By The Moon's Blade

6. Grasshaven, Six Months Ago

I wake up the next morning with the beginnings of autumn tickling at my face, sneaking through the gaps between wood planks. I planned on waking up earlier but an unfortunate amount of ease settled within my bones and I found myself drifting off as soon as I climbed into bed. My father and I spent a quiet dinner together out by the fire, only embers crackling and occasional comments breaking the silence. At least it was the most civil meal we've had together in a while.

But unfortunately, with a belly full of stew and exhaustion from the past several days, I find myself up later than expected and he's already sitting at the table, keeping himself busy whittling a wooden spear tip down to a razor-sharp point. I try and formulate some sort of excuse before rising from my bed, but don't have time. I throw the blanket off of me and get out of bed as casually as possible.

Our eyes meet and he shares a gentle smile at me, his lips curling underneath the bushy beard. His shoulder-length hair hasn't been combed in weeks, matted knots lay on the nape of his neck. The stress of everything has taken a massive toll on him. I think carefully about my next steps as I turn away and begin to pack my bag for a trip out into the wilderness.

He returns to sharpening the spear but with his slow pace, I can still sense him directing his eyes into my back. Not aggressively, but with an abundance of concern. I consider my options and fiddle with the tooth wrapped around my neck. I hear my own voice whispering in the corners of my brain, an uncanny likeness but something... not quite right.

Alone. I have to go alone. He'll never understand.

I pick up my bag, the remnants of yesterday's adventure still rattling around against the leather. I start adding more and making as much noise as possible to avoid any questions. I make sure that the glow of brightstream is covered by fabric, books, and anything else I can get my hands on. The voice, my voice, speaks again in a hushed, eerie tone.

Don't say a word to him.

By now, I'm able to recognize that the Demonclaws might be using my voice against me, that whispering has been manufactured from all of the doubts and negativity that they've allowed to take root within my mind. But, even with an acute awareness of the situation, I still find myself wanting to trust this voice. The small slice of my brain driven by logic is telling me to ignore it, but that feeling deep within the pit of my stomach is begging me to follow. After all, the only one I can trust is myself, right?

Just grab my things and leave before he asks too many questions.

So I follow directions and sling my bag across my chest. I try and discreetly as possible grab a couple of extra knives and my bow from the corner of the room, but as to be expected, I'm greeted with a question.

"Are you scheduled for the hunt today? A little late to get started on that, sun has been up for a couple of hours. Plus, I think Garlan is handling it for the next couple of weeks so you can recover."

"Yeah, I, uh... I wanted to get some practice in. Figure that I need to get some shots in before I whiff on a deer again," I respond. It's not a total lie. I just won't tell him what the targets are.

"Rozi, why are you lying to me again? You've been venturing off on your own for a while now and I think the fresh air is great, but why so many knives for simple target practice?"

I look down at my pants, pockets bursting with honed steel.

He follows up, "Yeah, hard to be discreet with blades lining your pockets."

"I promise, I'm just going out to practice. I'm not going there."

I don't even have to say the name of the Crimson Wilds for my father to understand just exactly where I mean.