Silas groaned as consciousness slowly returned to him. Every part of his body ached, and his clothes clung to him, stiff with dried blood. He blinked against the harsh light filtering through the cracked stone walls, trying to decipher what had happened. The last thing he remembered was the desperate battle against the abomination.
Just then, he felt something soft and warm brush against his hand. He looked down to see Goldie nudging him gently, his blue eyes full of concern. Trickster slithered close, coiling protectively around Rowan.
“You two… you kept us safe, didn’t you?” Silas whispered, his voice rough with emotion. Goldie let out a soft whimper, and Trickster hissed quietly as if in agreement. He gently petted Goldie’s head.
Then he forced himself to sit up, biting back a groan as his muscles protested. Every movement sent a fresh wave of pain through his body, his clothes stiff with dried blood. But as his mind cleared, the memories of the battle came rushing back—the creature, the wooden sculpture, Rowan and Layla’s injuries...
He forced himself to sit up, grimacing as pain shot through his side. His heart sank as he saw Rowan lying nearby, still unconscious but breathing. Relief washed over him, but it was short-lived when his eyes landed on Layla. She was slumped on the floor right beside him, her body battered and bloodied, her breathing shallow, each breath a struggle. The sight of her, so still and vulnerable, sent a chill through Silas that no amount of fire magic could dispel.
“Rowan,” Silas called out, his voice thick with urgency. He limped over to the unconscious Rowan, shaking his shoulder gently. “Rowan, wake up! We need to help Layla!”
Rowan stirred, groaning as he opened his eyes. His face was pale, his expression dazed as he looked around, trying to piece together where he was. “Silas, What... What happened?”
Silas helped him into a sitting position, his expression grim. “The creature’s dead, but Layla… she’s in bad shape. We need to get help from Brunswick as soon as possible, that’s the closest town to this place. We need to hurry or she won’t make it.”
“What...?” Rowan muttered, his voice shaking. He tried to stand, but his legs gave out, and he collapsed back onto the ground. Silas grabbed him before he could fall, steadying him.
Rowan’s eyes were filled with despair as he looked at Layla. “This is my fault,” he whispered, tears welling in his eyes. “She was distracted because she was trying to help me… If she dies...”
Silas gripped Rowan’s shoulder firmly, forcing him to meet his gaze. “Listen to me,” he said, his tone stern yet laced with urgency. “This isn’t the time to fall apart. There’s still a chance to save her, but we have to move now. I’m going to head to Brunswick and find help. If I come across a carriage, I’ll bring it back. We can’t risk moving her on horseback, not with the shape she’s in.”
Rowan nodded, though his expression was still clouded with guilt and fear. “But… the locusts are still there right? And the horses… how will we…”
“Don’t worry the locusts are gone, and I made a temporary shelter for the horses near our camp,” Silas explained. “It should have kept them hidden from the locusts. I’ll take one and ride towards Brunswick as fast as I can. You stay here with Layla.”
Tears spilled down Rowan’s cheeks as he nodded, grasping the last thread of hope Silas offered. “Please, hurry,” he begged, his voice breaking.
Silas nodded, his heart heavy as he turned to leave. He took one last look at Layla, her pale face barely visible in the dim light of the chamber. Then, with a deep breath, he pushed through the pain and started toward the exit.
Goldie and Trickster watched him go, their eyes filled with concern. Trickster slithered over to Rowan, who had moved to sit beside Layla, holding her hand gently. “Please don’t die,” Rowan whispered, his voice cracking as he fought back tears. “I can’t… I can’t watch you die. I won’t be able to forgive myself.”
Goldie let out a soft whimper, wanting to comfort Rowan but unsure how to. He nudged Rowan’s leg gently with his nose, a small gesture of reassurance. Sensing his anguish, Trickster coiled around his arm, offering what little comfort he could.
Rowan’s shoulders shook with silent sobs as he leaned over Layla, pressing his forehead against her hand. The chamber was silent save for the sound of his quiet cries and Layla’s faint, laboured breaths.
Outside, Silas mounted one of the horses, the beast snorting anxiously as he urged it forward. The locusts had dispersed, but the air was thick with the smell of rot and decay. Silas knew the journey to Brunswick would be gruelling, especially in his weakened condition. But there was no time to waste. He spurred the horse into a gallop, the wind whipping through his hair as he raced against time.
“Hold on, Layla,” he whispered into the night. “It won’t be long now.”
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Rain poured down in sheets, soaking Silas to the bone as he urged his horse onward. Each hoofbeat splashed against the muddy road, the sound swallowed by the howling wind. The landscape was a blur of dark trees and mist, and the cold seeped into his very bones. He had been riding for hours, his heart pounding with every passing minute. Layla’s life hung in the balance, and he couldn’t afford to waste any time.
His eyes darted along the road, searching for any sign of a carriage or anyone who could help. But the road stretched out, desolate and empty, the only movement the endless fall of rain. His mind raced with thoughts of Layla, her laboured breathing, the fear in Rowan’s eyes, and the weight of responsibility pressing down on him like a vice.
As the day wore on, the trained warhorse beneath him began to falter, its powerful strides growing weaker with each mile. Silas could feel the beast’s exhaustion mirroring his own, the once-steadfast creature now struggling to maintain its pace. Finally, he was forced to stop, pulling the reins as he found a small patch of cover beneath a cluster of trees.
“Easy now,” Silas whispered, dismounting with a grunt. His legs nearly buckled as they hit the ground, the accumulated fatigue almost overwhelming. He guided the exhausted horse to the shelter of the trees, patting its neck to soothe its trembling muscles. “Just a little rest, that’s all. We’ll make it. We must!”
He leaned against a tree, letting the rain wash over him as he tried to catch his breath. The relentless downpour seemed to sap the last of his energy, and for a moment, he feared they might not make it. But then, through the haze of rain, he saw something—a flicker of movement on the road.
Squinting, he made out a procession, moving slowly eastward, heading in the opposite direction. As they drew closer, Silas’s heart lifted at the sight of seven grand carriages, their ornate designs gleaming even in the dim light. The horses that pulled them were strong and well-fed, and the whole procession exuded wealth and power.
“Nobles,” Silas muttered to himself. They looked like the kind that might have come from Amberheart, returning home after a Soulweaver trial or some other grand event. The memory of the group they had encountered at Bitter Creek flashed through his mind—how they had decimated the arrogant nobles who had hunted them. But this procession was even more luxurious, indicating their immense power.
Hope sparked within him. If he could convince them to lend him a carriage, he might be able to get Layla to safety in time. Silas hurriedly mounted his horse again and rode toward the procession, waving his hand to catch their attention.
As he neared the lead carriage, a group of armed guards stepped forward, their weapons drawn and their expressions hard. Silas raised his hands in a gesture of peace, his voice strained but determined. “Please, I need your help! My friend is gravely injured, and I need a carriage to bring her to safety!”
The guards exchanged glances, their faces cold and indifferent. One of them, a burly man with a scar running down his cheek, pointed his sword at Silas. “Move along, stranger. We’re not in the habit of aiding beggars.”
“I’m not a beggar!” Silas snapped, desperation creeping into his voice. “I’m Silas Lonestar, the son of Guest War Counsellor Sullivan Lonestar. I’ll properly compensate you for your efforts. But if you don’t help me, she’ll die!”
The guards showed no sign of relenting, their grips tightening on their weapons as they tried to push Silas back. “Don’t know, don’t care,” the scarred guard growled. “You’re not welcome here.”
Silas felt a surge of anger and despair. His fingers twitched toward the hilt of Ebonheart, ready to fight if he had to. But a calm, clear voice cut through the tension before he could act.
“What is the commotion about?”
Silas turned to see a figure leaning out of the fourth carriage. It was a young woman, partially obscured by the veil of rain and mist. Her voice was soft yet commanding, carrying a quiet authority that made the guards step back. “Why are you so desperate?”
Silas took a deep breath, trying to steady his voice. “My friend… She’s critically injured and could die if I don’t get her help soon. I need a carriage, or at least a healer, to save her.”
There was a pause as the woman considered his words. The rain continued to pour, the only sound between them, before she finally spoke. “Our Lady says that saving a life is a virtuous deed,” she said thoughtfully, echoing words that were clearly not hers.
Her face remained impassive, but Silas caught the faint, muffled sound of two voices in heated discussion within the carriage. The relentless downpour and distance made it impossible for him to discern their words, but the tension was palpable.
Soft yet insistent, one voice seemed to argue, “Are you going to make the Remingtons wait?”
The other, more urgent and resolute, replied, “He’s Lonestar’s kid! He’s a big customer! I need to make a detour.”
Their words were lost to Silas, drowned out by the rain. Still, after a brief silence, the woman leaning out of the carriage nodded as if in agreement with an unheard conclusion. “One of her personal healers will accompany you back. That should be sufficient.”
Silas’s heart sank slightly at her words. “Just one healer?” Silas’s voice faltered, remembering how many it took to save Rowan. “What if that’s not enough?”
The woman’s voice remained calm, almost dismissive. “Our Lady assures you that this healer is one of the best in Solarisynth. She will be enough.”
Silas hesitated, torn between scepticism and the dire reality of his situation. He knew he didn’t have the luxury of time to argue. Layla needed help now, and if this healer was his only option, he had no choice but to take it. “All right,” he said, his voice heavy with the weight of the decision. “I’ll trust you.”
The woman nodded, and one of the guards stepped forward, leading a horse alongside the carriage. A moment later, a woman in her thirties emerged, dressed in a flowing kimono. Her black hair was tied back neatly, and her green eyes were sharp and focused. She mounted the horse with practised ease, giving Silas a brief, assessing look.
“I’m ready,” she said simply, her voice calm and composed.
Silas mounted his horse and led the way back towards Darkwood Hollow, his thoughts racing as they rode. He clung to the fragile hope that this healer was as skilled as the noblewoman claimed, and that they would reach Layla in time. The rain continued to pour, soaking through his clothes, but he barely noticed it anymore. All that mattered was getting back before it was too late.