Chapter 13 — The Long Way

  (Crimson — First Person)

  The message was sealed with wax, the color of old wine.

  The clerk who handed it to Blade barely looked up. He named the place, slid the ledger across the counter, and waited for the scratch of a signature like this was the most forgettable part of his day.

  “Mill steward in Gallowmere,” he said. “Signature on return.”

  Blade nodded once and tucked the letter into his coat.

  Another boring job.

  I glanced at him.

  Swift. Precise.

  I’d seen competency before.

  He cut through things that warped the earth. Moved through danger like it was weather. Read the ground the way other people read ink.

  And now he was carrying sealed messages between mill stewards.

  He didn’t look diminished.

  He didn’t look restless.

  If anything, he looked exactly the same.

  Same worn cloak. Same scuffed helmet. Same sword resting where it always did.

  No insignia. No polish. Nothing that marked him as anything at all.

  That unsettled me more than if he’d complained.

  That should have explained it.

  It didn’t.

  I didn’t know what to do with that.

  We walked under a pale sky that couldn’t decide if it wanted to warm.

  The road was wide and steady, made for carts and people who didn’t think much beyond the next bend. Fields stretched out on either side, already busy with work that didn’t stop to notice us.

  Normal.

  I told myself to trust that.

  The road broke near a thin stand of pines where the ground dipped and a narrow stream cut across the path. What had once been solid earth had collapsed inward, leaving a shallow ravine of exposed dirt and stone.

  Blade stopped and assessed it without comment.

  He reached into his pack and pulled out the map, unfolding it carefully. His finger traced a short detour through the trees, then lifted.

  “This way,” he said, folding the map again. “It’s faster.”

  He turned toward the low ground.

  The air pressed in on itself.

  Not sharply. Not enough to hurt.

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  Just enough.

  The space ahead felt wrong in a way that was difficult to name—like walking with your thoughts slightly out of step with your body. I recognized it immediately. Magic didn’t like that place. It compressed. Interfered.

  Blade couldn’t feel it.

  If I stayed quiet, we’d go that way. I’d manage it. I always did. I’d narrow my focus, slow myself down, and endure until the road opened again.

  And he’d never know why.

  My mouth opened.

  Closed.

  If I explained it properly, he’d ask questions. Not about the path—but about me. About things that didn’t end at the road.

  Blade had already taken a few steps.

  “Blade.”

  He stopped immediately and turned.

  The pause wasn’t heavy. It wasn’t impatient.

  It was waiting.

  “That route,” I said, and felt the words catch. “It… interferes. With my magic. A little.”

  He glanced back toward the trees. “That stretch runs dead air,” he said. “Depends on the element. Some take it worse.”

  Element.

  Panic flickered — sharp, contained.

  “I can handle it,” I said, too quickly.

  Blade paused.

  “What element?”

  The question hit harder than it should have.

  Not because it was dangerous. Because it was reasonable.

  I opened my mouth.

  “It’s—”

  The word formed. Stalled.

  He reached into his pack, fingers brushing leather. “I’ve got herbs. Some help blunt it.”

  I tried again. “It’s—”

  Any answer that fit wouldn’t stop there.

  The silence stretched — not awkward, not accusing. Just there.

  “Could we just…” I swallowed. “Could we not go that way?”

  The words were smaller than truth.

  Blade’s gaze shifted toward the trees, then up toward the ridge.

  His eyes flicked over me, brief and assessing.

  “Can you climb?”

  “Yes.”

  I waited.

  He nodded once.

  “We’ll take the high ground.”

  No frustration.No insistence.No demand for explanation.

  He stepped close and reached for my pack straps.

  I let go.

  The weight lifted from my shoulders in one smooth motion, leaving me briefly unbalanced. Blade adjusted the load onto his own back like it was nothing more than a change in distribution.

  “Stay close,” he said.

  The climb began almost immediately. Loose stone and uneven ground forced careful steps, the slope steep enough that every movement demanded attention. The wind sharpened as we rose, cold and clean.

  Blade climbed ahead with the pack, steady and deliberate. He didn’t rush. He didn’t slow to make a point.

  Without the pack, I could focus. My hands scraped against stone once, my cloak snagged and tore free, but I kept moving.

  Halfway up, the ridge narrowed into a short scramble.

  Blade paused and looked back.

  I climbed.

  The ridge leveled out near the top, opening into a narrow stretch of stone with wind on both sides.

  The pressure eased — not suddenly, just enough that my thoughts stopped bracing.

  He didn’t ask again.

  We crossed in silence.

  The mill came into view on the other side, its wheel turning slow in the water like it always had.

  The steward met us near the door, wiping flour from his hands.

  “You’ve something for me?” he asked.

  Blade handed over the letter.

  “From Northfield,” he said.

  The steward broke the seal, scanned the contents, then grunted once. “Right.”

  The steward glanced at me briefly.

  “Dead air still running along the ridge?” he muttered.

  “Still,” Blade said.

  The steward snorted. “Hate that stretch.”

  He signed the receipt and passed it back.

  “Response?” Blade asked.

  “Not today.”

  Blade nodded.

  We left.

  Outside, Blade adjusted the pack on his shoulders.

  I watched him longer than I meant to.

  “…Thank you,” I said, eyes on the ground.

  Blade blinked once and started walking ahead again.I didn’t move.

  The words tightened something in my chest—then eased it.“Crimson.”I looked up.

  He didn’t sound annoyed.He didn’t sound expectant.

  He sounded factual.

  “All you had to do was ask.”

  And we kept going.