Through The Valley • Ao'nung

Chapter: 69

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̶̶̶̶  «̶ ̶̶̶ ̶ «̶ ̶̶̶ 　Humble　 ̶ ̶ ̶»̶ ̶̶̶ ̶ »̶ ̶̶̶  

[edited]

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At'anau moved through the village like a specter, her steps soundless against the sand. The night air was thick, salted with the brine of the ocean, and yet it felt suffocating. She didn't know where she was going—only that she needed to move, to put distance between herself and the heavy silence of the tent, the unspoken accusations hanging in the air like a second skin.

The waves lapped at the shore, indifferent to her turmoil. She stood at the edge of the water, watching the moon's reflection ripple and shatter beneath the tide. Her chest heaved as she tried to steady her breathing, but it was no use. She had meant every word she said, but that didn't mean they didn't cut her just as deeply as they had the others.

Spider's face haunted her the most. The way his blue eyes had darted away, as if searching for an escape. The way Kiri had immediately shielded him, as if At'anau's words had been arrows meant to pierce through his already fragile defenses. And maybe they had been.

She exhaled sharply, digging her nails into her palms. She didn't hate Spider. She didn't even blame him. Not really. But she couldn't ignore the truth—that no matter how much he had fought for their family, part of him had still been bound to Quaritch. And if there was even the slightest chance that the demon was still out there, she would not sit idly by and let history repeat itself.

A shadow shifted behind her.

"I thought you agreed to wait until morning."

She didn't flinch at Ao'nung's voice, nor at the quiet disapproval woven within it. He was standing a few feet away, arms crossed, his sharp eyes assessing her like he already knew what she was thinking.

At'anau clenched her jaw. "I did."

Ao'nung took a measured step closer. "But you're thinking about going now." It wasn't a question. It was an observation. A knowing one.

She let the silence stretch between them, neither confirming nor denying it. The wind whipped through her hair, catching on her braids, carrying the scent of salt and damp earth.

Ao'nung sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "You don't trust them to take this seriously."

She turned her gaze to him, finally meeting his eyes. "Do you?"

He held her stare, unwavering. "I trust my instincts. And right now, they're telling me that you need to breathe."

Her lips pressed into a thin line. She didn't want to hear that. She didn't want to be told to stop, to wait, to do nothing. But she also couldn't deny the exhaustion creeping into her limbs, the way her body ached from the weight of everything she was carrying.

Ao'nung must have seen the hesitation in her posture because his expression softened, just slightly. "We'll go at first light. As promised."

A part of her wanted to resist, to push past him and dive into the night regardless of his protests. But another part of her—the part that was too damn tired to keep fighting—nodded instead.

Ao'nung studied her for a moment longer before stepping back, giving her space. "Try to get some rest."

She scoffed, more at herself than at him. Rest. As if that was an option. As if sleep would bring her anything but more ghosts.

Still, she turned from the water, walking past him without another word. She could feel his gaze lingering on her back, heavy with things left unsaid.

She walked until the world blurred into a shifting mass of shadows and muted color. Her body, still trembling from the weight of the evening, carried her forward on instinct alone. The ground beneath her feet turned from dirt to rock, jagged cliffs rising on either side, a natural cradle of stone where no one would find her.

Here, the wind howled through the narrow pass, but it was a distant thing, hollow and mournful. It suited her. She sat, spine pressing against cool stone, arms wrapping around her knees, but rest wouldn't come. The ghosts of the night clung to her skin, their whispers lingering just beyond the veil of silence.

She exhaled, slow and measured. Her hand drifted to the pouch at her belt, fingers closing around something soft, delicate. Leaves, dried and crushed just enough to release their scent—a bitter, almost honeyed fragrance.

A habit. A necessity.

She didn't think much of it. Didn't allow herself to. Just as she had the night before. Just as she would tomorrow. The plant had a name, but she never spoke it. There was no need.

She pinched a portion between her fingers and brought it to her lips, tucking it against her gums where it would seep into her blood, easing the edges of her reality until they softened into something she could bear. It wouldn't heal her. Nothing would. But it would make the night pass.

Her head tilted back against the rock as warmth spread through her limbs, slow and thick like honey. The ache dulled, the gnawing thoughts softened into something distant, manageable. Sleep wasn't peace, but it was close enough.

As the cliffs cradled her in their cold embrace, her lashes fluttered closed. The stars above blurred into a soft glow, and for a few hours, she wouldn't have to feel. Not completely.

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