Chapter 16: Everly

Chapter

Sixteen

EVERLY

The morning sun breaks over the horizon, bathing the camp in golden light as I step out of my tent and stare up at the sky.

It's so beautiful. So breathtaking. So full of hope.

Does the sky know it gives me hope every day? If I stare at it long enough, I see something new. Something bright. I just have to be willing to look for it.

"Enjoying the view, outsider?" A voice cuts through the calm like a blade.

I turn to find an unfamiliar warrior standing nearby with his arms crossed.

His light brown hair catches the morning sun, giving it a golden sheen. It's cropped short on the sides but longer on top. A jagged scar mars the left side of his face, running from his temple to his jaw. The skin there is puckered and shiny.

Two swords are strapped to his back, their hilts peeking over his shoulders. And the serpent emblem on his surcoat looks more menacing than ever. More evil. More dark.

I swallow hard and fight the desire to step back.

"You don't belong here," he sneers.

A wave of heat rushes to my cheeks. It's not the first time someone has shoved my outsider status in my face, but something about his stance—so resolute, so certain—is infuriating.

I plaster on a smile as fake as his bravado. "And here I thought the view was improving until you showed up."

His nose flares. "Watch your tongue, girl. You're nothing but a stray dog someone took pity on."

The words sting, but I refuse to let him see how deeply they cut. "A stray dog? Better that than a barking fool who thinks he actually matters."

His face contorts with rage. "You little—"

"—enough!" A sharp voice calls out.

I turn to find Morwen striding toward us. Her clear blue eyes, usually so warm, now crackle with icy fury.

"Doran," she says as she fixes the warrior with a glare that could wither crops. "We do not treat guests this way. Your behavior shames us all."

A muscle clenches in Doran's jaw, and for a moment, I think he might argue, but Morwen's unwavering stare seems to drain the fight from him. With a final venomous glance my way, he stalks off.

Morwen watches him go and shakes her head. When she turns to me, her eyes have softened. "Pay him no mind. Some wounds run deeper than we can see, and they lash out at the innocent. "

"I'm used to it," I say, hating the bitterness in my voice and the hatred I cannot contain. Mother tried to quell it, but it never worked. The anger is always there, always simmering.

"Not here," Morwen says. "We don't treat outsiders differently in this camp."

They don't?

The concept is so foreign, so alien, that I struggle to believe it.

Unconsciously, my fingers trace the red circle sewn onto my surcoat. The fabric is rough beneath my fingertips, a constant reminder of who I am—what I am.

An outsider. Different. Less than.

In Astarobane, this mark might as well be a brand seared into my flesh. It's a scarlet badge of shame, a symbol of a defeat that happened long before I drew my first breath.

Many summers ago, the chieftain of the Bloodstone tribe was defeated, and a new man took over. He marked the previous chieftain's entire bloodline. Unfortunately, I was born beneath that crimson shame.

I think of the sideways glances, the hushed whispers that follow me through the streets of my hometown. The way shopkeepers' smiles fade when they spot the red circle. How children are pulled away by their parents when I walk by, as if my outsider status is contagious.

My throat tightens as memories flood in. The time I was denied entry to the harvest festival. And the day I overheard a group of girls planning their futures, only to fall silent when they noticed me nearby. As if I had no right to dream, to hope, to plan .

And now, here stands Morwen, casually dismantling everything I've known. Her words are a pebble dropped into the still pond of my understanding, sending ripples of confusion across its surface.

I want to believe her. Oh, how I want to.

Still, it's impossible for summers of conditioning to vanish in an instant. The shame is rooted deep within me, tangled around my heart like a stubborn vine.

"Come with me, dear," Morwen says, and I follow her to her tent.

Morwen's words echo in my head as I stand beside her, kneading dough with a fervor that would make even the most zealous baker proud. "We don't treat outsiders differently in this camp."

It's hard to believe, like trying to swallow a large stone—impossible and likely to choke me.

My entire life, I've been marked, judged, shunned. And now, what? I'm supposed to believe that here, in this camp full of Bloodstone warriors, I'm just...normal?

Impossible…

But as I glance around, I notice something. No one's staring. No one even seems to care that I'm here. Well…other th an Doran.

I attack the dough with renewed vigor, imagining Doran's face on its pale, puffy surface.

Take that, you overgrown bully.

"Everly," Morwen's voice cuts through my dough-punching frenzy. "I think that's quite enough. Unless you're planning to bake rocks for dinner."

"I'm sorry. I was thinking."

Morwen's knowing smile makes me wonder if she can read my mind.

I move on to chopping vegetables. The rhythmic thunk-thunk-thunk is oddly soothing.

"You're certainly efficient," Morwen says.

"I try."

Morwen hands me a basket of potatoes. "Why don't you peel these? And try not to imagine they're anyone's head."

"I'll try not to," I say as I grab a knife.

The day flies by in a whirlwind of chopping, stirring, and kneading. Before I know it, it's time to serve dinner.

I carry two steaming bowls through the sea of hungry warriors. Their boisterous laughter and easy camaraderie make my heart ache.

What would it be like to belong so effortlessly?

As I set a bowl down, I catch sight of Cenric sitting near Praxis. Our eyes meet for a moment, and I nearly drop the bowls.

After dinner, I join Brennah, Ava, and Feyona at the lake to wash another cart full of dishes.

"So, Everly," Brennah says, "how are you liking it here? "

I scrub a particularly stubborn bit of food off a bowl. "It's great. I enjoy freezing my fingers off."

Feyona snorts. "I like this one."

"It gets easier," Ava assures me. "You'll find your rhythm soon enough."

As we continue to wash, Brennah chatters away about camp gossip. I half-listen as I focus on the repetitive motions of scrubbing and rinsing.

By the time we finish, my hands are purple and half frozen, but I still smile, knowing it has been a long time since I've felt this useful. This normal.

Then, I remember why I'm really here, and the smile fades. But as I look at the women, laughing and joking, I wonder. What if this could be my life? What if I could be near Cenric all the time?

I shake my head, banishing the thought. It's a dangerous path to go down.