Days passed and Fig introduced himself to every bee they passed. "A healthy social life is the foundation of mental stability," he told her.
"You're a glowing insect."
"I'm a spiritual entity. I sparkle with purpose."
They camped under the stars, Fig glowing faintly like a grumpy night-light, his wings tucked snug around his body like a glitter-drenched cloak.
"This is undignified," he muttered, as Elara rolled out her makeshift bed of stitched wool and half-dried fern leaves. "I should be resting in a velvet nest woven by moonmaidens. Not on a tree root."
"You could sleep in the trees," Elara offered, stripping bark from a log to keep the fire going.
"I could also abandon you and start a new life in the western isles, but here we are."
She grinned and stretched, ashwood staff in hand. The handle had darkened with sweat and use, but it hummed faintly beneath her fingers. It wasn't just wood anymore—it was a tether. A memory.
She moved through the old combat forms slowly, feet brushing against moss, the staff singing through the air with each twist and arc. She had no teacher for these movements—not in this life. But her body remembered. It remembered better than she liked.
"You're going to knock yourself out," Fig mumbled, curled in a patch of firelight. "Or poke me in the tail again."
"Shh," she whispered, breath steady as she turned into a final sweeping flourish, staff held low and defensive. Her muscles ached, but her mind buzzed with clarity.
"You're improving," Fig admitted after a pause. "Though that last spin looked more like a falling goose than a warrior."
Elara threw a twig at him.
When the fire died to embers, and the forest curled around them like a sleeping beast, she settled in beside him. The stars shimmered above like scattered shards of the gods' old blades.
She caught a fish the next morning—her first real catch. The river had been icy, the fish quick, but she'd managed to pin it against a rock with her staff. Triumph danced on her face… right up until she realized she had no blade.
After three awkward minutes of wrestling the fish into submission, she grabbed a stone and thwacked it over the head.
"GODS!" Fig screeched, fluttering away from the splash zone. "What in all the sacred realms was that?"
"Breakfast," she said simply, shaking water from her arms.
"That was murder, not breakfast. You beat it like it owed you gold."
Elara held up the twitching fish. "It was slippery!"
"Unholy. This is why flying foxes don't eat anything that still blinks."
She gave him a sidelong look. "You literally eat glowing moths alive."
"They don't have souls."
She laughed and cleaned the fish in silence, eyeing her staff where it leaned against a tree.
"Ashwood's too long," she said aloud. "It doesn't cut clean. I need something shorter. More useful."
"You mean… a knife?"
Elara nodded. "Something I can conceal. Fast. Dangerous in close quarters."
Fig tilted his head. "I like this new, bloodthirsty you. You're really coming into your reincarnated self."
"Shut up and light the fire again."
By dusk, they reached the edge of a small town nestled between the ridges—Eldenroot, its sign carved from petrified bark, half-swallowed by creeping moss. It was the last safe haven before the Dark Forest swallowed the land to the east.
Smoke curled from narrow chimneys. The scent of roasted chestnuts and boiled potatoes drifted through the breeze. Lanterns lined the winding stone paths, flickering with soft, amber glow.
It looked peaceful.
But Elara felt the tension before the people even looked up.
A woman dragging a basket of dried herbs paused at the sight of her. A baker's boy froze, half-chewed bun in hand. Even the town's stray dogs went silent.
Not fear. Suspicion.
"Wonderful," Fig muttered. "They smell foreigner."
"We are foreigners," she reminded him.
"Yes, but we could at least pretend to be charming ones."
Elara pulled her hood higher and stepped carefully onto the cobbled main road. A pair of men in dark green cloaks lounged near the well, watching everyone with disinterest that was far too calculated to be genuine.
Guards, or something worse.
"I need supplies," she said under her breath. "Dry goods. A whetstone. Maybe a blacksmith."
"Do you need weapons," Fig said dramatically, "or more fish to bludgeon to death?"
"Depends if they've got knives."
They reached the market square, which was little more than a circle of stalls crowded with wilting produce, strange beads, and hand-woven scarves. A woman with more wrinkles than teeth sold dried juniper and something labeled snake salt. Elara passed.
At the far end stood a blacksmith's forge—low, squat, belching orange light.
A man emerged from it with arms like tree trunks and a burn scar over one eye. He paused when he saw her, then jerked his chin.
"Help ye?"
"I need a knife," she said. "Small. Concealable. Fast."
He squinted. "You got coin?"
She opened her satchel and showed him a few silvers. He grunted approval and waved her inside.
Fig hovered near her shoulder. "That man's killed at least three people and buried them under his anvil."
"He's a blacksmith," she said.
"Exactly."
The knife she chose had a bone handle and an obsidian blade—black as night and twice as sharp. When she held it, something hummed again beneath her skin. Not magic. Not quite. But something close.
The blacksmith named a price. She paid.
On their way out, Fig leaned into her ear. "So. What's the plan now, Knife Girl?"
"We rest here tonight. Quietly. No attention."
"You? Quiet?"
Elara paused as they passed a tavern where a trio of cloaked men laughed too loudly over mead. Their laughter didn't touch their eyes.
"We'll stay in the stables," she decided. "Too many eyes in the inn."
"And here I was hoping for a soft pillow and a bath," Fig said, twirling midair. "You know how hard it is to get wing sweat out of glitter?"
She didn't reply. Her eyes were locked on the forest line beyond the town, where shadows thickened and the trees leaned like listening giants.