The Wisteria Accond

Chapter Eight

The town is a place of noise and life, a stark contrast to the stoic, regimented outpost. It's filled with the smells of baking bread and roasting meat, with the laughter of children darting between the narrow alleys and the low hum of conversation drifting through the open air. For a moment, it's easy to forget about the war, about the Nightborne, about everything that lies beyond these walls. For a moment, it almost feels like normal life.

We're walking down the cobblestone path that winds through the center of town, our boots scuffing against the uneven stones. I'm flanked by Clara on one side and Gav on the other, with Marcus bringing up the rear. We're still in our scout leathers, our weapons strapped to our sides, which draws a few wary glances from the townsfolk, but no one says anything. We're a familiar sight by now—patrols taking a break, trying to breathe in something other than the tension of the outpost.

Clara stretches her arms over her head, her joints cracking in the quiet. She's tall and lean, with dark brown skin and hair braided close to her scalp, each braid adorned with tiny beads that click softly with her movements. She's got the kind of effortless confidence that makes her seem even taller than she already is, her eyes sharp and always scanning, always watching.

"Gods, I swear if I have to check one more trap along that northern ridge, I'm going to throw myself off it," she mutters, her tone dry.

Gav chuckles, running a hand through his short, tousled blond hair, which always seems to stick up in every direction, no matter what he does. He's shorter than Clara, but stockier, with a broad build and an easy grin that makes him look younger than his twenty-two years. "Better than getting stuck on wall duty. At least you get to stretch your legs."

"Oh, please," Clara snorts, rolling her eyes. "You just like getting out of range of Soren's lectures."

"Don't we all?" Marcus chimes in from behind us, his deep voice like gravel. Marcus is older than the rest of us by a good ten years, his face lined and weathered, his black hair streaked with gray. He's got a grizzled look, his jaw covered in a permanent shadow of stubble, but there's a warmth in his eyes that puts people at ease, even if he rarely smiles.

I stay quiet, just listening to the banter flow around me. It's comforting, in a way—this camaraderie that comes from shared exhaustion, from knowing we're all in this together. I wrap my fingers around the strap of my bow, feeling the worn leather beneath my palm. The rhythm of it, the familiarity, is a small comfort against the thoughts that churn in my mind, thoughts of golden eyes and dangerous promises.

Suddenly, two kids come barreling toward us, skidding to a halt so fast they almost crash into Clara. They're panting, eyes wide with fear, their small chests heaving with every breath. The older one, a boy with a shock of black hair and dirt-smudged cheeks, grabs Clara's hand, tugging at her sleeve.

"Miss, miss!" he gasps, his voice high-pitched and panicked. "We saw them! We saw the Nightborne!"

The world seems to stop around us. For a second, all I can hear is the rapid pounding of my own heart. I share a quick look with Clara, who has gone rigid, her hand already moving to the hilt of her sword.

"Where?" I demand, stepping forward. "Where did you see them?"

The younger kid, a girl with wide green eyes and pigtails, points a trembling finger toward the northern edge of town, where the fields meet the forest. "Over there," she says, her voice barely a whisper. "They were creeping around the old mill."

"Shit," Gav mutters under his breath, all traces of his earlier humor gone. "That's close. Too close."

"Marcus, take the kids to the inn," Clara orders, her voice steady and commanding. "Tell them to stay inside, and alert anyone you see along the way."