Chapter 10: Everly

Chapter

Ten

EVERLY

It takes everything in me to not hang my head in shame as I follow Cenric through the Bloodstone camp.

He stops near a tent and guides me inside. The interior catches me off guard with its unexpected spaciousness. My eyes are immediately drawn to a neatly made bed on the far side. Then, to the left, where shelves line the tent wall, packed with a mix of items. Leather-bound books stand in neat rows, their spines bearing titles I can't quite make out in the low light. Jars of various sizes contain what I assume are herbs and oils, while rolled scrolls are tucked into every available space.

"Wait here," he says as he disappears through the opening.

I allow my attention to wander to a sturdy wooden desk in the corner, covered in maps and documents. I squint, trying to make out the writing without moving closer.

The tent flap shifts, and Cenric returns, his arms laden with supplies. "I brought some things to help you clean up. "

Is this what swooning feels like? Because I might be swooning.

I clench my fists at my sides, willing myself to maintain some semblance of composure in front of him. The last thing I need is for him to see how much I long to throw myself into his arms.

He sets down a jar of herbs and cloths for washing and drying with. Then, he produces a bundle of clean clothes. "These might be a little big, but they're dry."

"Thank you."

A slight smile pulls at his lips as he nods at me. "I'll leave you to it."

"Why? Don't you find this earth goddess look attractive?" I gesture at my mud-caked body.

He pauses, and in a rare moment for him, his smile widens. "I prefer my goddesses a little less...swamp-like."

"Am I not your goddess?" Why don't you propose marriage while you're at it? Maybe offer to bear his children?

Amusement glimmers in his eyes. "To be fair, I've never seen a goddess with such an affinity for mud. But you do wear it with a certain charm."

Heat flares across my cheeks as I look away and pretend to take great interest in the torch.

"Take your time," he says, drawing my attention back to him. "I'll make sure no one disturbs you."

As he moves toward the tent flap, I catch a whiff of his scent—leather, applewood, and cypress.

The tent flap falls shut behind him, leaving me alone.

I exhale, then peel off my sodden clothes, letting them fall to the ground with a wet plop. When I'm completely nude and shivering, I grab the bottle of herbs, uncorking it. The soothing scent of lavender and lemon balm wafts out.

Does Cenric know these are my favorite scents to bathe with?

I start with my face, gently scrubbing away the mud that's caked around my eyes and mouth. Then, I use circular motions to loosen the dried mud on the rest of my body. It flakes off in satisfying chunks, revealing my freckled skin underneath. I pay extra attention to the spaces between my fingers and under my nails, where stubborn bits of dirt have lodged themselves.

My hair is much harder to tackle. It takes a lot of determined scrubbing to fully work the herbs through my thick strands.

After an eternity of washing, rinsing, and repeating, the water running off my hair finally comes away clear. My arms ache from the effort as I squeeze the last bit of water from the sodden strands. But it's worth it. The grime and mud are gone, leaving my hair clean and fragrant.

As I dry off and slip into the clothes Cenric gave me—which hang off me like a child playing dress-up—I marvel at his thoughtfulness. It's moments like these that make my stupid heart flutter.

The sunlight shimmers through the distant trees as I emerge from the tent and find Cenric waiting nearby. As our eyes meet, he straightens, and my heart pounds even harder. Truly, any harder and it will beat right out of my chest.

I try to think of something witty, something that will make him laugh. Instead, I blurt out. "I don't usually bathe in mud puddles."

"I know." He steps closer to me. "Are you hungry?"

"Yes."

He leads me across the sprawling camp, past soldiers sharpening weapons and repairing armor.

I want nothing more than to reach out and touch Cenric, to run my fingers through his black hair and trace the thin scar cutting through his left eyebrow—the one I accidentally gave him seven summers ago.

As we draw closer to the center of the camp, the aroma of something savory wafts through the air, making my stomach growl embarrassingly loud. Cenric either doesn't notice or is too polite to mention it.

He stops near an iron pot hanging over an open fire. Grabbing a wooden bowl, he ladles out a generous portion of what looks to be the most appetizing soup I've ever seen. Wisps of steam rise from the surface, carrying hints of herbs, root vegetables, and exotic spices that make my mouth water.

"Here," he says, handing me the bowl. Our fingers brush, and I nearly drop the whole thing.

I settle onto a log near the fire, cradling the warm bowl in my hands, while Cenric takes a seat directly across from me.

"Careful," he warns as I lift the spoon to my mouth. "It's hot."

"Truly? I thought camp food was served ice cold. How silly of me."

A ghost of a smile plays at the corners of his mouth, and I feel a sense of pride at having caused it. I blow on the spoonful of soup before taking a tentative sip. Flavors explode across my tongue—rich broth, tender vegetables, and perfectly seasoned meat. It's easily the best thing I've eaten in days.

"This is amazing," I say, barely resisting the urge to gulp it down like some starving animal.

As I savor another spoonful of the delicious soup, Cenric watches me, his eyes studying my every move. It's unnerving yet thrilling at the same time.

"So," he begins, his deep voice cutting through the crackling of the fire, "what happened last night?"

I nearly choke on my soup.

Of course he'd ask about that. I should've known.

"Well," I begin, trying to sound nonchalant while my mind races for a plausible excuse. "It was just your typical evening stroll turned kidnapping."

He frowns. "Everly…"

Think, you fool. Think! "Would you believe I was swept away by a group of traveling minstrels who mistook me for their long-lost tambourine player?"

Cenric's expression doesn't change. Not even a hint of amusement.

I sigh and set down my empty bowl. "I may have accidentally stumbled upon some smelly men discussing things they shouldn't have been. And they may have decided I knew too much."

"What kind of unsavory characters?" Cenric asks.

"The kind that don't appreciate eavesdroppers." I force a weak smile. "Honestly, it's all a bit of a blur. I was so scared. I think my mind has blocked out most of it. "

"You're safe now," he says. "No one will harm you here."

Am I safe?

Is my family?

Worry coils around my chest as I reach into the bag at my waist and squeeze my fingers around the fox, desperate for Kassandra's strength.

There must be a way for me to protect my family and stop Hawke.

But how?

It seems as impossible as climbing to the moon and embracing it.

Or maybe…I just need to learn how to climb to the moon, to conquer it.

Only then will my family be safe.