Page 101 of The Violet Raven

His words don’t mend the cracks or dull the ache, but they steady me. He steadies me. My breath shudders against his shoulder, and his fingers press firmer against my back, as if he’s trying to hold me together.

My eyes fill with tears, but I blink them away quickly, nodding even as my lips press tightly together. “You have the heart of a saint, Finn,” I whisper, my voice barely audible.

The silence stretches between us, an unspoken reality wrapping around us. This path that pulls us forward is heavy, but the weight of everything doesn’t feel like mine alone to bear.

Finn reaches for my hands, hesitating for just a moment before gently prying them from around his neck, his touch uncharacteristically careful. “I’ve some things to see to,” he says quietly, almost shyly. “If you need me, just call for me. I’ll not be far.” He lingers for a moment, his gaze searching mine, as though there’s more he wants to say but chooses not to. Instead, he steps back, his expression soft but resolute.

“Go on, then,” I say, my voice steadier than I feel. He slips out, the door closing softly behind him.

The quiet settles around me like a heavy cloak. A tremulous breath escapes me, as I decide it’s all right to let the tears come—just for a moment. No prying eyes, no comforting words. Just a few silent sobs to help me face the rest of this day, and the rest of this chaos I’ve yet to untangle.

I stand naked in the small tavern room, the basin of lukewarm water on the table beside me, its surface rippling faintly as I dip the cloth into it again. The simple act of washing up, of moving without wincing, feels almost foreign. Days ago, I couldn’t even imagine lifting my arm without agony, let alone scrubbing my skin clean. Now, my movements are slow but steady, but I feel human again.

I reach for the small, cracked mirror propped against the wall, angling it carefully to help glimpse my back. I can see them clearly—silver lines trace the skin across my back like threads woven into my flesh.

My breath quickens as I stare, a mix of disbelief and wonder washing over me. Finn hadn’t been exaggerating. The scars, faint and almost delicate, are all that remain of the wounds I had felt tearing through me only days ago. I brush over the ridges and shiver at the odd sensation—neither pain nor numbness radiates where it was once overbearing.

The image in the mirror doesn’t feel real. I turn slightly, watching the way the scars catch the light, tiny and intricate, almost beautiful in a strange, unnatural way. But they are also a reminder. Of pain. Of loss. Of survival.

A knock at the door startles me, and I nearly drop the mirror. I sigh, setting it down gently before turning toward the sound. “A moment,” I call, my voice steady despite the sudden rush of emotion.

I move to pull on the fresh clothes Finn left for me, my fingers lingering on the fabric. As I slide them over my head and smooth it down, a thought strikes me: I’m not the same as I’d been before. Not entirely. Something has changed—something more than just my body.

And no matter how hard I try to push it away, the weight of that realisation presses into my chest, heavier than ever.

I move to open the door, and there they are—all four of them. Finn, Casey, Bran, and Callan stand shoulder to shoulder, their faces etched with a mix of worry and anticipation. Their eyes scan me as I might collapse at any moment, and I sigh, leaning my head against the edge of the doorframe.

“I can sense what you’re waiting for,” I say dryly, though the emotion in my voice betrays me. “And if you keep staring at me like that, it might actually happen.”

The weight of their worries press on me. It’s not that I don’t appreciate it—I do. But if they ask if I’m all right, or worse, try to comfort me, I know it’ll break the fragile dam holding back my tears. And once I start, I’m not sure I’ll be able to stop. That’s the cruel thing about kindness; sometimes it hurts more than the ache you’re already carrying. It’s easier to let the silence hang in the air than to hear the words that might push me over the edge.

Before I can protest further, Casey steps forward, wrapping me in a hug so tight it nearly knocks the breath out of me. “I’m glad ye’re okay,” he murmurs, his voice low but thick with relief. He presses a kiss to the top of my head, a gesture so tender it sends a sting straight into my eyes.

Do not cry. Do not cry.

“As am I,” I manage, my voice wavering but sincere. The words hang between us, and for the first time in days, I mean them completely. I am glad. Despite everything, despite the ache and the scars and the weight of what’s happened, I’m alive.

And I can’t waste that.

I step back, meeting Casey’s gaze, and his eyes are full of something unspoken yet steadying. I glance toward the others, taking a shaky breath. “Will you tell me where we’re going?” I ask, my voice soft and measured as I continue to fight back a wave of unshed tears.

Casey squeezes my shoulders, his hands grounding me. “We’ll tell ye,” he says, his tone firm but kind, “as we go. I promise.”

The warmth in his words eases me.

Callan’s voice cuts through the lingering quiet. “It’s time we left,” he says firmly, his arms crossed as he glances toward the door. No one argues.

We move outside, the chill of the early morning air biting against our skin. Casey walks ahead, his hand resting lightly on the hilt of his dagger, while Bran and Finn exchange a quiet word as they fall into step. Callan, as always, saunters suspiciously. His shoulders squared and his eyes scan the horizon for threats.

I trail at the rear, my steps slow and deliberate as I adjust to moving on my own again, and look at the surrounding scenery. The tavern is well hidden, surrounded by woods on all fronts. The breeze stirs my hair, and the sound of the others’ boots crunching against the ground feels oddly distant. My thoughts are elsewhere—on the past, the promises I’ve made to myself, and the weight of everything ahead.

Then, I feel it—a light tapping on my back. I jump, my breath catching as I twist. Standing behind me is a beautiful young woman, her features delicate and otherworldly, her gaze piercing but calm.

She smiles faintly, tilting her head as if studying me. There is something unsettlingly familiar about her—an air of mystery that makes my chest tighten.

“Can I help you?” I ask, my tone cautious. She does not respond, her eyes continuing to examine me.

“Who are you?” I press, my voice quiet but firm, hand instinctively moving toward the knife at my belt.