Chapter 16

Northern Passage, the Kingdom of Wuthia, 1126

Mabel Laenas (Rila Faerson)

The dawn came pale and misted, a thin veil of silver light rolling across the field. My eyes burned from the little sleep I had managed, every part of me heavy and frayed, though the crisp bite of morning air stung me awake.

I sat up slowly, drawing my cloak tighter, watching the pond glimmer faintly in the new light. The hunger was still there, curled like a serpent in my belly, but the long hours of resistance had dulled its voice—like a beast sated enough to rest, but never truly gone. My will had held through the night, and though it had left me weary, it had not broken me. Not yet.

Richard was already on his feet, brushing dew from his cloak. His face was pale but set, a grim determination in the sharp line of his jaw. He met my gaze briefly, and in his eyes I saw the same exhaustion, the same battle fought through the dark hours. But I also saw that he had not yielded, and the faintest relief flickered inside me.

“You held on,” I whispered, my voice hoarse.

“So did you,” he answered. A shadow of a smile touched his lips, fragile but real. “We’re still ourselves.”

I wanted to believe him. Truly, I did. But as I stood and gathered my things, I could still feel the echo of it—the lust, the gnawing, the unholy hunger. Like a wound that never healed, it lingered, waiting to bleed again.

We saddled the horses in silence, the morning sounds of the countryside filling the stillness between us: birds stirring in the brush, the rustle of grass, the ripple of the pond as a fish broke the surface. Such a simple life, untouched by corruption, made the weight in my chest all the heavier.

As we mounted, I lifted my eyes to the horizon. And there—faint but unmistakable—rose the jagged peaks of the Golden Mountains, catching the morning light like blades of gold. My breath caught. They seemed impossibly far, yet nearer than ever before. A beacon. A promise. Perhaps even salvation.

I clenched the reins, the leather biting into my hands. We will reach them. We must. Before this hunger consumes us.

Richard looked toward the mountains as well, his expression unreadable, but I saw the tremor of hope in his stance. He let out a long breath, then nudged his horse forward.

“Come, Mabel,” he said quietly. “The longer we linger, the stronger it gets.”

I nodded, urging my horse to follow, the chill wind of morning carrying us northward. The serpent in my chest stirred faintly, whispering its eternal hunger, but I swallowed it down. My will carried me through the night.

Now, it would carry me to the mountains.

The road bent and dipped, carrying us out of the fields and into a cluster of cottages huddled beneath tall oaks. Smoke curled from chimneys, and the scent of baked bread and roasting meat drifted on the cool morning air. The sight of the village—so ordinary, so alive—was a strange comfort after all we had endured.

The smell of baking bread drifted faintly on the wind, mingling with the earthy scent of dew and forest.

We slowed our horses near the edge of the main road, eyes scanning the villagers moving about. My chest tightened—not from fear of strangers, but from the persistent pull within me. The darkness lingered, coiling in my veins like a restless shadow, whispering, tempting.

Yet another voice, softer, more insistent, rose above it: the simple, human craving for sustenance. My stomach growled, a reminder of what was real, what was mortal and pressing, and I shivered in awareness. The hunger for food and water—something tangible—was stronger than the dark whispers for the moment.

Richard nudged his horse forward. “We can’t go any farther without food,” he murmured, glancing at me. His eyes were sharp, wary, yet tired. “We’ll stay short. We eat; we move on. Nothing more.”

I nodded, though my mind was uneasy. Every instinct urged caution, a warning I could not ignore. But my legs were stiff, my mouth dry, and my stomach clawing at me. Survival demanded it.

The village itself was small but bustling with morning activity. Stalls lined the central square, laden with vegetables, cured meats, and fresh-baked loaves. A blacksmith’s hammer rang steadily from a workshop near the edge, sparks flying as he shaped iron. A few travelers were already seated at a wooden bench outside a modest tavern, drinking from mugs that steamed in the crisp air.

The villagers themselves seemed simple and hardworking: broad-shouldered farmers with dirt-streaked faces, women hauling baskets of produce, children chasing each other across the stones. They glanced curiously at us as we passed, but did not indicate fear. Life here seemed ordinary.

We dismounted in the village square, keeping our movements calm, hands near the hilts of our weapons despite the mundane, welcoming scene. Villagers paused in curiosity as we passed—the travelers from the north—but none so much as questioned our presence.

A small tavern caught my attention, its wooden sign swaying gently in the wind. The smell of roasting meat and fresh bread was irresistible. Even as the darkness tugged at my senses, whispering of lust and temptation, I felt the pull of simple necessity—the urge to fill our bellies, to regain strength.

Richard led the way inside, the warmth and the murmur of voices momentarily dulling the shadows in our minds. I followed, forcing myself to focus on the mundane: the clink of mugs, the steam rising from bowls of soup, the soft chatter of villagers.

We found a quiet corner, ordered bread, cheese, and a flask of wine. As we ate, I let my hands linger over the warm loaf, letting the food remind me of something ordinary, something human. The darkness stirred, insistent, nudging me with reminders of what I could feel, what I could take if I chose—but I forced it down, focusing on the simple act of chewing, of swallowing, of drawing strength from sustenance.

Richard glanced at me across the table, a faint, knowing smile on his lips. “See? Nothing yet. Just ... eat, Mabel. That’s all.”

I nodded again, forcing the lie of normalcy through my throat. For now, the hunger for life, for simple nourishment, was stronger than the darkness. But I could feel its simmering, a shadow at the edges, waiting.

And I knew that it would not remain dormant forever.

“Once we’re done,” Richard said, drinking down his wine, “we’re back on the roads to the Golden Mountains.”

“Easier said than done,” I said, taking a bite of the warm loaf.

The bread was nearly gone, crumbs scattered across the wooden plate between us, when a shadow fell over our table. I looked up to see an old man, stooped yet broad-shouldered, his beard streaked with gray, and his eyes sharp despite the weight of years. He leaned on a worn cane, but there was a steady strength about him, the kind that comes from hard work and long roads.