Flower of Maeve [Saturday Upd...

The forest did not breathe. It creaked.

It murmured in the language long buried, carried voices in the wind that were never felt, and bent time like it bent trees — cruelly, without apology. It was a place of stories, none with happy endings, and even fewer with corpses to tell the tale.

She walked deeper into it anyway.

Her boots were caked in mud. Her cloak, frayed at the edges, was stained. She blended into the trees, fading into mud-brown shadows and moss-stained bark. Her hair was braided roughly, tucked beneath her hood. She moved as if she belonged, but she did not. Especially not then.

She inhaled deeply. The scent of woods usually calmed her, but today it was different.

Maeve had not entered that place alone, but her companions — that was what she'd called them — had fled a while ago, one at a time.

No scream. Just vanished.

Taken.

Or warned.

Or perhaps it was her command.

She did not know, nor could she afford to care.

Yet her tight jaw gave her away. Her fingers twitched near the blade at her hip.

Now, there was only her. And him.

She didn't hear him approach. She felt him.

Like heat behind the neck.

Like lightning in your teeth.

She felt him way before she saw him.

She turned in his direction.

"You've been following me for an hour," she said, voice calm, but there was something behind it — the coiled tension of someone who had mastered the art of pretending she was fearless.

The voice that replied was far too amused for this place. And for her liking. Maeve narrowed her eyes in distaste.

"Only an hour?" his voice echoed, stepping into view. "I must be losing my touch."

She shivered. It was just the cold, she convinced herself, not him. Never him.

And then for the first time, she saw him. She saw him more than she felt him.

His silhouette stood at least a foot taller than her 5 feet 5 inches in stature. Leaner, ragged around the edges, she could tell he had seen better days. His boots looked like they hadn't been removed in weeks. His hands, his palms, everything was covered in a hood. The hood was stained with bark and blood — not fresh, not his, and yet...

Yet he exuded wild elegance that made her think of torn crowns and broken altars. She observed enviously.

Her eyes climbed, trying to take a glimpse of the face behind the voice. As if the hood was not enough, his hair, wild like the man it crowned, covered half of his face. Yet she eagerly saw what little was left uncovered. 

Sharp brows and a sharper jaw could put her sword to shame. In this dark, he looked like he belonged. But the eyes... gods, those eyes told a different tale.

Gold, and wrong.

Wild and Beautiful.

Unusual and Unnatural.

His mocking, tilted lips slapped her back to reality.

"You chased off my companions." Her voice was low, but steady, forcing her attention on the serious matter.

"Companions?" he echoed, his dark head tilted, mocking her more openly. "Is that what we're calling soldiers these days?"

"You chased them away," She blamed, not one to back away.

"How?" He blinked in amusement. "They are scared of guests?"

She didn't blink. "Is that what we're calling stalkers these days?"

His bow-shaped mouth curved. "Touché."

He took another step forward, out from a streak of moonlight fractured by tree limbs into the openings. Perhaps the light helped his vision more than hers — because she saw him pause — just briefly — to look at her.

Not just look. See. And something in his eyes tightened. Not in the predatory way she expected. In a startled way.

"You're not from around here," he observed quietly.

"Neither are you." She cut in.

"Obviously! You're softer than the forest permits. Ethereal in a way this place doesn't deserve," he continued.

"And you sound disappointed," Maeve stared at him. "You don't seem like the poetic type."

"Low opinions," he said with a shake of his head, like he was disappointed in her.

Maeve narrowed her eyes even more. Now he displeased her with his audacity.

"I make a habit of voicing what I see," he continued.

She smiled — a small, humourless thing. "Then it is good that this forest doesn't have enough visitors."

A moment passed between them. Maeve held onto her ground. Firm and tight.

His head cocked. "You're not afraid."

"Should I be?" 

Why should she be?

She was the mistress of the lands.

Well! Future mistress.

He stepped even closer, now just a breath away. "Most people are."

"I'm not most people." Maeve breathed deeply. Very conscious of the space, or the lack of it, between them.

Woods, covered in blood, and yet he managed to smell like woods. This close to him, she forced herself to limit breathing in his scent. She saw his smirk.

Like he knew her internal battle.

Like he knew what he was doing.

She narrowed her eyes. Who was this man to evade her with his words and audacity?

He studied her face. "And what should I call you, not-most-people?"

She hesitated. He noticed.

She let the silence stretch. He noticed that, too.

"Ah," he murmured, stepping back half a pace. "Secrets!"

He looked away for the first time — out into the woods — his tone shifting, becoming strangely boyish.

"I'm... lost, actually," he admitted. "The forest doesn't let me retrace steps. It plays tricks."

Maeve nodded once. For a moment, she relaxed. "It does that."

"I'm looking for something. A flower."

"A flower?" Her posture changed again. "Most people are here for the princess."

Why was this man after a flower? Was he after her flower?

"I am not most people either," He smirked, repeating her reply. "Princess may be rare, but I am here for something rarer. A rare flower. The kind that doesn't grow unless something ancient allows it."

"What makes you think I know anything about this matter?" Maeve spoke through her teeth. Indeed, he was after her flower.

"You look like someone who knows things," he flattered. "So if you won't tell me who you are, maybe you could tell me who I could be."

She frowned.

"A name," he clarified. "Something that sounds... normal. Local."

Maeve crossed her arms. "You want me to name you?"

He was a confusing man.

He grinned. "You're the first living thing that hasn't tried to kill me in days. Seems fair."

"Why shall I name you?" Who in their right mind asks a stranger to name them?

"Because I need to pretend I belong here," he said, his voice quieter. "And because you're the only real thing I've seen since I stepped into these cursed trees."

That gave her pause. For someone seeking the sacred bloom, he sure had no filter with his intentions. Did he think she was harmless?

She looked him over — the exhaustion in his shoulders, the bruises on his knuckles, the teeth just barely not bared.

"Naming you would tie me to you," she confessed slowly. "And I don't plan on being tied to you."

If he was being so honest, what was wrong with pointing out the obvious to him?

He blinked. Then laughed, sharp and delighted. His laughter skittered across her skin, raising goosebumps she pretended not to feel. "You're smart. Most pretty things aren't. I like it."

Maeve tilted her head. 

"And you're too charming for someone who smells like blood." Woods, not blood.

He stepped back into the shadow, that ever-present grin still curling at his mouth. "Then don't name me."

"I won't." Who asks to be named and doesn't bother to learn hers? He confused her. She hated that.

"And no directions either?"

"No."

"Disappointing," he said, looking more intrigued than disappointed. Starting to walk away — but not turning his back on her, he disappeared like mist. But the forest did not let go of his scent.

"Be careful," Maeve murmured after him.

"I never am," Yuvaan replied.

She hated how much she wanted to watch him walk away.

Worse — how much she wanted to follow.

~*~*~
I hope you liked the chapter.

Thank you for giving this 온라인카지노게임 a shot.

Maeve - (Pronunciation May-ve, like wave) - Female MC - The hunted (Or is she?)

Yuvaan - (Pronunciation You-one) - Male MC - The hunter (He is.)