For a tense moment, their gazes held. Neither of them spoke, but Iris watched as Forest noticed her jumpsuit with the INKRIDDEN TRIBUNE PRESS badge stitched over the heart. She also wore her boots with new, sturdy laces, and held her typewriter case in one hand and a leather duffel bag in the other.
“You’re leaving,” he said in a flat tone.
“I told you I was.”
Another twinge of silence. Forest sighed, glancing away from her.
“I don’t approve of this.” His voice was rough but soft, as if it hurt to speak the words.
“I didn’t want you to leave either,” Iris said. “When you left to fight for Enva months ago. And yet I understood why you did. I knew I couldn’t stand in the way of it.”
When Forest remained quiet, Iris thought that was it. He wasn’t going to say another word to her, and she bit the inside of her cheek as she headed to the door.
“Wait, Iris.”
She paused, shoulders stiff. But she waited, listening as Forest rose from the chair. She felt him draw close to her. He smelled faintly of motor oil and petrol, from his new job at the mechanic shop down the road. No matter how much he washed his hands in the evenings, his nails remained stained with grease. Sometimes he scrubbed his knuckles so hard the skin broke.
“You’ll write to me?” he said, taking hold of her elbow. “You’ll keep me updated?”
“I promise.”
“If you don’t, then you can expect me to raise hell at the Tribune.”
That drew a small smile from her. “I’d like to see that.”
Forest snorted. “No, you wouldn’t.” It seemed like he wanted to say more but couldn’t. Instead, he reached for the golden locket hanging from his neck. The locket that had belonged to their mother.
“Wear this at all times,” he whispered, draping it over Iris’s head. “Promise me.”
“Forest, I can’t take this—”
“Promise me.”
Iris flinched at his harsh tone. But when she met his gaze, she saw only fear, burning like embers in his eyes.
Her fingers closed over the locket, holding to it like an anchor. She remembered what Forest had once told her: when he had found this locket in the trenches, his strength and determination had rekindled. He had rallied and slipped away from Dacre’s hold, remembering who he was and where he had come from. It was only when he held something tangible of home—a memory strung on a long chain—that he was able to break the god’s power over him.
“I won’t take it off,” she whispered. “At least, not until I return home and can give it back to you.”
Forest nodded, worry etched on his brow. His last words to Iris made her shiver.
“You’re going to need it, Little Flower.”
* * *
Roman gazed out the lorry window, catching a final glimpse of Avalon Bluff.
It was a landscape made of rubble and ghosts. A town spun with small testaments to the people who had once lived on this hill. They had left behind trampled gardens, crumbling stone fences, shadowed doorways, and walls that held abandoned belongings. Debris, burnt thatch, and glittering shards of glass. Roman wondered who had once lived in the homes they passed. He wondered where they were now. If they were safe.
That was what he wanted to write about. And he lowered his eyes when he realized he had lost his chance.
Dacre sat beside him on the bench, newspaper in his pale, elegant hands. The sight of the paper roused Roman’s curiosity.
“Sir?” he dared to ask. “How did you know my middle initial?”
Dacre shot a curious glance at him. “What do you mean?”
“My byline in the Gazette. You submitted it as ‘Roman C. Kitt.’”
“I only submitted what you gave me.”
“Then who—”
“In your life before your healing, you worked at the Oath Gazette. Your articles were published several times a month. You were striving to become a columnist.”
Roman’s mind wheeled, desperate to grasp hold of a memory. “I don’t remember.”
“Of course you don’t remember. Not yet. Your former employer was the one to resurrect your old byline.”
“I see.”
Dacre tilted his head to the side. “Do you, Roman?”
“You knew me before you found me dying in the field.”
“I knew of you,” Dacre corrected before his attention returned to his newspaper. Roman could see it wasn’t the Gazette but a paper called the Inkridden Tribune. “You have a prestigious family name. One that has been a great support to me and my efforts. And I will not forget those who have faithfully served me.”