Wren Ashvale's Arc

Chapter 4 of 8

The tortoise set them down where the road ran back toward the castle. Wren walked beside Alora with the grandmother's warning fresh in his ears. A man who plans for refusal has a second plan. He watched the mud, the reeds, the treeline. Then he saw the flowers. Wildflowers bloomed along both sides of the road, thick and bright, where yesterday there had been only mud. Wren stopped. He knew what grew where Dax walked. "He went ahead of us," Wren said. "He left this trail on purpose. He wants us to follow it." Alora looked at the flowers. "Then we should not." "We have to reach the castle. This is the only road." Wren drew the short knife from his belt. "Stay behind me." The flowers led to an old toll house choked in ivy. Vines gripped its stone walls and hung across the door. Fresh blooms crowded the step. Wren pushed the door. It swung open. Dax stood inside, frost-white coat clean in the damp. He did not sweat. He did not look surprised. Wildflowers had pushed up through the floorboards around his boots. "You killed my claim," Dax said. His voice stayed flat. "The old woman unmade the promise. I expected that." "Then why wait here?" Wren asked. Dax lifted a torn paper. Wren saw a plan sketched in a hard hand. Words leapt out. Marry Alora. Sell Elmwood. Destroy everything. Dax turned it so Alora could read. "I never wanted her," Dax said. "I wanted Elmwood's lands. She was the door to them. Now the door is shut." He set the paper on a dusty shelf beside old framed pictures. "So I will take something else." Wren stepped in front of Alora. "You will take nothing." Dax reached into his coat and drew out a dark mushroom with a broad shadowed cap. "One touch of this stops a heart. Your court trusts you now, messenger. They will find you dead on their road and blame the fae. The peace breaks. Elmwood marches. I get my war." Alora spoke behind Wren, quiet and clear. "He needs you alive to walk in. Dead, you are proof of nothing." Wren understood. Dax could not force him. He needed Wren to run, to panic, to touch the wrong thing. So Wren did not move. "No," Wren said. "I will carry your plan to the court myself. In your own hand. A sprite will read it true." Dax's face did not change, but his boots stilled. The flowers stopped spreading. He had planned for refusal. He had not planned for Wren to want the paper. Wren snatched the note from the shelf. Dax lunged. Alora slammed the ivy-hung door against his arm. The mushroom fell and crushed underfoot. Then they were on the road, the paper in Wren's fist, the castle ahead. Dax did not follow. He had lost his war, and now Wren held the proof of it.