Page 43 of Forged in Fading

“Time doesn’t matter if you’re faded,” Alvara muttered, throwing a glare over her shoulder at the current bane of her existence.

“She’s the only Dalvian here,” Boden said. “We should follow her advice. I agreed to the quicker route, but safety comes first. We’ll take the longer but lower path, with a few departures from the road to avoid passing through large towns.”

The way he trusted her without truly knowing her—it spoke either of naivety or something deeper that Alvara didn’t quite understand. It bolstered her just a little, enough to remind her that this is why she had come: to share as much knowledge of her kingdom and her people as she could.

Orme grumbled something about Dalvians and clambered back on his horse with little dignity. “If we’re to take the youngling’s advice, we should continue to keep our pace.”

Youngling. A word no one had dared call since her own aging had slowed to a crawl in the first few years after finishing academy, a sign of maturity for their kind. She had lived more lives in her short years than Orme could ever understand, though many older elves like him would still consider her too young to be of any consequence until she had reached the second half of her first century. It would be a miracle if she managed to avoid strangling him by the end of the journey.

When they made camp for the night, and Orme launched into a lecture on how to build the best fire, Alvara volunteered to gather wood. Far, far away from the rest of them.

Or so she thought.

A branch snapped, and her heart galloped off without her. She spun around, brandishing a stick in one hand and her dagger in the other. “Oh, it’s you.”

Boden picked up more kindling at his feet. “That might be the nicest thing you have ever said to me.”

“That’s not true. I called you a pig. Some people find them pleasant.”

He arched a brow. “And you? How do you feel about them?”

She grabbed a pile of brush that was mostly untouched by frost and looked him up and down. He was attractive, but so was every elf Alvara had ever met. Some said it was one of the gifts bestowed on their race by the moon god, Kutamir. But perfection rarely felt like a gift—once it surrounded you at all times, it became mundane, something you stopped noticing altogether.

Though Boden’s features were more rugged than the smooth and soft ones typical of their kind, like he had been carved from the very earth and stone he wielded. He had even let his stubble grow and now wore a short beard around his jaw and mouth.

His eyes darted to the side, as if looking for what had stolen her attention away. She shoved the contents of her arms into his. “I find them messy and loud. But they taste delicious when you cut them up and fry them in a pan.”

Boden’s eyes widened, and he made a choking sound. “Remind me to sleep with a dagger under my pillow.”

“I doubt you even carry one.”

“Yes, master blacksmith, I do.” He balanced his load in one arm and grabbed a small, sheathed blade from his boot with the other. She could already tell from the excessive outer decoration that the dagger’s craftsmanship would be nothing impressive.

Alvara turned the blade back and forth in the sunlight, and the vibrant colors from the hideous number of jewels danced on the snow. “This will snap if you do more than open a letter.” She handed it back and pushed past a tangle of branches to move deeper into the forest. Gods, she could still hear Orme’s grating voice, even this far away.

“That doesn’t surprise me. My father gave it to me as a gift when I started in the palace. It was an effort on his part to help me fit into royal life.”

Oh. She always managed to say the wrong thing. “How are you doing since he…?”

Though the circles under Boden’s eyes were less prominent, his hair was still an unruly mess, even by his standards. As if he hadn’t taken the time to brush it, let alone bathe in days. She knew that feeling—like the little things didn’t matter anymore, not compared to what had just been lost. Food, clothes, sleep. They were small specks in a sky of memories and emotions that refused to dim.

“I’m starting to get the sense that light-hearted conversations are not one of your strengths.”

“You wouldn’t be wrong.” Alvara gathered her own pile and treaded through the ankle-deep snow toward camp.

“It doesn’t feel real.”

She slowed her pace to avoid drowning out the quiet tone his voice had assumed.

“And I’m not confident it ever will. Part of me believes I might wake up one day and see him again, alive and whole, as if I didn’t watch him bleed out in front of me.”

“If it makes you feel any better, it sometimes still doesn’t feel real to me. And it’s been years. You tell everyone what they want to hear. That you’re doing better, moving on. But it still clings to you. The loss. It becomes a part of you that you want to rid yourself of, but at the same time, you can’t imagine letting it go.”

The footsteps behind her stopped, and Alvara peered over her shoulder. Boden watched her, his head slightly tilted as if he were contemplating the most complicated mysteries of the world.

“Nothing to say? That must be a first for you,” she said, if only to break his attention. The thoughtful look he wore made her uncomfortable for a reason she couldn’t quite place.

A small pebble tapped her on the nose. “I do have some control over my mouth, you know.”