Chapter 22: Echoes

The voyage to Liraen lasted five days in total, and I would be lying if I said it hadn’t been pleasant—save for one night when the sea rocked us hard enough that even Serine’s prayers didn’t help much. Still, the rest of the trip was calm, the air clean, the food surprisingly tolerable, and, most importantly, Cassian finally had the time to rest. His bruises faded, his ribs knit themselves back together faster than I expected, and though he still winced now and then, by the time we sighted land he was walking tall again. I caught myself wondering if it was that reptilian blood of his, knitting flesh and bone quicker than any human body could. I never asked, of course, but the thought lingered. Someday, I’d make him confess—Serine would eat that kind of knowledge alive.

We made landfall at a port town called Thalosir, a crescent-shaped harbor where white-stone houses stacked along the cliffs like seashells left by the tide. The smell of salt and roasted fish filled the streets, and music drifted down from balconies lit with lanterns. From the very first step onto the docks, it was obvious we were closer to elven territory than ever before—slender figures with pointed ears moved among the crowd, their presence not rare like in Myrath but common, almost natural. Alongside them bustled the familiar mix of semi-humans: scaled, furred, horned, feathered. A patchwork of bloodlines, all shouting, bargaining, living.

We had no idea how to reach Elyndor, of course. The note he left to us back on the bridge had been vague at best.

So we asked around, and though no one could point us directly toward the elven capital, the locals were kind enough. We learned that caravans often traveled inland from Thalosir, weaving through forests and valleys toward the highlands where the elves made their home. Until we could join one, we’d have to wait—and waiting meant blending into the life of Thalosir itself.

The days passed quicker than I expected. Serine was in heaven, dragging us from one landmark to another—temples carved into cliffside caverns, libraries that smelled of salt and ink, markets where elven silver glinted under the sun. She was relentless, bouncing with excitement as she asked Arkanthos endless questions about elven traditions, festivals, and gods.

"Tell me again, Arkanthos," she whispered one afternoon as she held his skull close, her feet dangling off a pier. "Do they really sing prayers under the stars every equinox? Together, the entire city?"

Arkanthos’s voice hummed gently. They do, Lady Serine. Song is the soul of their devotion. Each voice is a thread, and together they weave a tapestry of faith.”

Serine practically shivered with joy, hugging him as though a bare skull could return the embrace. I couldn’t help rolling my eyes.

Cassian, meanwhile, played the patient shadow. He accompanied us through the streets, quiet and observant, though his lips twitched now and then when Serine rambled herself breathless. And yes—I caught on quickly to how easily he let her mother him.

One morning, when she was carefully dabbing ointment on a bruise he didn’t need help with anymore, I leaned on the doorframe and smirked.

“Still milking it, are you?” I drawled. “If you sigh a little louder, Cassian, she’ll start spoon-feeding you broth.”

Color rose instantly to his cheeks. “It’s not—she insisted. I told her I was fine.”

“Oh, I’m sure you resisted with all your might,” I said sweetly. “Groaned once or twice, maybe flexed dramatically so she’d feel sorry for you.”

He turned away, muttering something under his breath, but the tips of his ears burned. Serine, ever oblivious, blinked up at me with that worried little frown.

“Rissa, he really is still healing,” she chided softly.

“Of course he is,” I said, all wide-eyed innocence. “Our poor tragic hero.”

Cassian just buried his face in his hands, and I walked away laughing.

By day, Serine threw herself into study—every elder, every craftsman, every merchant in Thalosir knew her name within days. She carried parchment, quills, and questions like weapons, ambushing strangers with inquiries about their families, their gods, their crafts. The people adored her for it. She listened, she cared, and in return, they opened their lives to her.

Cassian, less scholarly but no less noticeable, spent his mornings out in the fields beyond the walls. I’d watch him from afar sometimes: training with his blade, sweat gleaming along his skin as he practiced the same strike a hundred times until it was perfect. But what caught my attention more was the flock of children that always gathered around him. First, they watched. Then they imitated. By the third day, he was teaching them stances, laughing quietly when they toppled over or squeaked at the weight of a wooden sword. He even helped mend a farmer’s fence and carried water jugs for a bent old woman. The quiet, scarred warrior turned into something else in Thalosir—a guardian, almost gentle.

And me? I entertained myself the only way I knew how.

By night, when Serine was scribbling notes and Cassian was nursing his sore muscles, I slipped away to the taverns. It didn’t take long before everyone in Thalosir knew of the priestess with a venomous tongue and a bottomless cup. I made my coin back at the dice tables and arm-wrestling matches, and if some drunk thought he could charm me, he left with bruised pride—and sometimes a bruised jaw. They started calling me The Viper of Thalosir, half-joking, half-afraid. I wore the name proudly.

So it went: Serine the scholar, Cassian the stoic adventurer with children trailing after him like ducklings, and me—the drinking, gambling priestess who made sailors cry. For a few days, we weren’t fugitives or heroes or would-be saviors. We were just… people, making a name for ourselves in a city that welcomed us.

That name, of course, would soon bear fruit—or so I wanted to believe. Strangers arriving in Thalosir and stirring up such attention? No way the native elves of Liraen wouldn’t notice. Elves were notorious for their distaste toward change, for their wariness of outsiders. Their patience for new faces was thinner than parchment. And though I had enjoyed our stay, my patience was running out.

Thalosir had charm, but it had no adventurers’ guild. No guild meant no contracts. No contracts meant no easy coin. And without coin, how was I supposed to drink myself into oblivion every night? The math was simple and grim.

I rolled onto my back on the bed of the little inn room, staring at the wooden beams above. We still had a debt to collect of Elyndor, and in my mind, that debt already had fat golden wings. I would squeeze interest out of it too—dripping, shining, arrogant elven gold. Just thinking of it made my skin prickle with delight. There had to be a way to bleed the pompous aristocrats dry. How much could I trick them for? How much could I peel from their careful hands with a little charm, a little deceit, a carefully played game?

A grin split across my face before I realized it, sharp and wicked.

Clarisse Leighton. That was the name that pulsed behind my teeth whenever I smiled like that. My other self. My past. I had lived richly once, smothered in velvet, drowning in coin and wine and jewels I hadn’t earned but had taken with clever hands and a sharper tongue. Swindler. Trickster. Liar. That was who I had been, and the thought of it always sent a shiver of delight down my spine. How easy it would be to play those games again—especially with gold-heavy elves who probably thought themselves too clever to be fooled.

I was still grinning to myself when Serine caught me.

Serine’s voice cut through the silence from the other bed. “There it is again. That ugly face.”

I gasped theatrically, turning to her with feigned offense. “Excuse me? Ugly? This is the face of inspiration.”

From the nightstand, Arkanthos’s skull gleamed faintly in the lamplight. His calm voice slid into the room. “Oh, I think Lady Serine is right. Whenever you wear that look, Mistress, mischief is already plotting itself behind your eyes.” He turned his empty sockets toward the girl. “Wouldn’t you agree, Lady Serine?”

Serine hid her smile behind a sigh, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear as she bent back over the book in her lap. “I’d agree.”

I smirked, though the amusement twisted into something heavier. A thought crept in uninvited. Why had I even thought of my old self just then?

Clarisse Leighton.

The name echoed in my skull, sour and sweet all at once. I knew what I had been, at least in fragments. A swindler. A liar. Deception had been my coin, my sword, my shield. I’d lived richly enough to make saints envy me—and I’d made enemies enough to choke on.

But the memories blurred at the edges. I could see the tricks, the games, the countless faces I’d fooled. Yet the end… The end was a fog.

I knew who killed me. I knew how. I could still taste blood in my mouth, feel the cold edge against my skin. But the why—the reason it came to that, the final thread that snapped—was gone. A hole in my mind.

My temples throbbed, a sharp ache cutting behind my eyes. My ears rang as though the sea itself roared inside my skull. The more I reached for it, the more it slipped away.

And then—

“Are you well, Mistress?”

Arkanthos’s voice whispered directly into my mind, soft and steady. He had felt it, of course. Our bond carried more than words.

The pain ebbed, dissolving as quickly as it had come. My vision cleared, and I let out a slow breath.

I’m fine, I thought back, careful not to move my lips. Thank you for not alarming Serine. I don’t want her worrying.

A thoughtful pause, then his reply: “Perhaps… your mind would clear, if you were to share this past with Lady Serine.”

My eyes drifted closed, the heavy warmth of sleep pulling me under. Perhaps… in the right moment, I whispered back.