The Aielind Chronicles: Journey

Chapter Seven: Edrahil

The wagon creaked and swayed as it trundled along the uneven dirt road, the farmlands stretching endlessly around them. The rhythmic clatter of the Fawcetts' hooves was the only sound, save for the occasional rustle of leaves in the gentle breeze. Edrahil sat stiffly near the edge of the wagon, his back against the rough wooden frame, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. His gaze flicked from the horizon to the surrounding fields, his unease growing with every passing mile.

Pyk sat across from him, leaning casually against the side of the wagon, his staff resting against his shoulder. His face was calm, but his eyes were sharp, scanning their surroundings with a quiet vigilance. Between them sat Haeyl, her posture tense but composed, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. Her red hair, streaked with white, caught the sunlight that filtered through the gaps in the wagon’s canopy. She glanced at Edrahil now and then, her amber eyes wary, but quickly looked away whenever his sharp gaze met hers.

The silence between them was heavy, filled with unspoken thoughts and unasked questions. Haeyl shifted slightly, pulling her hood further over her head, as though trying to shield herself from the weight of Edrahil’s scrutiny. She wasn’t afraid—not entirely—but his presence unsettled her. She could feel his distrust, his anger simmering just beneath the surface, and it made her stomach churn.

Pyk broke the silence first, his voice light but laced with curiosity. “So, Edrahil, are you going to sit there brooding all the way to Tillshall, or do you plan to say something?”

Edrahil’s jaw tightened. He didn’t respond immediately, his eyes fixed on the horizon. Finally, he muttered, “I’m keeping watch.”

Pyk smirked. “Watch for what? A stray Fawcett stampede?”

Edrahil shot him a glare. “You don’t feel it? We’re being followed.”

Haeyl’s ears twitched, and she glanced nervously over her shoulder. The fields behind them were empty, the golden stalks of grain swaying gently in the breeze. “Followed?” she asked softly, her voice barely audible over the clatter of the wagon.

Edrahil nodded, his expression grim. “Something’s not right.”

Pyk leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “You’re always paranoid. Maybe it’s just the forest you’re worried about.”

At the mention of the forest, Edrahil’s grip on his sword tightened. He didn’t respond, but his silence spoke volumes. Pyk’s smirk faded, replaced by a thoughtful frown.

Haeyl glanced between them, her curiosity piqued despite herself. “What’s in the forest?” she asked cautiously.

Edrahil’s gaze darkened, his eyes distant. “Tillshall Forest is Wild Clan territory. It’s where my father died.”

The words hung in the air like a storm cloud. Haeyl’s breath hitched, and she looked away, unsure of what to say. Pyk’s expression softened, but he didn’t press further. The wagon jolted over a bump in the road, and the conversation lapsed back into silence.

Haeyl stared down at her hands, her thoughts racing. She had heard stories of the Wild Clan—feral Elves who lived outside the bounds of High Clan law, their ways savage and untamed. The thought of venturing into their territory sent a shiver down her spine, but at the same time, a strange sense of exhilaration bubbled within her. This was freedom, wasn’t it? The chance to go where she wanted, to see the world beyond the stone walls and narrow corridors of servitude.

Her gaze drifted to Edrahil. His shoulders were tense, his face a mask of stoic determination. She could see the pain lurking beneath the surface, the weight of his past pressing down on him. For a moment, she felt a pang of sympathy, but it was quickly overshadowed by her own uncertainty. He didn’t trust her—that much was clear—and she wasn’t sure she trusted him either.