A Touch Of Darkness

29 || Familiar

Contentment always spreads its wings within Sarielle when the camp looms into view, wherever it resides that night. Whether pitched upon the lowlands stretching endlessly beyond the horizon, crouched at the banks of the racing Oscei, or nestled here amongst the snowy crests of mountains, the humble little tents are stitched with a homely comfort. They're what holds the team together.

The sight of them means she's survived another day. Another restless night awaits her, before she awakes again, ready to gamble her life on each daylight hour once more.

At least today has been a touch different than the rest.

A bramble blocks the path ahead. Carefully teasing it aside, she holds it, gesturing for Nathan to slip past. She takes the opportunity to steal another glance of him. Black hair glistening damp, like a crow's feathers ruffled by a downpour. The miniature forest of his eyes appears framed by dirtied snow.

She can't look at him for more than a moment. Maybe that's why she didn't notice the mask at first, sitting tight over his face, only a shade paler than his skin. He's like a flicker of light that vanishes with too long a blink. If she isn't careful, she's sure she will lose him in the crowd. Yet her gaze won't linger, as if afraid to examine too long and be blinded by whatever torch placed him there.

Despite all that, she finds herself casting him a second, brief look. Tentative steps, forward and back. Intrigue pulling her in, uncertainty waving her away.

With a sigh, she forces her focus to settle on the crossing branches above, the last evening rays trickling through. She edges past the bramble and finds there is no-one behind to pass it too. She and Nathan have somehow fallen to the back.

"Come on," she says, brushing his arm to grab his attention. He jerks, eyes wild, only settling when they rest on her. His step has faltered, and so has hers without realising it. Why does simply looking at him require so much energy?

Pieces of him slot together oddly in her mind. Perhaps it's familiarity. A faint sense that she's seen him before, in another life, another world. Is it possible? Someone like him can't possibly have gone anywhere near the castle, least of all a noble's daughter. If she knows him, she must have come across him before in her journeys alongside her fellow soldiers. Maybe a pair of eyes she's met in a crowd before, a smile she's exchanged in passing on a backstreet. Something insignificant that lingered somehow. That would explain why she can't place him.

"We better hurry up," she adds, shaking away the thought before it can overtake her. "Dalton hates it when we lag behind."

His pace picks up immediately at that. She dodges behind him and follows, ducking under a low-hanging bough as the trees fall away around the camp. It's easier looking at the back of his head. She can avoid the nag of that familiar spark in his eyes.

Her attention drifts to his clothes instead, immediately creasing her brows into a frown. The castle's influence lingers enough for her to recognise quality fabric when she sees it. Sleek, gentle swathes of black material, and yet the seam running up his sleeves is far too obvious, wisps of torn thread dangling out. A tunic that was once made for importance, but has quickly fallen to wear.

Maybe she does know him from the castle. But wouldn't she remember him if he is someone higher born? And why is he here now, ragged and dirty, far from anywhere associated with wealth?

When you're taking in a first impression of someone, examine their posture. Her father's lessons echo from somewhere deep. It says a lot about a person. Where they're from, how they're feeling, who they consider themself to be in comparison to you. Sarielle tilts her head, studying Nathan.