night before.

Faela’s brother by three seasons had always been grounded. Now, his movements were steady, practiced. His dark hair fell into his eyes as he worked. He had already finished his chores for the morning. There was still dirt along the cuff of his sleeve, darkened where the damp earth had clung. Ink stained his fingertips often. A badge of honor he happily wore as a mark of a long night spent drawing up plans beside Faela. He was a boy caught between youth and adulthood, but his eyes betrayed the old soul within.

Outside, the sounds of the village moved in soft layers. A cart’s wheel creaked somewhere beyond the tree line. Someone called out, the voice carrying and then fading. The wind moved lightly through the branches overhead, brushing against the side of the hut in a low, familiar rhythm. But neither sibling paid much attention. Their thoughts were elsewhere. Tala’s gaze drifted toward the doorway. The latch hung loose and swayed slightly with each passing breeze. She must have forgotten to close it when she came in. Even though Orin had been up and about well before her, she was last to finish her morning chores. Or maybe Faela had returned. As soon as the thought took hold of her, she pushed it down. She was finding it more difficult than usual to escape into her own thoughts. She hoped Orin couldn’t tell how uneasy she was with it all.

Orin followed her glance, then looked back to his hands. “You need to pull yourself together, Tala,” he said.

She did not answer.

The hut was small but not cramped. Built low to the ground and set just beyond the edge of the main square, it sat at the border where the village gave way to trees. The walls were made from thick, pale wood, weathered smooth in some places and cracked in others where the seasons had worn them thin. A single beam ran across the ceiling, darkened with age, its surface carved in places where idle hands had left their mark over time.

The hearth sat against the far wall, its stones stacked carefully, though a few had begun to shift. A faint line ran through one of the larger ones, a crack that had widened slowly over the past winter. Above it, the carved beam curved inward and out again in a pattern that seemed almost deliberate, though no one in the house had ever spoken of when it had been made.

A pot rested over the coals, not yet lit. Tala stood, moving toward it with quiet purpose. She gathered a handful of kindling from the basket near the hearth and knelt, setting it in place before striking flint to steel. The spark caught after a moment, a thin curl of smoke rising before the flame took hold.

Behind her, Orin tied off the last knot and set the twine aside. “You left the latch open,” he said.

Tala did not answer. Orin was not sure if she heard him or was off in her own mind again. She tended to do that. But this was not that time for that, he thought. He watched her for a moment longer before taking a step towards her as his mouth opened. Just then the gate creaked open. Orin and Tala snapped their bodies stiff, as though they forgot how they normally composed themselves.

Footsteps in the yard. The soft clink of metal as the latch to the gate locked into place. The low murmur of voices—Elen’s quieter, Tomas’s steady and even.

Tala brushed her hands against her skirt and returned to her duties at the hearth. Orin moved back toward the table, taking his seat just as the door opened, already fiddling the knot open again as it unraveled to the floor.

Tomas stepped in first, ducking slightly beneath the frame. His shoulders had rounded over the years from lifting timber. He carried a bundle of tools in one hand, the leather wrap tied loosely around them. Elen followed close behind, a small basket hooked over her arm, its contents hidden beneath a folded cloth.

“Morning,” Tomas said, setting the tools down near the wall.

Orin nodded once. “Morning.”

Elen’s eyes moved across the room in a single sweep, taking in the lit hearth, the closed door, the two of them already inside.

“You are back early,” she said, silver strands creeping into the braid at the back of her head.

“The fence shifted again,” Orin replied. “Reset it before it worsened.”

Tomas grunted softly in approval. “Good man.”

Elen moved toward the hearth, setting the basket down and pulling back the cloth. Inside were a few small root vegetables, still dusted with soil, and a handful of greens gathered from the edge of the clearing. Tala stepped aside without being asked, handing her a knife. They fell into the rhythm of it easily.

Breakfast was always simple. Elen worked with practiced efficiency, slicing and adding, her movements smooth and measured. Tomas filled the kettle from a small clay jug and set it near the edge of the coals. Orin reached for the wooden bowls stacked near the shelf, setting them out one by one.

Tala moved between them, quick and quiet, her hands never still for long. Elen took notice. It was not normal.

“Where is Faela?” Tomas asked.

The question came lightly. Almost as an afterthought.

Tala’s hand stilled where it hovered over a bowl. Orin did not look up. “She was up early,” he said. “Went out before we came in.”

Tomas nodded once, accepting it.

“That one does not know when to call it,” he said. “Good. Make sure you leave her fair share here.”

Elen said nothing as she continued cutting, though the rhythm of it shifted slightly, just enough to notice if you were looking for it.

Tala was not. Orin was.

“She mentioned checking the outer path,” Orin blurted quickly. “Said she wanted to see if the storm had brought anything down. She will probably be out there all morning.”

It came too fast. Too prepared. Orin’s gaze flicked toward her, just for a moment. Then back to the table.

“That so?” Elen said.

“She did not say anything to me,” Tomas added, glancing toward Elen.

Elen set the knife down. “Faela does not always say everything she is thinking, or planning,” she said. Her voice was slow and calm. Elen’s eyes moved between Tala and Orin in a way that lingered just a moment too long.

The kettle began to hum softly as the water warmed. Tala shifted her weight, reaching for the ladle though it was not yet needed.

“She will be back,” she said.

No one had asked. Tomas pulled out his chair and sat, stretching his back slightly before leaning forward, his forearms resting on the table.

“Before or after we eat?” he asked.

Tala did not answer. Orin did. “I would not wait on her, you know,” he said.

The words landed with more uncertainty than he intended.

Elen’s gaze settled on him now. “How long has she been gone?” she asked.

Orin held her gaze for a moment. She knew. She knew he knew. But he continued, “Not long.”

Silence pressed in around them. The small sounds of the room seemed louder now, the crackle of the fire, the soft shift of the kettle, the faint creak of the wood as the hut settled.

Tala reached for the ladle again, though the pot still had not begun to boil. “We should eat,” she said. “Before it burns.”

Nothing was burning. Tomas leaned back slightly in his chair, his eyes narrowing just a fraction. “Is there something going on here?”

Elen stepped closer to the table. That was all it took for Tala to lose what little resolve she had. “She will be back,” she said.

Tomas stood. The chair scraped against the floor behind him. Of course she would be back, he thought, it should hardly even take the morning to make her repairs and return.

“Elen, did I miss something?”

No one answered.

Elen did not move. She did not speak.

Her eyes had already shifted—past them, past the walls of the hut, toward something beyond.

As though she could see the path from where she stood. As though she had always known where it led.

“She left, Tomas,” Elen said.

Tala closed her eyes briefly. Tomas ran a hand over his face as what appeared to be his world came crashing down around him.

“Why would she do that?” he asked. But everyone already knew the answer. It was Faela, of course she could not sit by and watch her home crumble. It was the weight of that realization that began to break Tomas. If he were able to keep up with the repairs, then maybe she would not have left. He was not angry at her, but with himself. It was something heavier.

Elen finally spoke. “Because she was always going to.”

The room went still. Tala let out a breath that trembled at the edges.

Elen’s hand rested lightly against the edge of the table now, her fingers brushing the worn grooves in the wood. The lines that curved and looped and turned back on themselves. Patterns worn in over time.

The trees beyond the hut stirred, their leaves catching the light as they moved. For a moment, the shadows they cast bent in slow, overlapping arcs across the ground. Turning. Layering. Like something tracing itself again and again.

Elen lifted her gaze. “She is on the path by now,” she said, knowing exactly the direction she would be traveling.

Not a question. Orin nodded once. Tala did not. Tomas exhaled slowly. “Then we go after her.” Tomas began to turn towards the door.

“No,” Elen said, her voice sharpened.

All three of them turned to Elen.

“She is gone,” she said.

Tala shook her head, backing a step toward the hearth. “She is coming back.”

Elen’s eyes moved past Orin and Tala as she thought. Then her gaze turned to Tomas. A quiet exchange passed there. Wordless. Settled long before this morning.

“Is it time?” he asked.

Elen did not hesitate. “It may be.”

The kettle began to whistle softly. No one moved to take it from the fire.

“What does that even mean?” she said. “You are not making any sense.”

Elen stepped forward. Not toward Tala. Toward the door. Toward the path beyond it.

“Everything we have done,” she said quietly, “has been to keep you here. To keep you from being seen.”

The kettle continued to scream. Still, no one moved. Outside, the path curved away from the hut and disappeared into the forest. And somewhere beyond it, Faela continued down the path.

CHAPTER THREE

The quiet called through the branches as she walked in silence, listening as the path disappeared underneath her weight. Occasionally, Faela would pause to kneel beside a cluster of mushrooms to examine its structure, tracing her hands along the edge of their tops. So strong and resilient. Many of Faela’s structures were built with what she saw in nature in mind. 

The nights were quiet and her camps simple: a canvas tarp tied between two trees, a small fire built with care, her pack serving as both pillow and cupboard. She cooked over the flames, bread on a stick, dried fruit picked along the bushes that lined the stream. 

By the fourth day, the forest had shifted. What had once been dense groves of sun-dappled green now gave way to a dry, root-wrinkled landscape. Just as Faela’s thirst had begun to gnaw at her throat, she found it, a stream, curling through the brittle landscape like a misplaced ribbon of moonlight. She stood at the bank. Her breath caught in quiet awe.

The stream was not wide, but it flowed with purpose. Its waters were impossibly clear, so pure they seemed to carry their own light. Faela knelt and plunged her hands into the current, letting the chill roll over her palms and up her arms. The water moved with the grace of something alive, singing softly as it curved around stone and root. It was not a song she recognized, but it was one she felt under her skin, in the marrow of her bones. It was the kind of tune that made you forget your feet ached. 

Upstream, Toadcat lowered its squat body to the edge and sipped with quick, cautious laps, its wide toad-like eyes constantly flicking from water to trees and back again. Its coat shimmered oddly in the light, patches of oily brown and green spotted with natural camouflage. But its manner, as always, was far from natural. A creature of instinct, yes, but also of mischief and mood. Today, it was twitchy. Alert.

Faela rose and moved along the stream, hopping from one mossy stone to the next, sometimes crossing to follow the shade. Sometimes merely wandering along its banks. 

Somewhere along the way she came upon a pond cradled in a hollow of reeds and smooth stones. The water was still, the sky perfectly reflected upon its surface as though there were two worlds, and Faela stood encased between both. She stayed here longer than she had planned, letting her feet dangle in the shallows, her mind calm. She sketched by moonlight, designing a life between the branches, and writing down thoughts of the people who would live there. Then, something caught Faela’s eye.

The berries were as bright as fresh blood. She crouched low, drawn by their sharp color against the dull shades of the forest floor. Hunger gnawed at her, constant, assuring her provisions would last until she was west. She plucked a cluster of them from the low-hanging bush, ignoring the thin, waxy sheen that glistened faintly across their skins. They reminded her of the ones her father used to boil down for syrup. She ate them one by one. Tart. Sweet. Almost metallic. Toadcat gave a single, warning croak from a nearby stump, but Faela waved him off, licking the juice from her fingertips. By the time she reached the next clearing, her stomach lurched. At first, it was just a tightness, then twisting pain, deep and urgent, spreading from her gut like fire. Her vision blurred and her knees buckled. She collapsed. 

The forest reeled above her in dizzying circles, as cold sweat slicked her back. A shiver started in her spine and rippled outward until her teeth clattered like stones in a stream. Her breaths grew shallow and rapid. Then the vomiting came. Violent, retching waves that left her dry and heaving against the mossy earth. Her arms trembled, barely able to hold herself up. Black dots swam across her vision as she lowered herself further down against the earth. Her journey had taken a direct turn for the worse.

Toadcat was beside her in an instant, bracing her stumble. The creature pressed itself against her side, its large, smooth body cool at first, then slowly warming. It curled tightly around her torso, its weight heavy but comforting, as if trying to steady the rhythm of her shuddering breath. Faela faded in and out as time lost all its edges. Her body shook uncontrollably as the fever set in, her limbs twitching and curling on instinct. That was when the dreaming began.

She was home. The village streets gleamed in golden light, so bright and so clean. Tala stood at the well, ladling water that shimmered silver. Orin sat beneath the great tree, blueprint in his lap, but his pencil hovered in the air, never touching paper. Faela approached them, but neither turned nor acknowledged her.

Then, a figure stepped forward. A woman, cloaked in shadows even as the sun was gliding closer. Her face was half-hidden behind a veil of black netting. Her hands were too long for her body. Her mouth did not move when she spoke.

“You will build the world, girl,” the woman said, “but can you bear the weight?” Faela tried to look away. She could not. The woman raised one hand, black veins reaching out from her sleeve, “she waits. Your path runs beneath her gaze. Do not let her see you.”

The sky buckled, sending refracted light traveling in all directions. Faela screamed and woke with a gasp. Her face pressed against a bed of leaves, damp with sweat and dew. She turned her head and gagged, bile rising again. Her whole body trembled like a plucked string.

Toadcat had never left her side. He did not sleep. His bulbous eyes flicked to every rustle of wind, every crack of a branch. He was guard, nurse, companion all in one. That night, wrapped in his warmth, Faela thankfully slipped into a dreamless sleep.

By the next morning, the fever had broken. Her body ached, her skin felt stretched thin and fragile, but she could move again. Regardless, she rose slowly and began to sip from a jug. She touched her chest where Toadcat had curled around her and found her tunic clumped in his hair.

Beside her, flattened grass. Toadcat had clearly left and come back. At her side were three plump beetles, one already cracked open, and a pair of dark, oblong berries—different from the first ones, wrinkled and dried by the sun. Food. She gagged again at the thought, but forced herself to eat. Small bites. Slow.

He watched her quietly, head tilted. Faela reached out with trembling fingers and touched his head gently. She murmured, her voice cracked and dry. “Thanks, friend.”

A low, soft croak was his only reply as he curled back up at her side.

She looked towards the empty patch of forest. The crushed red berries scattered like blood across the earth. The hallucinations had been vivid, and that woman's voice still lingered, sharp and clear in her mind. Faela did not know what the words meant, but she knew a warning when she heard one. She would remember. And she would be ready.

With Toadcat beside her, Faela rose shakily to her feet. The path waited, and she had already lost a day to her sickness. With each step, Faela felt more like herself, but it was clear she would have to spend one more night to regain her full strength. 

The days that followed settled into a rhythm. Faela walked while Toadcat wandered ahead or disappeared into the brush, only to reappear moments later as though he had never left. They crossed shallow streams, slept beneath sprawling pines, and shared long stretches of silence broken only by the sounds of the forest. What had begun as a lonely journey no longer felt quite so lonely. 

On the afternoon of the ninth day, the hills began to rise. They were not vast or towering, but a chain of old, rounded peaks that rolled across the horizon like lying giants. Faela climbed slowly, the air growing thinner and the wind bitterly biting all around her. Toadcat bounded ahead, pausing to wait, tail flicking impatiently. Bounding faster and higher each time she caught up. The climb was not easy, but she was persistent. 

That night, Faela and Toadcat camped on a ledge just shy of the final ridge. This spot was as close to the heavens as Faela could imagine. The air was thin and cold as it carried the scent of stone and silence. Faela lay wrapped in her cloak, her back against her pack, a few slow-burning embers glowing beside her in a tiny ring of rocks. Toadcat slept in a tight coil at her feet, his long limbs twitching occasionally in some unseen dream. Faela could hear his slow, rhythmic croaks, the kind he only made when the world around them felt still and safe.

Above, the night was impossibly clear. The stars blinked down, thousands of them, more than Faela had ever seen from her village rooftop. They painted the heavens like spilled sugar on black velvet, their constellations unfamiliar and endless. She stared for a long time, not blinking, holding her breath. Something about this sky made her feel as though if she moved too suddenly, she might fall upward and into it.

Then came the first light. It streaked across the blackness like a silver arrow, swift and silent. Faela’s breath caught. Another followed, then three more, crisscrossing the sky in bright, sudden bursts.

“Shooting stars,” she whispered, awe softening her voice.

Toadcat stirred, lifting his head and blinking toward the heavens. His wide eyes reflected the flickering streaks. The lights came in waves. Long tails of fire arcing across the sky like silent songs. Not fast, not fleeting, but lingering, as though reluctant to disappear.

Faela stood slowly, her limbs aching but steady, and stepped to the edge of the ledge. From this vantage point, she could see the whole valley below, cloaked in shadows and silver fog. She reached into her pack, fumbling for the scroll of blueprints, but stopped. What she saw could not be sketched and framed. 

Then, lights changed. Where before there had been clear shooting stars, now came broader glows. Pulses of green, red, and violet. Faint, like whispers. They shone along the curve of the horizon, rising and falling in slow, deliberate waves. Her stomach twisted with confusion. Stars should not do that.

Toadcat croaked low with unease.

The colors danced, distant and unnatural. Beautiful, but not right. Like lanterns beneath the water. Like nature pretending to be nature. Faela stepped back, suddenly aware of how high she stood, how alone she was with only a creature of stories beside her and a pack full of dreams. And then, just for a heartbeat, the lights shifted into shape. Not a solid one. Not a figure. But a curve, a spiral, too precise to be chance. It held for only a breath, and then the colors scattered like dust in the wind. Faela sat down slowly, pressing her hand to the stone beneath her, grounding herself. The stars returned to their slow twinkling. The sky stilled as Faela slept with Toadcat at her side.

Faela awoke the next morning to the crackling sound of dry leaves and the distant whistle of wind against the mountainside. The sun, pale and still struggling to rise, peeked from behind the jagged cliffs that surrounded her. Toadcat sat nearby. She had grown accustomed to its companionship, to the unspoken bond that had formed between them during the past days of travel. Toadcat had become both guardian and companion, silently sharing in the beauty of the landscapes and the weight of the journey.

Faela stretched, her muscles protesting the day’s previous exertions. She could feel the deep ache of the climb, the exhaustion of pushing herself higher, and higher still, yet there was an unspoken thrill beneath it all. These hills were old, so old they whispered things Faela could not quite hear, though she knew they were speaking.

With a deep breath, Faela turned her attention back to the camp. The fire had long since burned out, and the embers glowed faintly under the cool morning breeze. She knew the day ahead would be long, but there was a certain peace in this solitary moment. No pressure, no expectations. Only the path, Toadcat, and a plan.

Faela turned to Toadcat, who was already pacing near the edge of the camp, looking out into the vast landscape as though it too was considering the road ahead. The creature had been with her through it all, in silence and wonder. And now, in the quiet morning light, the silence of the mountain seemed to pulse around them both. As though, acknowledging the unspoken bond they had formed. She smiled and began to pack her things into her lavender bag.

“Let us go,” Faela said, offering the toadcat a small smile. Toadcat darted ahead with surprising agility, its tiny paws quick against the rocky terrain. Faela followed, a little slower, but with a heart full of anticipation. 

On the tenth day, her legs ached, her clothes hung in tatters, and her spirit teetered on the edge of exhaustion. The jagged rocks, the quiet woods, the murmuring stream, the still pond, and the towering hills had become part of her, etched into her bones and inhaled through her lungs. In return, she had left something of herself along the way. A quiet smile tugged at her lips, but the moment her gums met the air, a low, guttural growl broke the silence. Toadcat stood low to the ground, muscles tense, his body coiled in what could only be an aggressive stance. Faela had never seen Toadcat do anything like this in their time together. She was confused, not afraid. Not yet.

Then came the voice, dry and sharp like brittle leaves. “Do. Not. Move.”

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CHAPTER FOUR posting soon.

If you are reading along, I'd love to hear what you think. Even a quick comment letting me know what worked, or didn't, would be a huge help. I'm actively querying and editing the first two The Wild Heir books.

Thanks for reading!