𝐒𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐑𝐎𝐖 | 𝟏𝟖+

xxiv. dreamweaver's bluff.

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‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎𝐈𝐓'𝐒 𝐀 𝐂𝐋𝐎𝐔𝐃𝐘 𝐍𝐎𝐎𝐍 𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐁𝐘 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐓𝐈𝐌𝐄 𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐑𝐎𝐖 𝐒𝐖𝐎𝐎𝐏𝐒 𝐃𝐎𝐖𝐍 𝐓𝐎𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐃𝐒 𝐀 𝐃𝐈𝐋𝐀𝐏𝐈𝐃𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐃 𝐕𝐈𝐋𝐋𝐀𝐆𝐄. From above, the village is surrounded by cancerous blight-forests of blackened rot and decay. For miles, the earth remains wrecked by the ailment, and now, Elowen understands why Morrow's so desperate to find a way to end its never-ending spread. It's infecting everything that expels life and light, and it's ironic that Morrow, the reaper of death with cursed wings, is the one trying stop it.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Morrow lands at the centre of the village square. A large fountain carved out of old granite no longer spouts water, but remains a monument of a city that once thrived. Cobblestone houses coated in a mixture of rotting ivy and ashen green vines surround the square, some still alive, most dead. She tries to envision what the village looked like when it was bustling with fae, but now, it's nothing but a lost memory of the past. Some roofs have caved in from rattling storms, others dust covered with shattered stained glass windows.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎If Thorn is here, it's hard to understand why he'd want to stay. With the bligbt everywhere, it'd be incredibly dangerous to maintain distance from it. She crosses her fingers that the man they seek is still alive, still sane when the disease seems to deteriorate all logic.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Morrow flicks his attention behind his shoulder, and to her surprise, extends his ring-clad hand in her direction for her to take.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Her brows raise in shock. "Aren't you a gentleman?"

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎He scowls, but a faint rose develops on his cheeks as he turns and gazes onward, his hand still outstretched. "Take it."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Elowen lets her fingers weave between his own, his rings cool against her delicate skin. For a moment, time pauses as glowing meadowed hues strike her own. His wolf satisfies itself knowing that he holds the palm of his fated mate. She takes note of the newfound solace weaving its way betwixt their auras, an invisible thread that strengthens the ropes that bind them. Still, the holding of her hand is the briefest of indulgences that Morrow can have. There won't be a mate in his future, solely for the fact that she's not supposed to exist in his realms.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Morrow guides her through the village square, observing the abandoned structures for signs of Thorn. Every so often, he squeezes her palm in reassurance.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"What if he's not here?" Elowen breathes, knowing her thoughts of doubt only trinkle down to his own.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"Then we go back to Tabrien."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"And my magic?"

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"We'll figure it out," he growls, giving her hand a light tug as if to pull her closer to him. He mutters the next bit under his breath, perhaps to himself to remember as a promise. "I'll make sure of it."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎The eerie cloud that hovers over the village whispers of the dangers hidden within its dark shadows, of a beast that lurks and punishes its trespassers. The feeling causes goosebumps to rise on Elowen's skin and pique her sparking nerves. She reaches down her tether to Morrow to see if he feels the same, but instead, eases when he sends a low coarse growl to hum in her mind. Still, she keeps digging within his thoughts, until—