Chapter 107: The Threshold

Kaela kept her forehead pressed against the rough cedar planks of the door.

Behind the stone shelf, the waterfall thundered into the plunge pool, sending a steady tremor through the porch joists beneath their boots.

Cold mist drifted past the rock lip to bead on the moss-choked shingles and the woody ivy stems clinging to the cabin eaves. Above the latch, the broken wooden plaque with its carved twin blades swung a quarter-inch on its rusted nail whenever the downdraft curled into the recess.

Kaela stayed motionless, her left forearm clamping Stormfront’s scabbard against her ribs while her breath fogged the weathered timber an inch from her nose.

Kōya stood half a pace behind her right hip, keeping his hands to himself. Lifting the iron latch for her would have taken one second. He could have kicked the door wide, swept the dark interior for traps, and laid her down on a mattress before her knees gave out.

This porch belonged to her. Taking the latch from her hand would make him one more person deciding which rooms she was allowed to enter.

Three paces back by the porch rail, Lyra cradled her swollen left wrist against her satchel strap, her dark eyes fixed on the beastwoman’s bowed neck. Months in the slave pens had taught Lyra that hovering over a person while they broke only made them hide the cracks deeper, though keeping her boots planted on the planks took every ounce of restraint she possessed.

"Master," Kōya said, pitching his voice below the rumble of the cataract, "we can camp out here on the porch if you want."

Kaela’s scarred fingers curled against the cedar grain. She gave a tiny, stiff shake of her head.

"All right." Kōya eased his weight back half a step to give her elbow room.

Kaela lifted her right hand toward the iron thumb-latch.

Dry metal rasped against the catch as her palm settled over the bar. Her shoulders hitched toward her ears, a tremor running from her wrist to her collarbone, and her damp fingers slipped off the iron as though the latch had burned her skin.

Lyra let out a quiet breath near the railing. "There’s no hurry," she said.

Kaela turned her head a fraction toward the younger girl.

Lyra offered a small, crooked smile. "We’re right here. Take until morning if you need it."

Kaela’s silver eyes dropped to the worn threshold. Slowly, she raised her right hand a second time, hooked her thumb squarely over the iron bar, and depressed the lever.

Swinging inward on dry, ungreased hinges, the thick door let out a long groan.

Stale air smelling of cold hearth-ash, dried lavender, and old cedar drifted out to meet the river mist. Pale grey light from the dawn filtering through the high gorge canopy slanted across the floorboards, illuminating swirling motes of disturbed dust.

Inside, an oak table stood in the center of the single main room with three high-backed chairs tucked neatly beneath its apron. Along the left wall, rough-hewn pine shelves held a row of chipped earthenware mugs, stacked wooden bowls, and six stoppered clay jars whose paper labels had faded to blank parchment.

A soot-blackened iron kettle sat on the cold hearthstones beside a neat stack of split birch logs, while a sun-bleached linen curtain drooped from a warped wooden rod above the single casement window.

Every object sat mid-routine, waiting for hands that had walked out the door expecting to return before supper.

Kaela stood rooted on the sill. Her silver eyes tracked from the three chairs at the table to the cold hearth, then up to the herbs drying on twine near the rafters. Her cracked lips parted without a sound.

The muscles in Kaela’s jaw worked. In all the months she had drilled him with a sword—laughing when he overextended his lunge into the mud, rapping his shins with hickory when his guard dropped, stepping in front of demonic beasts without a blink—he had never known her to face a kitchen table as if stepping across the threshold might make it vanish.

"Would you like to sit down?" Kōya asked.

Kaela’s stare fixed on the far partition wall beside a narrow interior doorway.

Mounted horizontally on two carved antler pegs rested a pair of wooden practice swords. The upper weapon was an adult-length hickory blade, its striking edge dented from thousands of parries and its handle stained dark by years of sweat and palm oil.

Directly beneath it sat a shorter youth sword, its grip wrapped in faded white linen and its blunted point splintered from striking a wooden pell.

Kaela stepped over the doorsill. Her boots left crisp prints in the grey dust carpeting the pine planks as she crossed the room and halted in front of the antler rack.

Slowly, she lifted her right hand. Her scarred fingers hovered half an inch above the linen-wrapped hilt of the smaller practice sword, curling inward in the exact spacing of a duelist’s grip.

Her hand dropped back to her thigh. Turning her back on the rack, she walked to the pine shelving unit against the left wall.

Kōya stayed by the table, letting her move through the room at her own pace. Small remnants of domestic life anchored the cabin: a chipped clay mug resting upside down on the hearth mantel to drain; a wicker mending basket tucked under the table with a bone needle still threaded through a scrap of grey wool; three pairs of worn leather boots lined up beside the back door in descending sizes, the smallest pair barely long enough for a ten-year-old child.

Someone had scrubbed mud off those small soles. Someone had sat in the third chair waiting for the kettle to boil.

Kaela walked past the boots, stopped before the low storage cabinet beneath the dishes, and yanked the top drawer open.

Folded linen rags, whittled clothes-pegs, a rusted drawknife, and a ball of hemp twine rattled inside the wooden box. She raked her fingers through the contents, shoving the tools aside until the bare pine bottom showed.

She slammed the top drawer shut and pulled the second one out. Empty, save for a dried moth carcass and a pinch of sawdust.

Her breathing grew audible over the muffled rumble of the waterfall outside. Dropping to her knees on the dusty floorboards, she wrenched open the lower cabinet doors and shoved a neat stack of winter blankets onto the planks.

Setting Stormfront down beside her knee—the first time she had released the scabbard since the inn—she plunged both hands into the back of the recess, scraping her fingernails along the joinery while her hands worked blindly behind the drawer runners.

Kōya crossed the room and dropped to a crouch three feet from her elbow. "What are you searching for?"