CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The Wayward Season
Seven months.
Seven months of running. Seven months of small towns and borrowed beds and never staying long enough to matter. Seven months of watching over their shoulders, of false names and careful stories, of leaving before anyone could get too close.
Orion had lost count of how many places they'd passed through. Riverdale, Crossings, the unnamed village where they'd sheltered during a three-day storm. Each one blurred into the next—different faces, same fear.
But Millbrook was different.
They'd arrived three weeks ago, intending to stay only a few days. The town was medium-sized, prosperous enough to have a small adventurer's guild but remote enough to avoid major traffic. A good place to resupply, rest, and move on.
Except they hadn't moved on.
"We should leave," Orion said. He said it every few days now, a ritual that had lost most of its urgency. "We've been here too long."
"I know." Nera was sitting by the window of their rented room, watching the town square below. "Tomorrow. We'll leave tomorrow."
"You said that yesterday."
"And I'll probably say it again tomorrow." She turned to look at him, and he saw something in her expression that made his heart ache. Exhaustion, yes, but also longing. "Can we just... have this? A little longer? Please?"
He couldn't refuse her. He'd never been able to refuse her.
"A little longer," he agreed. "But we need to be careful."
"We're always careful."
"We're always careful and we're always running. That's not the same as being safe."
"I know." She was quiet for a moment. "I just miss... having a place. Growing things. Knowing the baker's name and having her know mine. Is that so wrong?"
"No. It's not wrong at all."
He crossed the room and sat beside her, looking out at the same view she'd been watching. Millbrook spread before them—cobblestone streets, timber-framed buildings, a central fountain where children played. Ordinary life, continuing without them.
"The baker's name is Marta," he said quietly. "She likes you. She gives you extra pastries when you visit."
"She gives everyone extra pastries. She's generous."
"She gives you more extra pastries."
Nera almost smiled. "Maybe."
"And the blacksmith—Jorin—he nods at me now when I pass. Actually acknowledges my existence instead of glaring."
"That's because you fixed his bellows. You didn't have to do that."
"It was a simple repair. I was bored."
"You were being kind." She leaned against him. "You're always kind, even when you pretend not to be."
They sat together in the afternoon light, two fugitives pretending to be ordinary people, knowing it couldn't last but wishing it could.
"Tomorrow," Nera said again.
"Tomorrow," Orion agreed.
Neither of them believed it.
* * *
The haunted mill had been a problem for weeks.
That was how the locals described it, anyway—haunted. Strange noises in the night. Equipment moving on its own. The miller's daughter swearing she'd seen ghostly lights dancing through the grain stores.
The town's small guild had posted it as a quest, but none of the local adventurers wanted to take it. Ghosts were bad business. Unpredictable. Sometimes they were harmless echoes; sometimes they were vengeful spirits that could tear a person apart from the inside.
Orion and Nera took the job.
"It's not ghosts," Nera said as they approached the mill. It sat at the edge of town, where a small river provided power for the grinding stones. The building itself was old but well-maintained—no obvious signs of supernatural decay.
"How can you tell?"
"The energy is wrong. Ghosts feel... cold. Empty. Like holes in the world." She was pixie-sized, hovering near his shoulder with her head tilted as if listening to something he couldn't hear. "This feels more like... mischief."
"Mischief?"
"Little mischief. The playful kind." A smile tugged at her lips. "I think I know what we're dealing with."
They entered the mill carefully, weapons ready despite Nera's assessment. The interior was dusty and dim, flour particles hanging in the air like frozen snowflakes. The grinding stones sat silent, the water wheel stilled for the investigation.
"Hello?" Nera called out. Not in the common tongue—in something older, musical, a language that seemed to resonate with the shadows themselves.
For a moment, nothing.
Then giggling. High-pitched, childlike, coming from everywhere and nowhere.
"Sprites," Orion said, understanding dawning. "It's sprites."
"A whole family, by the sound of it." Nera flew forward, her light casting a gentle glow through the darkness. "Come out, little ones. I know you're there. I'm not here to hurt you."
More giggling. And then, slowly, they emerged.
There were seven of them—tiny creatures, smaller even than Nera in her pixie form. They glowed with faint luminescence, their forms shifting between solid and translucent. Sprites—nature spirits, distant cousins of the fairy realm, known for their love of pranks and their hatred of iron.
"A queen!" one of them squeaked. "A real queen! Here! In a human place!"
"She smells like flowers!" another added. "And power! So much power!"
"Not a queen anymore," Nera said gently. "Just a traveler. Like you."
"We're not travelers," the largest sprite protested. It seemed to be the leader, slightly more substantial than the others. "We live here. This is our home now."
"In the mill?"
"The forest got too crowded. Too many squirrels. They're very rude, squirrels. Always chattering, never listening." The sprite drifted closer, examining Nera with obvious curiosity. "So we came here. The flour is soft and warm. The wheel makes music when it turns. It's a good home."
"But you've been scaring the humans."
"We didn't mean to!" The sprites' glow dimmed with what looked like genuine distress. "We just wanted to play. Move things, make lights, have fun. We didn't know they'd be frightened."
"Humans can't see you the way I can. To them, you're invisible. When things move on their own, when lights appear from nowhere—they think of ghosts. Spirits. Things that want to harm them."
"But we don't want to harm anyone!" The leader looked around at its family, then back at Nera. "We just wanted a home. Is that so wrong?"
Orion watched his wife—ancient fairy queen, divine being of immense power—crouch down to address a family of homeless nature spirits with the same patience and kindness she'd show anyone else.
"It's not wrong," she said. "But you need to find a way to live here without frightening the people. Can you do that?"
"How?"
"Be quieter. Stay hidden when humans are present. If you must move things, do it when no one's watching." She smiled. "And perhaps, instead of playing pranks, you could help. Keep the grain fresh. Chase away the mice. Make the wheel turn smoothly. The miller might come to see you as good luck rather than a haunting."
The sprites huddled together, conferring in their chiming language. After a moment, the leader turned back.
"We can try," it said. "For you, Queen-Who-Is-Not-A-Queen. Because you asked nicely."
"Thank you." Nera extended a finger, and the lead sprite touched it—a gesture of respect between fae creatures. "Take care of this place. And take care of each other."
"We will!" The sprites chorused, already beginning to fade back into the shadows. "Goodbye, nice queen! Goodbye, tall human with the strange power!"
They were gone, leaving only dust motes and silence.
Orion looked at Nera. "'Tall human with the strange power'?"
"Sprites can sense things. They probably felt your ability." She grinned. "At least they said you were tall. That's basically a compliment."
"I am tall."
"You're adequate height."
"I'm several inches above average."
"For a human. Some species would consider you practically a child."
"Name one."
"Giants."
"Giants don't count."
They were still bickering amicably as they left the mill, their mission accomplished without a single blow struck.
* * *
The miller was overjoyed.
"Gone?" he kept saying, as if he couldn't believe it. "The ghosts are really gone?"
"Not ghosts," Orion explained. "Nature spirits. Sprites. They were just looking for a home and didn't realize they were scaring people."
"Sprites?" The miller—a burly man named Aldric—scratched his head. "I've heard of those. My grandmother used to leave milk out for them."
"That's not a bad idea," Nera said from Orion's shoulder. "A small offering now and then would help keep them happy. They like sweetness—honey, cream, fresh-baked bread. In return, they'll protect your mill from vermin and keep the grain fresh."
"Protect it?" Aldric's skepticism was giving way to wonder. "You mean they'll help?"
"If you're kind to them. They respond to kindness."
"Well." The miller shook his head slowly. "My grandmother always said there was more to the world than we could see. Guess she was right." He pressed the quest payment into Orion's hand—a bit more than promised. "Thank you. Both of you. The whole town's been on edge about this."
Word spread quickly, as word does in small towns. By evening, Orion and Nera found themselves being thanked by what seemed like half of Millbrook. The innkeeper insisted on comping their room for another week. The butcher sent a selection of his finest cuts. The baker—Marta—arrived with an entire basket of pastries.
"You've done us a real service," she said, pressing the basket into Nera's arms (she was human-sized now, to make social interactions easier). "The whole town was afraid to go near that mill. You've given people their peace of mind back."
"We just talked to them," Nera said. "The sprites. They weren't trying to hurt anyone."
"But you knew that. You knew what they were and what they needed." Marta smiled warmly. "There's wisdom in that. Most adventurers would have tried to destroy them."
"Destruction isn't always the answer."
"No. It rarely is." The baker studied Nera for a moment—that too-knowing look that made Orion's instincts prickle. "You're not from around here, are you? Either of you."
"Just passing through."
"Mmm. That's what you said three weeks ago." But Marta's tone was kind, not accusatory. "Wherever you're running from, I hope you find what you're looking for. This town could use more people like you."
She left before either of them could respond.
Nera stared at the basket of pastries. "She knows something's wrong."
"She suspects. It's not the same thing."
"It's close enough." Nera's expression was troubled. "We've been here too long. Made too much of an impression. If anyone comes looking—"
"They'll find a trail that points right to us." Orion sighed. "I know."
"Tomorrow?"
"Tomorrow," he agreed. And this time, he meant it.
* * *
But tomorrow brought a wedding.
They discovered this at breakfast, when the inn erupted into a flurry of activity. The innkeeper's daughter was to be married—an event apparently planned for months, now finally arriving.
"You'll stay for the celebration, won't you?" the innkeeper asked, practically begged. "The whole town will be there. It wouldn't be right for our newest heroes to miss it!"
Orion wanted to refuse. Every instinct screamed that they'd already stayed too long, risked too much. But Nera's eyes had lit up at the mention of a wedding, and he couldn't—
"We'll stay," he heard himself say. "For the wedding."
"Wonderful! Wonderful!" The innkeeper bustled off, shouting orders to her staff.
"You didn't have to do that," Nera said quietly.
"I know."
"We should leave."
"I know."
"But you agreed anyway."
"Because you wanted to." He met her eyes. "When's the last time you got to attend a celebration? A happy event that had nothing to do with politics or duty or survival?"
She was quiet for a long moment.
"Our wedding," she finally said. "That was the last time."
"Then you deserve this. We both do."
"One more day?"
"One more day."
She hugged him—a rare display of affection in public—and he held her tight, trying not to think about how every delay was another risk, another chance for their pursuers to catch up.
One more day. What could go wrong?
* * *
The wedding was beautiful.
The innkeeper's daughter—a cheerful young woman named Elena—married a carpenter named Tomás in a ceremony held in the town square. Half of Millbrook turned out to watch, crowding the streets and filling the air with flowers and ribbons.
Nera cried. She always cried at weddings, she insisted, though Orion had only ever seen their own. She was human-sized for the occasion, wearing a simple dress she'd borrowed from the inn, her green hair drawing curious glances but no real alarm.
"They look so happy," she whispered as Elena and Tomás exchanged vows.
"They are happy."
"Do you think we looked like that? At our wedding?"
Orion thought back to that day—small, quiet, just the two of them and a traveling priest who hadn't asked too many questions. Nera had worn flowers in her hair. He had worn the only decent shirt he owned. They'd said their vows under an oak tree, and he'd never meant anything more.
"I think we looked terrified," he admitted. "But also happy. The two aren't mutually exclusive."
"No. They're not." She took his hand, squeezing gently. "I'd do it again. All of it. Even knowing everything that came after."
"The running? The assassins? The constant fear?"
"All of it." She looked up at him, ancient eyes soft with emotion. "Because all of it led here. To you. And that's worth any price."
He didn't have words for what he felt in that moment. So he just held her hand tighter and watched two strangers begin their life together.
After the ceremony, there was feasting. After the feasting, there was dancing. Nera threw herself into both with an enthusiasm that reminded Orion of why he'd fallen in love with her—this capacity for joy, this determination to find light even in darkness.
She danced with the bride. She danced with the groom. She danced with half the town, including several confused elderly gentlemen who weren't entirely sure how they'd ended up with such an energetic partner.
And then, as the sun began to set and the celebration showed no signs of slowing, she dragged Orion onto the dance floor.
"I don't dance," he protested.
"Everyone dances. They just need the right partner."
"I really don't—"
"Orion." She placed her hands on his shoulders, looking up at him with that smile that could light up a room. "Dance with me. Please. Just this once."
He couldn't refuse her. He'd never been able to refuse her.
So he danced.
Badly, at first. His feet wouldn't cooperate, and he kept stepping on her toes. But Nera didn't seem to mind. She just laughed and guided him, patient and warm, until eventually—somehow—they were moving together. Not gracefully, maybe. But together.
"See?" she said. "Not so hard."
"This is terrible."
"This is wonderful."
"Those aren't mutually exclusive either."
She laughed again, and he smiled despite himself, and for a few perfect minutes, they were just two people at a wedding, celebrating love, pretending the world wasn't trying to tear them apart.
The moment couldn't last.
It never did.
* * *
Orion noticed him first—a stranger at the edge of the crowd, watching with eyes that didn't match the celebration around him.
He was tall. Pale. His clothes were too fine for a town like Millbrook, his posture too controlled. While everyone else laughed and danced and drank, he simply... observed. Taking note. Cataloguing.
Hunting.
"Nera." Orion kept his voice steady, his expression neutral. "Don't look now. East side of the square, near the tailor's shop."
She didn't look. She was too well-trained for that. But he felt her stiffen in his arms, her rhythm faltering for just a moment.
"I see him," she murmured. "How long?"
"I just noticed. He might have been there longer."
"Human or fae?"
"I can't tell from here. But he's not local. And he's watching us."
The dance continued around them. Music and laughter and joy, while two people in the center calculated escape routes and threat assessments.
"We need to leave," Nera said. "Now. Tonight."
"Agreed."
"Back to the inn first. Gather our things."
"Too obvious. If he's been watching, he knows where we're staying."
"Then what?"
Orion thought quickly. "We split up. You go north, out the back of the celebration. I'll create a distraction, draw his attention, then circle around to meet you."
"Absolutely not." Her grip on him tightened. "We don't split up. Ever."
"Nera—"
"I said no." Her voice was steel. "Whatever happens, we face it together. That's what we agreed."
He wanted to argue. The tactical part of him knew that splitting up was the safer option, that one of them escaping was better than both being caught. But this wasn't about tactics. It was about promises.
"Together, then," he conceded. "We finish this dance like nothing's wrong. Then we drift toward the northern edge of the square. There's an alley between the chandler and the smithy—"
"I know the one."
"We slip through there, out of sight. Then we run."
"The inn—"
"We leave everything. It's not worth the risk."
Nera's expression flickered with loss—not for the possessions, but for the life they'd been building here. The baker who knew her name. The people who'd been kind. The wedding they'd been enjoying just minutes ago.
"I hate this," she whispered.
"I know."
"I'm tired of running."
"I know. But we run now so we can stop running later."
"Is there a later? Will there ever be a later?"
He didn't have an answer. So he just held her close as the music played, and when the song ended, they drifted—casually, naturally—toward the edge of the celebration.
They reached the alley without incident. Orion risked a glance back.
The stranger was gone.
That was worse. That meant he was moving. That meant he knew.
"Run," Orion said.
They ran.
* * *
They fled Millbrook in the darkness, following back roads and game trails that Orion had scouted during their stay. Behind them, the wedding celebration continued, the town unaware that their "heroes" were once again on the run.
"He'll ask questions," Nera said as they paused to catch their breath. "The stranger. He'll want to know about us—who we are, where we're going."
"He'll get answers. But by the time he pieces it together, we'll be long gone."
"Will we? He found us here. In the middle of nowhere. That means they're getting closer."
"Or it means we got careless." Orion's voice was harsher than he intended. "We stayed too long. Made too many connections. That's on us."
"On me," Nera said quietly. "I'm the one who kept wanting to stay."
"On us," he repeated, softer now. "We're in this together. The mistakes and the victories."
She was quiet for a long moment. Then: "Do you ever regret it?"
"Regret what?"
"Me. Us. This life you didn't ask for."
He stopped walking. Turned to face her. In the moonlight, she looked so small—not just in size, but in spirit. The weight of everything pressing down on her.
"Never," he said. "Not once. Not for a single moment."
"Even when we're running through the woods in the middle of the night?"
"Especially then." He took her hands in his. "Before you, I was dying. Alone in a forest, bleeding out, with nothing to live for. You gave me a reason. You gave me everything."
"I've also given you assassins and endless running and no home."
"You've given me love. Real love. The kind worth fighting for." He pulled her close. "The rest is just circumstances. We'll survive them. We always do."
She pressed her face into his chest, and he felt the wetness of tears through his shirt.
"I love you," she said.
"I know."
"Say it back."
"I love you too. Forever and always."
They stood there in the darkness, holding each other while the world moved on without them. Then, when the moment had passed and reality reasserted itself, they continued north.
Always north.
Toward whatever came next.
* * *
Commander Seraphel arrived in Greenhollow two weeks later.
Greenhollow was a small village, barely a hundred souls, three months' travel south of Millbrook. Her queen had passed through here early in her flight—stayed for two nights, according to the villagers, before moving on.
"The pixie lady?" An old woman nodded vigorously when Seraphel described her quarry. "Oh, yes. I remember her. Sweet little thing. Helped my granddaughter find her lost cat."
"She helped... find a cat?"
"Spent a whole afternoon searching. Didn't ask for nothing in return. Just said she knew what it was like to lose something precious." The old woman smiled fondly. "Her husband was nice too. Quiet, but good. Fixed our gate without being asked."
Seraphel thanked the woman and moved on, her thoughts churning.
Every village was the same. Every town, every hamlet, every crossroads inn. People who remembered the pixie lady and her quiet husband. People who spoke of kindness, of help freely given, of two travelers who had touched their lives and moved on.
A cat in Greenhollow. A broken fence in Riverside. A sick child in Thornfield who had recovered after the pixie lady sat with her through the night.
This was not the behavior of a deserter. This was not someone who had abandoned her duties out of selfishness or cowardice.
This was someone who had simply chosen to serve in a different way.
Seraphel sat by a stream that evening, watching the water flow past. She had served the fairy crown for three thousand years. She had never questioned an order. Never doubted the righteousness of her cause.
But now, following a trail of small kindnesses across a continent, she found herself wondering: what was the purpose of a queen who sat on a throne, compared to one who walked among the people?
She had no answer. But she was beginning to understand why she might need to find one.
Millbrook was still weeks ahead. The trail was cold, but not cold enough.
She would catch up eventually. She always did.
But for the first time, she wasn't sure what she would say when she did.
— End of Chapter Sixteen —