Page 38 of A Sunwoven Ascent

Alaric was scarcely walking now, carried more often than left to his own feet. Lorena kept him under heavy tonics after Cillian’s second attempt at cleansing sent him into unconsciousness for long, frightening minutes. The effort had achieved almost nothing, save for the brief moment Alaric rasped, Too loud, just as the camp broke into panicked shouting, before sleep dragged him under once more.

Lorena fed him broth through a makeshift straw to keep him alive. Each day, Heidara washed his face and hands. Evelyne helped when she could, though she could not miss Heidara’s devotion to the task, as if tending to Alaric was the only thing keeping hope from breaking. When the road allowed it, Evelyne read to him in a low voice from the book Kaldrek had given her for her birthday. She did not know whether Alaric could hear, but it felt like a tether all the same, a small kindness offered into the dark, and a reminder that he was still one of theirs.

The truth was, Cillian needed help learning to call on his power. Lorena stayed close and kept him steady, but even with her guidance he could manage only small, careful pulls of darkness from Alaric’s body. It was not enough. Not yet. And the one person who might truly know how to help him was Selene, the witch of Cindermoor.

Kaldrek mentioned her once. Then again. Then a third time, with a certainty that made Evelyne bristle. He was too insistent, too sure of her, and Evelyne could not decide whether that confidence should have comforted her or made her uneasy.

Instead, it stirred something far worse.

Jealousy.

And she hated it the moment she felt it.

Selene was young and striking, from what Evelyne remembered, with rich dark skin and a crown of curls that looked like it belonged in a painting. Kaldrek was well known in Cindermoor, spoken of there with familiarity, as if the place had once been his in some quiet way. If she wasn’t careful, her mind would run straight into a ridiculous thought.

What if Selene had been more than a contact? What if she’d been a—

Evelyne clenched her jaw and stamped the thought out before it could bloom. She was being absurd. Kaldrek was her mate. If he could hear what she was thinking, he’d scold her for it until she wanted to throw something at him. Still, the unease hovered as they traveled on, Cindermoor drawing closer with every mile.

Part of Evelyne longed for the strange comfort of returning to something known, while another part wanted to take a different road entirely and never look upon that place again. Cindermoor was where her father had died. No, not died. Been murdered. And the moment the thought surfaced, memory followed in a rush: screams tearing through the night, blood staining the ground, terror thick in the air, the helpless shock of loss. Then the morning after. The burning of bodies. Her father’s burial.

And tangled through that horror were memories she still did not know how to hold. Her birthday. Kaldrek’s gift. Their first kiss. The first time his hands touched her, as though the world could be ruined and beautiful in the very same breath.

Cindermoor held all of it. Grief and tenderness. Terror and love. Something awful, and something precious. The thought of returning left Evelyne aching with a confusion she could not untangle.

***

When they reached Cindermoor, dusk was already settling, with only a few last slivers of sun clinging to the hills. Eda, baker and longtime friend to the Ironwolf, did not pause for so much as a breath. She swept forward to greet Kaldrek and the packs, then immediately began ushering them toward her husband’s tavern as though she had known all along they would come. Garek’s face lit the instant Holden stepped through the door. Holden crossed the room in two long strides and pulled the older man into a crushing embrace, earning a startled laugh and an equally fierce squeeze in return.

And then the town began to gather.

One by one, people spilled into the street to welcome the packs as they once had, calling names, clasping shoulders, offering food, warmth, and room by the fire. For a fleeting moment, it almost seemed as though Cindermoor had stitched itself whole again, as though the attack had never torn through it at all.

Evelyne knew better, of course. Still, she could not help admiring their strength. The choice to rebuild. The refusal to be silenced in a world that had tried so hard to break them. So she let herself smile. Let herself be gathered into their warmth. And that night, held in Kaldrek’s arms, she slept more soundly than she had in days.

Chapter 19

The witch’s shop was pleasantly warm, a quiet refuge from the chill still clinging to Cindermoor’s early-morning streets. Though they had traveled farther south, autumn was beginning its slow claim, as if the north refused to loosen its grip entirely. Cillian felt the change the moment he crossed the threshold. Warmth stirred beneath his skin, not just the heat of shifter blood, but the softer glow that now lived in his chest.

His body was still learning its new balance, and at times that balance felt fragile. Still, he was grateful beyond words to feel like himself again. Free of demons. Free of blood witches. Free of anyone else’s control. Whenever he let himself think how much worse it might have been, unease softened into relief.

Holden, at least, had continued to help, explaining wolf instincts and heightened senses, even offering hunting advice Cillian knew he would never use. For all Holden’s rough edges and stubborn manner, there was an unexpected kindness in him, and his dry humor still managed to pull laughter from Cillian when he least expected it.

Perhaps this strange season of companionship was exactly what he needed. Cillian had always preferred the edges of rooms, content to observe rather than join in. Maybe that was why Holden tolerated him so well. Because Cillian listened. Or perhaps, more simply, Holden had come to see him as a friend. Either way, Cillian took comfort in the presence of those willing to stand guard over him and his sister. Even Alaric, in his own complicated way.

“Hello. You must be Cillian.”

The woman spoke from a table set at the center of the shop, her voice gentle and welcoming. She was strikingly beautiful, he thought, with dark curls cascading loosely about her shoulders and a smile that seemed to reach him before her gaze did. Candlelight caught on her features, lending her an almost otherworldly ease as she looked between Cillian and Kaldrek near the door.

Kaldrek had insisted they come early, before the market came to life, explaining that Selene favored the quiet of morning and would be more inclined to help them. Cillian had not objected to the alpha’s presence, though he had wondered at the reason for it. Perhaps he simply had no appetite for further surprises. Cillian did not mind. He missed the certainty of his library at home, the old comfort of knowing that answers existed somewhere if one only searched hard enough. Yet Sunweavers had vanished from both memory and text. Whatever he was becoming, knowledge had not kept pace.

“Yes, miss,” Cillian said, offering a small, instinctive bow before he could stop himself. “Good morning. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

A light laugh escaped her. “There is no need for all that formality. I have no title and no grand estate to my name. I am merely a witch.”

Right.

“Come,” Selene said, gesturing to the table. “Sit down, both of you, and make yourselves comfortable before we begin.”