Chapter 85 She Screams Danger
Bella
I don’t like her. The thought settles fully formed and unapologetic in my mind as I watch the girl in the red cloak from where Ashlyn and I have been left hovering on the edge of the clearing, half-in and half-out of the loose circle Damien has formed with the soldiers. She sits on the fallen log like she’s carved from it, legs braced, shoulders loose but ready, her posture that of someone who has learned the hard way that rest is a luxury you can’t afford to sink too deeply into. Her eyes don’t linger anywhere for long, skimming constantly back toward the treeline as though the forest itself might decide to make another attempt at swallowing her whole. Even now, with water in her hands and colour slowly returning to her cheeks, she looks like someone listening for footsteps only she can hear. Or waiting to see whether we are the danger she escaped. Ashlyn, of course, notices my staring almost immediately.
“You’re doing the thing,” she murmurs, not bothering to lower her voice much, gaze still trained on the girl like she’s watching an interesting play unfold.
I tear my attention away, folding my arms a little tighter around myself. “What thing?”
“The thing where you don’t trust someone, and you start mentally lining up all the reasons why,” she says lightly. “It’s very subtle. Truly.”
“I’m just being cautious,” I reply, which is not a lie, but not the whole truth either.
Ashlyn hums in a way that suggests she finds that explanation adorable but insufficient.
The girl shifts on the log, adjusting her grip on the canteen, and I notice her hands for the first time, they're scarred and nicked, nails cut short, knuckles bearing the faint marks of old breaks that healed without proper care. She has practical hands. Hands that know how to steal, fight, or run, possibly all three.
“You know,” Ashlyn says, stretching the words out as though she’s thinking out loud, “we should probably introduce ourselves.”
I stiffen. “We absolutely should not.”
She finally turns to look at me, one eyebrow arching. “Why not?”
I glance back at the girl, keeping my voice low. “Because you don’t meet sane people out in places like this, Ashlyn. Anyone running full tilt out of cursed woods is either the reason the danger exists, is being actively hunted by it, or is one very poor decision away from dragging it straight back to us.”
Ashlyn’s mouth twitches, amusement flickering there before she lets it spread into a grin.
“You met me in a place like this,” she points out. “And I was running from danger.”
I don’t hesitate. “Exactly.”
She snorts. “Rude.”
“And it was different,” I add, unable to stop myself. “You were the danger.”
Ashlyn rolls her eyes so hard I’m genuinely surprised they don’t get stuck. “Semantics.”
Before I can object further, she’s already standing, fingers closing around my wrist and tugging me up with her like the discussion has been formally concluded. I stumble slightly as I’m pulled along, barely having time to shoot her a warning look.
“Ashlyn—”
“Relax,” she says breezily. “If she tries anything, your dragon king will turn her into a cautionary tale.”
That… does not help.
She drags me over anyway. Up close, the girl smells like sweat, smoke, and fear that hasn’t had enough time to fade yet. Her cloak really is red, not ceremonial or pristine, but faded and patched in places, the kind of red that doesn’t scream for attention so much as quietly refuses to be ignored. The colour feels intentional in a way that makes my skin prickle.
Ashlyn drops down beside her without ceremony, settling herself like she belongs there.
“Hey,” she says brightly. “I’m Ashlyn. This is Bella.” She holds out her hand.
The girl studies it for a heartbeat too long, eyes flicking from Ashlyn’s face to her wrist and back again, calculation sharp and swift. Then she takes it, her grip firm and efficient.
“Red,” she says.
I blink. “That’s your name?”
Her mouth quirks slightly. “That’s what they call me.”
Ashlyn grins like she’s just found a kindred spirit. “Fair enough.”
Red’s gaze drifts to Ashlyn’s wrist, to the conspicuous absence there.
“Oh,” Ashlyn adds casually. “By the way? You nicked my bracelet.”
Red freezes for half a second.
Then she laughs, short and unapologetic, reaching into her pocket and pulling out the familiar chain.
“Old habits,” she says, handing it back. “Sorry.”
Ashlyn takes it, turning it over once before re-fastening it. “Huh. You’re good.”
Red’s grin sharpens. “I know.”
That does absolutely nothing to ease the knot in my stomach.
I fold my arms and meet her gaze properly now. “What are you doing out here?”
The question lands heavier than I intend, the words carrying more weight than curiosity alone.
Red’s expression shifts, not dramatically, but enough — the humour draining away, her shoulders tightening, her attention sharpening as though she’s suddenly aware she’s being truly seen. She looks at Ashlyn, then at me, and then briefly past us, her eyes narrowing as they flick toward Damien where he stands among the soldiers. Something unreadable passes through her gaze.
“What do you think I’m doing?” she asks.
“I think you came through the same fog we did,” I reply evenly. “I think you were running. And I think whatever you were running from hasn’t given up yet.”
Silence stretches between us all, and for once, Ashlyn doesn’t interrupt.
Red exhales slowly, dragging a hand down her face as though she’s deciding just how much truth she’s willing to part with. When she looks back at me, her gaze is sharper now, assessing in a way that makes me feel like I’m the one being measured.
“You don’t sound like someone who scares easily,” she says.
“I don’t,” I answer. “But I listen.”
She shifts on the log, boots digging into the dirt as she leans forward, elbows braced against her knees, posture that of someone preparing to say something they’d rather not remember.
“You really shouldn’t be here,” she says quietly.
Ashlyn snorts. “Funny. We were thinking the same thing about you.”
Red doesn’t smile this time.
“These woods don’t just mess with your head,” she continues, her voice dropping. “They watch. They wait. And if you don’t know what to look for—”
She stops and her jaw tightens. Her eyes flick back to the treeline, sharp and instinctive, like she’s listening for a sound that never quite comes. Then she looks back at me.
“Do you like living?” she asks, voice low and deadly serious.
I swallow. “I mean...Yeah, I'd say I was growing rather fond of it.” I say.
She hesitates, just long enough to make my skin prickle and then she begins.