The Wolf & The Fox

Chapter Eight

The door creaked gently as Helia stepped into the room. She had felt the wolf's presence every step she took through the castle, his looming form close behind. His scent, the smell of the river and something earthier, darker invaded the usual smells of the castle. A silence had hung between them, and unsaid questions dangled from her lips. What did Athan's death mean for her and Erric? Did her father still hold the capital? Who were the mysterious riders pounding on the city gates at all hours? And most of all, what had the wolf whispered to her on the terrace, his eyes dark, lost in a painful past?

The room was small, barely large enough to fit them both, and near the top of the keep. Too small for any other use, Helia had adopted it as her own private space. Her own secret passion, nurtured by Tomaz, had grown and taken root here.

It felt peculiar bringing the wolf here like she had cracked open her ribs, and tugged them apart to offer up her ruby-red insides. But the man who'd carved those markings deep into that wood, that man might see the beauty of this. He may even understand, and what a wonder that would be? The pounding of her heart told her how much she wanted that.

The wolf shut the door behind them, and Helia jerked at the noise.

There was no other furniture, save a tattered armchair by an unlit fire. Sunlight pierced the room, gilding a table scattered with parchment in its amber rays.

She turned to see his reaction. She didn't know why she wanted this so badly. But she did. His eyes narrowed when he saw the table and its contents, scouring the surface to make sense of what he was seeing. Whenever they were together, his eyes never seemed to leave her, and as much as she wanted to feel otherwise, she enjoyed the intensity of his gaze on her body. But she was glad it was this of all things that tore his eyes away from her.

"They're called maps. They're illustrations of our lands, like your carvings on your ships." She turned to him, the excitement unbridled in her voice. When he looked up at her, he smiled. It wasn't the arrogant, amused smile that usually played upon his lips, but something softer, gentler. She felt her cheeks heat, and she turned to focus on the collection of parchment covering the table.

"Maps," he repeated, his voice low. The unfamiliar word curled around his tongue. He frowned, his fingers grazed the table as he stared down. Scattered across the surface were various drawings she'd sourced, or Tomaz had collected on his travels. Scraps of cloth, weakened by time. On some, the ink had faded, and the markings were all but gone.

In the centre, the largest map was her own. Composed of the richest of inks and paints, their colours bringing to life those places she'd only ever seen from the drawings of others, from her dreams. She'd etched the vast continent, its network of winding rivers, valleys and mountains. She had taken those small fragments and timeworn sketches and created something whole. Something unified.

"This shows the entire continent. Or it should... it will, once it's complete. I've never left Chrysia... I've never been anywhere. But you have, you've travelled the continent, haven't you? You've been to these places?"