For the Wolf by Hannah Whitten (freda ebook reader .txt) 📕

the sentinel had been, there was only unbroken moss. “Looks like it worked.”

Eammon made a low sound of affirmation. Red followed his gaze— right beyond the gate, within the line of the other trees, the sapling grew.

Only it wasn’t a sapling now. It was full-grown, thick-trunked. Leaves bloomed from the white branches clustered around its crown, vibrant and green.

“Looks like it did.” There was something like wonder in his face, and it transformed the harsh lines of it, backlit by forest and mist.

Hidden beneath Red’s sleeve, the Bargainer’s Mark twinged. She pressed her hand against it, fleetingly, and forced her gaze back to the sentinel, away from him.

Already the green leaves had dulled, muted. One let loose from a branch, drifted to the forest floor.

Eammon hissed in a breath. She’d seen the forest woven into him, rooted between his bones— its failing hurt him.

“You aren’t bleeding for it anymore,” she said, the words fiercer for their softness. “This damn forest gets no more pieces of you while I’m here.”

His eyes held a denying light, but when he looked at her, something tenuous and unreadable replaced it.

Her palm still buzzed where it’d pressed against the trunk, and Red shook it, trying to dispel the itch. “Are there any others? We can—”

“We aren’t doing anything until you put some shoes on.” Eammon gave her bare feet a pointed look.

She curled her toes into the moss. “The Wilderwood ate my boots, remember?” Barefoot had served her fine thus far— if she was only running through the courtyard to get to the tower or staying in the Keep, it wasn’t so bad, and she’d stolen Eammon’s socks when she needed them. “None of the Second Daughters left a spare.”

His arm moved, and for a moment, Red thought he might pick her up to keep her feet from the cold ground.

But the moment passed, and Eammon turned toward the tower. “I dug through the storerooms and found an old pair you can have. I left them by the fireplace.” He glanced over his shoulder, brow quirked, then faced the tower again. “They won’t fit, but that didn’t stop you with my shirt.”

“It was too cold to be naked.”

He didn’t turn, but his hand spasmed by his side, and he made a choked noise. Behind him, Red grinned.

There was a slight tremor in Eammon’s shoulders when he pushed the tower door open, though his stride up the stairs remained steady. He’d never been able to completely hide his exhaustion from her, and after seeing just how deeply the Wilderwood tangled in his frame, Red had a new understanding.

Even now, he tried to hide it. Like it was something shameful, something he was determined to bear on his own. It made Red want to slam magic into every tree in this Kings-shitting forest, to strengthen and punish them in equal measure.

“I have something to show you up here, anyway.” Firelight glimmered over the silver constellations on the ceiling as he glanced at her over his shoulder. “Well. Two somethings.”

He crossed to the lone table, nervously pushing back his hair. “They’re not quite as good as new,” he hedged. “But they’re at least readable again.”

Slowly, Red walked to his side. Books scattered the table, next to a familiar leather bag.

Her books.

She gave a little breathless laugh, reaching out to run her finger along their dusty edges. Lines of dirt crawled over the covers, green smudges where growing things had obscured the ink. “I thought I lost them when the corridor collapsed.”

“Nearly. I had a shadows-damned time pulling them out of the moss.”

Her vision blurred. “Thank you.” The book of poems from her mother sat at the top of the pile. Burial had rubbed all the gilt off the cover. Red picked it up, cradled it to her chest. “Thank you, Eammon.”

“You’re welcome.” He shifted, like he wasn’t quite sure how to hold himself. His hand flexed by his side.

After a moment, Eammon stepped away, pointing to the fireplace. “Boots are there,” he said unnecessarily. “Then, one more thing.”

Red shoved her feet in the boots— far too big, but warm— and clomped over to join Eammon at one of the vine-carved windows. Something leaned against the wall next to it, swathed in gray fabric.

“This might not work.” The look he gave her was stern, all the nervousness of before carefully tucked away. “But I didn’t feel right keeping it from you.”

“Ominous.”

Eammon tugged off the cloth. Beneath, a mirror, or something shaped like one. The glass wasn’t reflective— instead, a matte gray. The color within it shifted, like looking into a smoke-filled jar.

“What is it?”

“My mother made it with Wilderwood magic.” Eammon glanced at her, eyes unreadable. “To see her sister, Tiernan.”

Understanding was an undertow. Red’s hands fell numb at her sides. She turned from Eammon to the mirror, wariness washed away by longing. She’d grown adept at pushing away thoughts of Neve, these past weeks in the forest, but just the mention of the word sister made her heart feel suddenly too big for her rib cage. “Oh.”

“It’s old,” Eammon cautioned. “No one has tried to use it for centuries, and with the way the Wilderwood is now, it could be completely useless. But I . . .” He trailed off, took a breath. “You said, if you could do anything, you’d tell your sister you were safe. This won’t let you speak with her, but hopefully, it will at least let you see her.”

Gratitude seemed too small a term for the sudden lightness in her chest, like a weight she hadn’t noticed she was carrying suddenly lifted. “Eammon . . .” She stopped, swallowed. “Eammon, this is . . .”

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “I’m sorry this is all I have to give you.”

“It’s enough.” Her answer came immediately, instinctually. In the firelight, his eyes looked like honey.

Red stepped forward, reaching for the mirror but not quite touching it. “How does it work?”

“Sacrifice.” Eammon snorted. “Of course.”

“Blood?”

“No.” Quick, sharp. “I mean, it would work, but perhaps let’s give