Sevensworn

XXVIII. Before the Storm

Shivaroth helped Ronan back through Terr'Havel's doors twenty minutes later. They had sat in silence for a good portion of the time once Ronan had explained the vision he'd had, their arms pressed together, their noses red from the cold. Ronan reveled in the sight that he had, painfully aware of how close he'd come to losing it altogether.

Nothing sank in. Even when Shivaroth reached out and wiped the blood from his cheeks⁠, he didn't quite realize what had happened. By the time they'd entered Terr'Havel, the numbness was starting to wear off.

When they entered the main hall, they were both surprised to find it lit. Shivaroth's brief excuse, as it turned out, hadn't sat well with Zia, who had gone to wake Acaeus and Wynne. All three of them were gathered in various places around the hall; Wynne paced back and forth fast enough to tear a hole in the carpet while Acaeus plucked idly at a string instrument Ronan didn't recognize and Zia tugged at stray curls of her hair. Both she and Acaeus stood as they walked through the doors, eyes widening immediately as they saw the blood on Ronan's face and shirt.

"By the Three," Zia breathed. "I knew something was wrong, but I⁠—what happened?"

Shivaroth explained. Ronan was removed from his grasp by Wynne, who sat him down in front of a mirror and began to examine his eyes. Ronan, at one point, glanced over at his own reflection; he was met by a pair of eyes he only half recognized. One was warm and brown, the other, his right, pale and cloudy. Blood was dried in the corners of each, and he exhaled sharply.

The loss of his peripheral vision was jarring and unnerving. The idea of fighting like this was setting him on edge, and reality was beginning to catch up with him. He was blind in one eye. Unseeing.

"Ronan." Wynne's voice called him back to the present, drawing his eyes away from the mirror and toward her face. "You with us?" She seemed endlessly calmer than he was, and he pushed his own shock down.

"What?"

"What should we do?" Wynne looked at him expectantly.

Ronan glanced around the room. All eyes were indeed on him, but his mind had been elsewhere⁠—all words had been lost to him.

"I'm sorry," he said breathlessly. "What are you asking me?"

"When do we leave for Ferenheld?" Zia asked, a grim restlessness in her eyes.

Acaeus made a face beside her. "Are we really going to play into Fate's plan? What if we just didn't go?"

"It will happen at some point regardless," Shivaroth asserted. "One way or another. Fate does not lose."

"Well," Acaeus muttered, "Fate can suck my⁠—"

"Tomorrow," Ronan interjected hoarsely. Everyone fell silent. "We leave tomorrow. If we want to get there within the time frame we've been given, we will have to leave at the break of dawn."

"Are you sure, Ro?" Wynne put a hand on his arm, the slight tremor in it betraying her otherwise calm exterior.

"Shivaroth is right. We don't have a choice here." He gestured to his eye, sighing deeply. "This and the moon, the conversation with the Seven, the vision⁠—all of these things are pointing toward the end. We can run, we can hide, or we can meet it with open arms. I don't know about all of you, but I'm getting a bit tired of running."

Zia chuckled darkly. Acaeus ran a hand through his sleep-mussed hair. Wynne stood beside him, sighing.

"Fine," Zia said. "We knew it was coming. Let's go." She nudged Acaeus with her elbow. "One more good night of sleep," she said with the faux-alluring tone of a merchant trying to sell a visibly decrepit product. "What do you say?"