Eryshae

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Vael

On the Road

The morning air was still cool when Vael stepped down the manor's side steps, her cloak tucked tight against the breeze. The sky above Emberhold had not yet cleared from its coastal haze, but the wind already smelled of distant salt. She moved quickly, her boots silent on the paver stones as she approached the modest carriage hitched beneath the southern colonnade. The vehicle was boxy, worn from use, and utterly unremarkable; a courier's rig, not a royal's. That was the point.

"Load the trunks evenly," Commander Sidney muttered to a pair of servants as they hefted a crate into the rear. "We don't want it tilting on the hills." She turned to Vael then, her eyes sharp beneath the low brim of a plain travel cap. "Two full satchels of salted food, medical stores, and fresh linens, just like you requested. Plus," she added with a hint of amusement, "a suspicious amount of towels, sand-proof boots, and what appears to be a collapsible parasol." Vael arched a brow. "We're going to the coast, not a siege."

"You've packed like you expect both." A wry smile touched Vael's mouth as she reached for the handle of the carriage door. "Old habits." Inside, Sam was already seated. He looked relaxed; at least on the surface; his long frame settled into the shadowed cushions, one arm draped over the back of the bench. His other hand cradled a sealed flask of Myrtle's tincture, which he tucked beside his satchel before giving Vael a faint smile. "Is everything secured?" she asked as she climbed in. "Mostly," he said. "I drew the line at bringing a longbow, three knives, and half a spice rack." She shut the door behind her. "That spice rack was a gift from my mother."

"Which is why I packed it anyway," he admitted with a shrug. "Hidden under the towels." Vael laughed softly, settling in beside him. Outside, the last few trunks were fastened with quiet efficiency. The servants said nothing beyond curt nods, paid well enough to mind their own business. Sidney ran a final inspection around the perimeter and then climbed onto the front bench, reins in hand, the image of a merchant escort.

The wheels creaked as the carriage lurched forward, and Vael felt the shift; the moment of release. They were in motion now. "You really think this will go unnoticed?" Sam asked, his voice low. "Not by everyone," she admitted, tugging off her gloves. "But we're not important enough to track anymore. Not right now. We've vanished from the courts for a week before; it's not unprecedented. Let them think I'm tending to tribal affairs, or recovering from Emberhold's mess." Sam leaned his head back against the wood. "And the guards?"

"Toya volunteered," Vael said. "No others. No banners. No ceremonial armor. Just us. Quiet. Free." That last word lingered. She could feel it in her chest, like an ache and a promise at once. The carriage clattered down the cobbled streets, headed east. Emberhold faded behind them like a fading bruise; still sore, but receding.

Sam reached out, gently tangling his fingers with hers. Vael glanced down at their hands, then leaned her head lightly against his shoulder. "We'll be at the shore in three days," she murmured. "Three days of roads, hills, wildflowers, and bad camp coffee. Then… the ocean." Sam smiled. "And the fries." She laughed. "Yes. The fries." Outside, the wind picked up. The carriage rolled on. And for the first time in weeks, Vael allowed herself to breathe without weight pressing against her ribs.

Inside the carriage, Sam and Vael sat close but quiet, lulled by the soft thud of crates and muted farewells outside. The leather bench was worn but comfortable, their cloaks draped behind them, the early sun just beginning to warm the glass. Vael glanced over at him. He was watching the slats of sunlight creeping in through the curtains, fingers idly tracing the hilt of a short blade he wasn't supposed to carry yet. The bruising along his ribs had faded, but she could still see the stiffness in his shoulders. The exhaustion behind his eyes.

She reached out and gently touched his hand. "How are you feeling?" she asked softly. His gaze shifted to hers, his face unreadable for a moment. Then he gave a faint, weary smile. "I've had worse," he murmured. "That's not an answer," Vael said, her voice even but gentle. Sam exhaled and leaned his head back against the wall of the carriage. "Tired. Like I've been stitched back together with someone else's thread."

Vael gave a quiet nod, her hand still resting atop his. "Does it still hurt?" she asked, eyes dropping briefly to his chest. He shook his head, but slowly. "Not exactly. It's like… I'm aware of it. The vine. Even when it's quiet. It's like there's something in me now that wasn't before. And I don't know if it's mine." Silence settled for a moment between them, soft as cloth.

Vael leaned her head lightly against his shoulder. "We'll figure it out," she said quietly. "One knot at a time." He turned toward her slightly, his breath catching on the edge of something unspoken. "I don't want to be a burden."

"You're not," she said instantly. He raised a brow, almost amused. "Fair." She let her fingers trail lightly down the back of his hand, grounding him. Grounding herself. "Sam," she said softly, "you are not a burden. You are a man who nearly died saving people who didn't know how to save themselves. Who took a spear to the chest and still stood long enough to defy a wannabe god. And you're still here. With me." He was quiet for a moment. Then: "That almost sounded like a compliment." Vael rolled her eyes. "Don't get used to it."

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They stopped just before dusk. The road had begun to curve through softer land, where the trees thinned and a glimmering lake stretched long and wide beneath the lowering sky. Commander Sidney scouted the perimeter with methodical precision, then gave a short nod to Vael; safe enough for the night.

The air smelled of pine and loam, and the lake reflected the burnt-orange clouds like a painting stretched across rippling glass. Sam had jumped from the carriage before the wheels had even stopped turning fully. "I saw the water from the ridge," he said, grinning as he reached into the travel packs. "And I saw fish. Big ones. Dinner's on me." He pulled out a simple, well-worn fishing rod; gifted by Myrtle after their last supply run; and gave it a quick check before heading toward the water's edge.

Vael stepped down from the carriage and crossed her arms, eyeing him with a half-smile, half-glare. "Don't go far," she called after him. "And don't fall in." Sam glanced back over his shoulder, grinning like a boy on summer break. "I'll stay close. I promise." He disappeared down the gentle slope, boots soft against the mossy grass. Vael stood watching him for a moment; watching the way he moved, slower now but steady, as if the threads holding him together were learning to trust their seams again. The sound of the water reached her ears next; a slow, rhythmic lap against the shore.

And just like that, a memory stirred.

She was ten. Maybe eleven.

The forest had smelled like crushed mint and wet bark. Her father had taken her away from the city for the day; just the two of them. No guards. No tutors. Just the wild and the water. They'd walked until the path vanished. Corven had let her pick the spot, and she'd chosen the lake with the crooked birch leaning over it, like it was whispering secrets to the fish. He taught her how to hold the rod; "Gentle, Vael. You don't need to strangle it. The fish won't bite if you're busy killing the reel." He'd laughed when she tangled the line. Let her cast again. And again.

They didn't catch anything for hours. Then, just as the light dipped behind the trees, the rod had twitched in his hands and her father had made a noise like a startled hawk. "I've got you, you slippery little beast!" The fish had flailed wildly when he pulled it up; silver and thrashing, sunlight dancing on its scales. Corven had whooped, proud as a child, and Vael had clapped her hands and laughed until her sides hurt. That night, he cooked it over a low fire with herbs and flatbread, and told her stories from the early years of the Tribe. She remembered the smoke in her hair, the warmth of his coat draped over her shoulders.

A breath hitched in her chest. Vael blinked and looked toward the lake again. The breeze off the water stirred her cloak, and for a moment, she could almost hear her father's voice in it. She drew her arms around herself, more to steady the swell in her throat than for warmth. Then she stepped quietly down the slope toward where Sam sat near the water's edge, the line already cast.

She didn't say anything.

She just sat beside him.

And waited for the line to twitch.

The stars had begun to peek through the canopy by the time Sam reeled the line in again; empty. He stared at the rod, then at the still water. "I swear I saw them jumping earlier." Vael smothered a smile. "Maybe they're smarter than you gave them credit for." Sam sighed, dramatic. "They probably heard I was wounded and decided to take pity. Or mock me. Either way, my reputation as a provider is in shambles." Vael leaned back on her elbows, watching him with a warmth that didn't quite reach her lips, but lingered in her eyes. "You'll recover it tomorrow. We'll wake early. Right before the sun rises; when the fish are still sleepy and less judgmental." Sam looked over, then chuckled softly. "You make it sound like they're sentient."

"They are," Vael said, feigning solemnity. "Ancient scholars once wrote that the lake trout of Emberhold hold grudges for seven years." He laughed again; tired, but real; and set the rod aside. Vael shifted closer, resting her chin lightly on his shoulder, just enough to be near. For a moment, they were quiet again, the water lapping softly at the shore, the breeze carrying hints of pine and old stone.

Her gaze drifted down to his forearms as he rubbed them; half from chill, half from the motion of casting. The vines beneath his skin still pulsed faintly, but the bruising had faded. The gaunt sharpness in his cheeks had softened. Even the posture of his shoulders, though still weary, held more strength than she'd dared hope for a few days ago. "You look…" she said quietly. He glanced at her. "What?" "Better." Her voice stayed soft. "Stronger. Like your blood's finally listening to you again." He blinked, then looked away, slightly embarrassed. "I feel it, too. Like the pieces are starting to… I don't know. Mend."

She reached out and brushed a hand along his forearm, over one of the healed patches of skin where magic once surged wild and angry. "Maybe you're becoming more tree than man." He huffed a dry laugh. "Let's hope not. I'd like to still be able to kiss you without sprouting leaves." Vael smiled faintly, then stood. "Come on, oakenheart. Let's rest. We'll try again at dawn." He rose beside her, slower than usual; but steadier. They gathered their things, walking back up the slope in comfortable silence, the fishing rod in his hand and her fingers brushing his wrist like a silent promise. The fire waited. So did the stars. And somewhere beyond the trees, the fish were sleeping with smug little grins.

They lay curled beneath the blankets, the night air crisp around them, the fire outside reduced to glowing coals. Sam's breathing had evened out, steady against her shoulder. He finally slept now. And she should have joined him; but Vael remained awake, eyes open to the dark. The lake shimmered through a gap in the canvas flap, silver and quiet. She remembered her father's laugh beside water just like this. The way he used to hum while scaling fish. The way he used to say the world feels kinder when your hands smell like a river. She hadn't realized how much she missed that sound until tonight. Vael closed her eyes, exhaled slowly, and turned toward Sam. His hand, even in sleep, found hers. Her fingers curled around his. Tomorrow would bring travel. Questions. Perhaps danger again. But tonight, they had breath, and stars, and the scent of pine and ash. She would have to ask her father to go fishing with them when they got back to Ichi. It was enough.