The Journey, Book 2; Chapter 24 - Previous Chapter
Chapter 25; Timmy
From his perch high in the swaying crown of an old tree, Timtur the squirrel watched with sharp, glinting eyes. He had been given a task, a task only a squirrel could do… or so he had been told. For months now, he had shadowed a ragtag band of Humarfs and humans, following the faint but dangerous rumour that they sought dragon eggs. Somewhere, someone had betrayed Gabija, whispering to the outsiders where the hidden nests lay.
Timtur had taken his orders to heart. He was nothing if not thorough. He chittered and chattered to the forest kin, sending messengers of fur and tail to creep close to the travellers, listening in where he could not go. They slipped between campfires, lurked in branches above tents, even scurried over the sleeping bodies to sniff at their packs. Yet… nothing. No whispers of eggs. No scent of betrayal.
Somewhere out of the corner of his eye, Timtur spotted movement, a black cat reclining on the mossy length of a fallen tree. Turning his head, he took in the creature’s sleek form, the strange ginger marking curling across the left side of its face like a half-burnt leaf.
The cat stared back at him with knowing eyes.
Then, without warning, something pressed against Timtur’s mind, a thought, alien and insistent. His instincts flared. Chestnuts. Chestnuts. Chestnuts. The mental mantra locked his thoughts down tight, his tried-and-true tactic to keep any unwanteds from plucking secrets from his head.
The pressure grew. The black cat’s tail twitched, its claws extending to tap impatiently against the bark.
And then it struck him.
How could he have been so impossibly stupid?
That was no ordinary feline, it was a were-cat.
Very carefully, Timtur loosened the mental shutters, letting in only what he wished to show. Nothing of his mission. Nothing of Gabija. Just a cautious opening.
The were-cat yawned as if bored, baring fangs.
Then an image burst into Timtur’s mind: a man’s face, ghastly, shredded by deep claw marks, his eyes burning with malice.
Timtur jerked, nearly tumbling off the branch. Who the fuck is that? he demanded silently.
The cat’s mental voice came smooth, casual. 'That, my fluffy-tailed friend, is the prick known as Thomaz.'
A pause. Then, as if an afterthought: ‘Name’s Jeremy, by the way.’
‘Who scratched his face up like that?’ Timtur asked, the image of the ruined visage still fresh in his mind. ‘That’s going to leave a mark for sure.’
‘I did,’ Jeremy replied without a shred of modesty. ‘And that was the plan… humiliation at its finest.’ He paused to lick a paw, dragging his tongue slowly along his claws as though savouring the memory.
‘And your name is?’ Jeremy added, then caught himself. ‘Ah, my manners. I’ve been a squirrel for so long I nearly forgot them. I’m Timtur.’
Ah, came Jeremy’s voice, smooth as a purr but edged with mischief. ‘You’re Timmy, the one who doesn’t like hugs.’
Timtur’s fur bristled at the name, but he kept his tone steady, almost bored. ‘I have no problem being hugged,’ he quipped back, his mental voice as dry as last year’s acorns.
Jeremy stretched languidly across the moss-covered log, claws flexing into the bark. ‘Perhaps I’ll jump up there and give you one, then,’ he said, the sarcasm dripping like sap.
‘Shit,’ murmured Timtur. ‘They’re looking for you? What prompted you to attack King Thomaz like that?’
Jeremy’s gaze drifted toward the group below, his tone flattening into something dark. ‘The king and his demon right hand pillaged a village with his soldiers, killed every man, woman, and child… except one. Left her tied to a tree.’ His claws flexed slowly. ‘He pissed me off, so… I decided to give him something to think about.’
Timtur studied him, tail twitching. ‘That’s understandable… just remind me not to piss you off.’
Jeremy sat up, locking eyes with him. ‘Don’t piss me off, Timmy,’ he said with a wink.
And then, without warning, the were-cat’s body rippled. Muscles shifted under fur, his silhouette warping until he stood at the height of a small human child. The fur receded, replaced by sun-browned skin, though a makeshift loincloth was the only thing covering him. The transformation left certain feline traits intact, tapered cat ears, a twitching tail, and claws that glinted in the dappled light.
In his hands, he now held two small daggers, each blade looking far too sharp for comfort.
Jeremy’s grin widened into something feral.
‘Jeremy… what are you doing?’ Timtur’s voice was tight, the fur along his back bristling.
Below, the ragtag camp had gone quiet, only the low crackle of dying embers and the slow, steady breaths of the sleeping.
Jeremy slipped between the tents like a shadow given form. Every step was measured, his muscles coiled, his tail rigid and arched. His ears flattened tight to his skull.
The first man never woke. A dagger’s flash, a wet slice, and hot blood pumped over Jeremy’s hand. The man’s eyes fluttered, his mouth opened to scream, but only a choking gurgle escaped before his body sagged into stillness.
Jeremy padded over him, boots planting in the warm spill, to reach the next—a squat Humarf woman. One sharp pull of his blade ended her life. Her body twitched once. Jeremy dragged a single claw down her front, splitting her tunic in one neat tear until it flopped open. He looked up at Timtur, lips curling in a grin that didn’t reach his eyes.
‘Mmm, look, Timmy… these would be perfect for you.’
Timtur said nothing, just shook his head, the pit in his stomach sinking deeper.
The third sleeper was a slim human woman, long brown hair spilling across her blanket. Jeremy drew the blade across her throat with the same casual ease as trimming thread. Another rip of fabric, another body left exposed. A low, rumbling purr slid into Timtur’s mind before Jeremy’s voice followed, thick with mockery:
‘Mmm… puffy nips. Like heaven.’
Timtur’s tail lashed. ’Could you not have some respect, Jeremy? It’s bad enough you’re butchering them in their sleep, never mind pawing at the dead.’
Jeremy chuckled under his breath. ‘What a bore you are.’
The remaining four didn’t last long. Soft footfalls, the whisper of steel, the sickening pull of flesh giving way, until the camp was nothing but a scatter of still, cooling bodies under the moonlight.
Jeremy looked back over his shoulder toward the tree where Timtur still lingered in the shadows.
“Timmy, you can come down now…” his voice carried easily through the quiet, laced with mockery. “The camp’s yours. Maybe those titties will take the edge off your frustration.”
The taunt made Timtur’s jaw tighten. He darted down the trunk, claws scraping bark, and the moment his feet hit the earth, a poof of blue smoke wrapped around him. In less than the snap of a finger, the squirrel was gone, replaced by his true form: tall, lean, and unmistakably elfish, his light brown hair catching the faint light.
He stepped into the camp without hesitation, boots crunching softly over dirt and trampled grass. The bodies lay where they’d fallen, blood darkening the earth, their stillness heavy in the night air. Timtur’s gaze swept past the uncovered women without a flicker of interest, ignoring Jeremy’s earlier jibes. Each step was deliberate, careful, as he moved between the dead, eyes fixed on Jeremy beyond the carnage.
“So… are you going to tell me why they had to die?” Timtur’s voice was quiet, almost flat, as he pulled aside the flaps of the ragtag leader’s tent.
Jeremy padded in after him, the daggers still in his hands, blades wet. “Oh, just to piss off the King even more,” he said with a lazy shrug. “Seems like fun, pissing him off.”
Timtur ignored the smirk and began rifling through the tent’s contents. The leader’s desk was a mess of maps, ink stains, and crumpled notes. He sifted through them until his fingers closed on a stack of paperwork, reports about the ransacking of a small village.
One name appeared more than once.
“Who’s Ophelia?” Timtur asked, glancing at Jeremy.
“She was the village leader, by the looks of things,” Jeremy replied, peering over his shoulder.
Timtur nodded once, the decision already forming in his mind. “We need to see if she’s still alive. Can you take me to this village?”
Timtur walked a short distance from the camp toward his mare. His fingers worked quickly, untying the reins, then he swung up into the saddle with practiced ease. Jeremy shifted fluidly back into his feline form, curling lazily onto Timtur’s lap.
“Head this way,” Jeremy purred, flicking his tail and pointing with a quick glance.
They traveled hard, two days and one cold, restless night.
When they finally reached the village, Timtur’s breath caught in his throat. The devastation was absolute. Blackened ruins crumbled under a sky heavy with smoke, and the scent of ash and death hung thick in the air. Scattered bodies and the rattle of carrion birds were the only signs of life.
Timtur slid down from the saddle, his boots crunching on charred earth. Jeremy leapt off his lap, landing softly as they stepped deeper into the wreckage.
There, still tied to a tree, slumped and unconscious, was Ophelia. Her blonde hair hung tangled and matted, stained with dirt and dried blood.
Timtur ran to her side, gently lifting her head and shoulders. Her eyes fluttered open, blurred and unfocused, and locked weakly on his before slipping shut again.
Without hesitation, Jeremy slashed through the ropes binding her with a single claw. The woman collapsed into Timtur’s chest.
He quickly whipped off his traveling cloak, spreading it on the scorched ground. Tenderly, he laid her down and began to speak words in the ancient language, his hand glowed blue as it hovered over the unconscious woman's wounds. He noticed the burn mark on her stomach and flinched at the thought of how painful it must have been.
Jeremy watched silently, his dark eyes flicking between Timtur and the fragile woman.
Timtur slumped against a broken tree trunk, exhaustion pressing down on his limbs after pouring every ounce of his strength into healing the woman’s wounds.
Jeremy stepped forward quietly, placing a soft paw on the elf’s shoulder. “Will she be okay?” the were-cat asked, voice low and cautious.
Timtur met his gaze, eyes heavy but steady. “I’ve done what I can for now. She needs rest… time to heal naturally.”
Jeremy gave a slow nod, then curled up beside the woman, a silent guardian.
Timtur pushed himself upright, his knees cracking in protest. He stretched, muscles aching as he took in the ruined village and the scattered corpses.
“I’m going to bury them all,” Timtur said quietly, voice thick with resolve.
Jeremy’s eyes widened, dark and sharp.
Before Timtur could answer, the faint sound of shuffling footsteps drifted through the ash-choked air.
In an instant, Jeremy’s form rippled, and his appearance was that of a small boy once again. His small daggers reappeared in his hands, gleaming wickedly in the dim light.
Timtur was already moving, two balls of blue fire igniting in the palms of his hands.
A group emerged from the smoky tree line, carrying crude weapons, pitchforks, butcher knives, and spiked wooden planks. They stopped a few yards away, eyes narrowing at the strange figures before them.
Then a smaller man stepped forward, squinting through the haze. “Wait… that’s Timtur.” His voice was rough but held a note of recognition. “He healed our youngens when they came down with fever.”
One by one, the villagers lowered their weapons, relief washing over their faces.
Timtur, still holding the flickering blue balls of fire in his palms, kept his guard up but softened. “Why are you all here?” he asked, voice steady but wary.
The smaller man raised his arms in peace. “We saw the smoke, Timtur. We wanted to come and help. The village elders weren’t sure about it, but a few of us came anyway.”
Timtur’s shoulders relaxed, the tension easing from his frame. “We need to bury the dead. Help me, please.”
The man nodded and glanced back at the group behind him. They all exchanged determined looks before stepping forward, ready to lend their hands to the grim task ahead.
Jeremy stayed close to the sleeping Ophelia, eyes sharp and watchful as Timtur and the villagers labored just outside the ruined village, burying the dead. The work was grueling, gruesome and exhausting, and it took them days to finish. Timtur was late to report in, but right now, none of that mattered. His focus was on this task, this grim duty.
He slumped against a gnarled tree, muscles aching and dust-covered, when Jeremy sat up beside him and spoke quietly.
Ophelia stirred, blinking open her eyes. She tried to rise, but Timtur’s gentle hands held her back. “Don’t get up. Stay down. It’s okay,” he soothed softly.
Reluctantly, she obeyed, glancing to her side. Her eyes landed on the neighboring villagers carrying the last few bodies toward their resting place at the outskirts of the village. Tears streamed down her cheeks again, silent and steady.
“All this… because of a necklace I didn’t even know was magical,” she murmured, voice trembling.
“What necklace?” Timtur asked, leaning closer.
She tried to answer, but her voice broke under the weight of tears.
Jeremy’s feline form shifted, and his voice cut through the quiet like a blade. “A silver necklace, inlaid with blue sapphires and tiny white opals.”
Timtur’s eyes darkened with recognition. “That was Queen Calinthia’s necklace. A human queen, long ago.”
“Help me to my feet, please,” Ophelia asked, her voice fragile but determined as she looked up at Timtur.
He moved carefully, easing her up with steady hands, supporting most of her weight. She stumbled, unsteady on her feet, but Timtur’s arms held her firm. Together, they made their way toward the freshly turned earth where the villagers had been buried.
Ophelia’s gaze swept over those who had helped lay the dead to rest, rough faces streaked with soot and sweat, hands raw from digging. She whispered a heartfelt thank you, tears tracing slow paths down her cheeks. Then, her voice broke into a mournful song, the burial song of her people, fragile but pure.
One by one, others from the neighboring village joined in, their voices low and steady, weaving together a somber hymn that filled the heavy air.
Timtur knelt at the edge of two freshly made mounds, placing his palms lightly on the earth. His voice dropped to a whisper as he spoke words in the ancient language, soft and deliberate.
A faint blue glow pulsed from his hands, gentle but alive. From beneath the soil, shoots began to stir, tentative at first, then pushing upwards with growing strength.
Slowly, rose bushes erupted from the earth, bursting forth over every burial mound. Roses of white, red, yellow, orange, and countless other hues bloomed vibrantly, their delicate petals shining bright against the ashen ground, an unspoken promise of life amidst the ruin.
Timtur turned to Jeremy and Ophelia, his voice steady but heavy with purpose. “I need to go. I have to report to Gabija of Clan Panther, and the Dwarven King Althor.”
Jeremy gave a slow nod, his feline eyes gleaming with quiet understanding. “This is where we part ways, Timmy. I’ll be seeing you.”
Timtur nodded in return as Jeremy silently melted into the shadows, his form shifting back to that of a sleek black cat.
Ophelia’s fingers curled around Timtur’s hands, her voice trembling but fierce. “Please... take me with you.”
Jeremy’s mischievous shout rang out over his shoulder, laced with teasing warning. “Careful now, o’ lady, Timmy here doesn’t like hugs!”
Timtur scowled sharply at Jeremy’s jest, shooting him a warning glance. Ophelia blinked, confused by the exchange but unwavering in her determination.
“It’s a long journey,” Timtur told her gently, “and we need to find you a horse to ride.”
Timtur and Ophelia followed the group back to the neighbouring village, her fragile form wrapped tightly in his worn travelling cloak, hiding the torn, ragged clothes beneath.
He waited patiently beside his mare, eyes sharp and alert, while Ophelia was led inside a humble home. When she returned, the transformation was breathtaking. Gone was the cloak and the dirt, replaced by a set of riding leathers that clung to her like a second skin.
The dark leather hugged her slender waist and curved hips, every stitch emphasising the strength and softness beneath. Her jacket, cinched tightly at the waist with a worn belt, framed her chest and shoulders with a fierce, new determination. The sleeves tapered perfectly at her wrists, revealing hands that were both delicate and capable.
Her pants fit snugly, tucked into knee-high boots scuffed and well-worn, each mark telling a story of hardship and survival. The leather caught the fading light, shimmering with a dark allure that seemed to move with her.
For a long, breathless moment, Timtur was utterly still, unable to tear his eyes away from her. The sultry fire in her gaze, wrapped in that riding leather, was unlike anything he’d ever seen, a fierce, raw beauty that ignited something deep inside him.
The village elder approached, leading forth a black and dappled grey stallion named Mooney. Ophelia mounted with practiced ease, settling into the saddle like she belonged there.
Timtur’s voice broke the spell. “Are you ready?”
She met his eyes, nodded, and without another word, they urged their mounts forward, racing out of the village toward the looming shadows of the Buradoth Mountains.
They travelled for two days and two nights, stopping only to rest their horses and themselves. Timtur built a small fire from twigs and brush, the flames crackling softly as they ate a light meal.
Afterwards, Timtur lay down on the ground beside the fire, exhaustion settling deep into his muscles. Ophelia sat nearby, eyes tracing the stars scattered across the night sky like scattered diamonds.
Slowly, almost hesitantly, she crept closer to him. Her voice was barely a whisper as she asked, “Mr. Timtur... could I sleep next to you?”
Timtur nodded without hesitation, not thinking much of it.
But when Ophelia lay down right next to him, resting her head on his chest and wrapping her arms gently around his waist, something in his chest clenched tightly. His heart thundered, pounding loud enough to drown out the night sounds.
Before he could collect his thoughts, Ophelia was fast asleep, her breathing steady and soft against him.
Timtur sighed quietly, then carefully wrapped his arms around her, holding her close, protective, silent, and completely aware of the fragile warmth between them.
Chapter 25; Timmy
From his perch high in the swaying crown of an old tree, Timtur the squirrel watched with sharp, glinting eyes. He had been given a task, a task only a squirrel could do… or so he had been told. For months now, he had shadowed a ragtag band of Humarfs and humans, following the faint but dangerous rumour that they sought dragon eggs. Somewhere, someone had betrayed Gabija, whispering to the outsiders where the hidden nests lay.
Timtur had taken his orders to heart. He was nothing if not thorough. He chittered and chattered to the forest kin, sending messengers of fur and tail to creep close to the travellers, listening in where he could not go. They slipped between campfires, lurked in branches above tents, even scurried over the sleeping bodies to sniff at their packs. Yet… nothing. No whispers of eggs. No scent of betrayal.
Somewhere out of the corner of his eye, Timtur spotted movement, a black cat reclining on the mossy length of a fallen tree. Turning his head, he took in the creature’s sleek form, the strange ginger marking curling across the left side of its face like a half-burnt leaf.
The cat stared back at him with knowing eyes.
Then, without warning, something pressed against Timtur’s mind, a thought, alien and insistent. His instincts flared. Chestnuts. Chestnuts. Chestnuts. The mental mantra locked his thoughts down tight, his tried-and-true tactic to keep any unwanteds from plucking secrets from his head.
The pressure grew. The black cat’s tail twitched, its claws extending to tap impatiently against the bark.
And then it struck him.
How could he have been so impossibly stupid?
That was no ordinary feline, it was a were-cat.
Very carefully, Timtur loosened the mental shutters, letting in only what he wished to show. Nothing of his mission. Nothing of Gabija. Just a cautious opening.
The were-cat yawned as if bored, baring fangs.
Then an image burst into Timtur’s mind: a man’s face, ghastly, shredded by deep claw marks, his eyes burning with malice.
Timtur jerked, nearly tumbling off the branch. Who the fuck is that? he demanded silently.
The cat’s mental voice came smooth, casual. 'That, my fluffy-tailed friend, is the prick known as Thomaz.'
A pause. Then, as if an afterthought: ‘Name’s Jeremy, by the way.’
‘Who scratched his face up like that?’ Timtur asked, the image of the ruined visage still fresh in his mind. ‘That’s going to leave a mark for sure.’
‘I did,’ Jeremy replied without a shred of modesty. ‘And that was the plan… humiliation at its finest.’ He paused to lick a paw, dragging his tongue slowly along his claws as though savouring the memory.
‘And your name is?’ Jeremy added, then caught himself. ‘Ah, my manners. I’ve been a squirrel for so long I nearly forgot them. I’m Timtur.’
Ah, came Jeremy’s voice, smooth as a purr but edged with mischief. ‘You’re Timmy, the one who doesn’t like hugs.’
Timtur’s fur bristled at the name, but he kept his tone steady, almost bored. ‘I have no problem being hugged,’ he quipped back, his mental voice as dry as last year’s acorns.
Jeremy stretched languidly across the moss-covered log, claws flexing into the bark. ‘Perhaps I’ll jump up there and give you one, then,’ he said, the sarcasm dripping like sap.
‘Shit,’ murmured Timtur. ‘They’re looking for you? What prompted you to attack King Thomaz like that?’
Jeremy’s gaze drifted toward the group below, his tone flattening into something dark. ‘The king and his demon right hand pillaged a village with his soldiers, killed every man, woman, and child… except one. Left her tied to a tree.’ His claws flexed slowly. ‘He pissed me off, so… I decided to give him something to think about.’
Timtur studied him, tail twitching. ‘That’s understandable… just remind me not to piss you off.’
Jeremy sat up, locking eyes with him. ‘Don’t piss me off, Timmy,’ he said with a wink.
And then, without warning, the were-cat’s body rippled. Muscles shifted under fur, his silhouette warping until he stood at the height of a small human child. The fur receded, replaced by sun-browned skin, though a makeshift loincloth was the only thing covering him. The transformation left certain feline traits intact, tapered cat ears, a twitching tail, and claws that glinted in the dappled light.
In his hands, he now held two small daggers, each blade looking far too sharp for comfort.
Jeremy’s grin widened into something feral.
‘Jeremy… what are you doing?’ Timtur’s voice was tight, the fur along his back bristling.
Below, the ragtag camp had gone quiet, only the low crackle of dying embers and the slow, steady breaths of the sleeping.
Jeremy slipped between the tents like a shadow given form. Every step was measured, his muscles coiled, his tail rigid and arched. His ears flattened tight to his skull.
The first man never woke. A dagger’s flash, a wet slice, and hot blood pumped over Jeremy’s hand. The man’s eyes fluttered, his mouth opened to scream, but only a choking gurgle escaped before his body sagged into stillness.
Jeremy padded over him, boots planting in the warm spill, to reach the next—a squat Humarf woman. One sharp pull of his blade ended her life. Her body twitched once. Jeremy dragged a single claw down her front, splitting her tunic in one neat tear until it flopped open. He looked up at Timtur, lips curling in a grin that didn’t reach his eyes.
‘Mmm, look, Timmy… these would be perfect for you.’
Timtur said nothing, just shook his head, the pit in his stomach sinking deeper.
The third sleeper was a slim human woman, long brown hair spilling across her blanket. Jeremy drew the blade across her throat with the same casual ease as trimming thread. Another rip of fabric, another body left exposed. A low, rumbling purr slid into Timtur’s mind before Jeremy’s voice followed, thick with mockery:
‘Mmm… puffy nips. Like heaven.’
Timtur’s tail lashed. ’Could you not have some respect, Jeremy? It’s bad enough you’re butchering them in their sleep, never mind pawing at the dead.’
Jeremy chuckled under his breath. ‘What a bore you are.’
The remaining four didn’t last long. Soft footfalls, the whisper of steel, the sickening pull of flesh giving way, until the camp was nothing but a scatter of still, cooling bodies under the moonlight.
Jeremy looked back over his shoulder toward the tree where Timtur still lingered in the shadows.
“Timmy, you can come down now…” his voice carried easily through the quiet, laced with mockery. “The camp’s yours. Maybe those titties will take the edge off your frustration.”
The taunt made Timtur’s jaw tighten. He darted down the trunk, claws scraping bark, and the moment his feet hit the earth, a poof of blue smoke wrapped around him. In less than the snap of a finger, the squirrel was gone, replaced by his true form: tall, lean, and unmistakably elfish, his light brown hair catching the faint light.
He stepped into the camp without hesitation, boots crunching softly over dirt and trampled grass. The bodies lay where they’d fallen, blood darkening the earth, their stillness heavy in the night air. Timtur’s gaze swept past the uncovered women without a flicker of interest, ignoring Jeremy’s earlier jibes. Each step was deliberate, careful, as he moved between the dead, eyes fixed on Jeremy beyond the carnage.
“So… are you going to tell me why they had to die?” Timtur’s voice was quiet, almost flat, as he pulled aside the flaps of the ragtag leader’s tent.
Jeremy padded in after him, the daggers still in his hands, blades wet. “Oh, just to piss off the King even more,” he said with a lazy shrug. “Seems like fun, pissing him off.”
Timtur ignored the smirk and began rifling through the tent’s contents. The leader’s desk was a mess of maps, ink stains, and crumpled notes. He sifted through them until his fingers closed on a stack of paperwork, reports about the ransacking of a small village.
One name appeared more than once.
“Who’s Ophelia?” Timtur asked, glancing at Jeremy.
“She was the village leader, by the looks of things,” Jeremy replied, peering over his shoulder.
Timtur nodded once, the decision already forming in his mind. “We need to see if she’s still alive. Can you take me to this village?”
Timtur walked a short distance from the camp toward his mare. His fingers worked quickly, untying the reins, then he swung up into the saddle with practiced ease. Jeremy shifted fluidly back into his feline form, curling lazily onto Timtur’s lap.
“Head this way,” Jeremy purred, flicking his tail and pointing with a quick glance.
They traveled hard, two days and one cold, restless night.
When they finally reached the village, Timtur’s breath caught in his throat. The devastation was absolute. Blackened ruins crumbled under a sky heavy with smoke, and the scent of ash and death hung thick in the air. Scattered bodies and the rattle of carrion birds were the only signs of life.
Timtur slid down from the saddle, his boots crunching on charred earth. Jeremy leapt off his lap, landing softly as they stepped deeper into the wreckage.
There, still tied to a tree, slumped and unconscious, was Ophelia. Her blonde hair hung tangled and matted, stained with dirt and dried blood.
Timtur ran to her side, gently lifting her head and shoulders. Her eyes fluttered open, blurred and unfocused, and locked weakly on his before slipping shut again.
Without hesitation, Jeremy slashed through the ropes binding her with a single claw. The woman collapsed into Timtur’s chest.
He quickly whipped off his traveling cloak, spreading it on the scorched ground. Tenderly, he laid her down and began to speak words in the ancient language, his hand glowed blue as it hovered over the unconscious woman's wounds. He noticed the burn mark on her stomach and flinched at the thought of how painful it must have been.
Jeremy watched silently, his dark eyes flicking between Timtur and the fragile woman.
Timtur slumped against a broken tree trunk, exhaustion pressing down on his limbs after pouring every ounce of his strength into healing the woman’s wounds.
Jeremy stepped forward quietly, placing a soft paw on the elf’s shoulder. “Will she be okay?” the were-cat asked, voice low and cautious.
Timtur met his gaze, eyes heavy but steady. “I’ve done what I can for now. She needs rest… time to heal naturally.”
Jeremy gave a slow nod, then curled up beside the woman, a silent guardian.
Timtur pushed himself upright, his knees cracking in protest. He stretched, muscles aching as he took in the ruined village and the scattered corpses.
“I’m going to bury them all,” Timtur said quietly, voice thick with resolve.
Jeremy’s eyes widened, dark and sharp.
Before Timtur could answer, the faint sound of shuffling footsteps drifted through the ash-choked air.
In an instant, Jeremy’s form rippled, and his appearance was that of a small boy once again. His small daggers reappeared in his hands, gleaming wickedly in the dim light.
Timtur was already moving, two balls of blue fire igniting in the palms of his hands.
A group emerged from the smoky tree line, carrying crude weapons, pitchforks, butcher knives, and spiked wooden planks. They stopped a few yards away, eyes narrowing at the strange figures before them.
Then a smaller man stepped forward, squinting through the haze. “Wait… that’s Timtur.” His voice was rough but held a note of recognition. “He healed our youngens when they came down with fever.”
One by one, the villagers lowered their weapons, relief washing over their faces.
Timtur, still holding the flickering blue balls of fire in his palms, kept his guard up but softened. “Why are you all here?” he asked, voice steady but wary.
The smaller man raised his arms in peace. “We saw the smoke, Timtur. We wanted to come and help. The village elders weren’t sure about it, but a few of us came anyway.”
Timtur’s shoulders relaxed, the tension easing from his frame. “We need to bury the dead. Help me, please.”
The man nodded and glanced back at the group behind him. They all exchanged determined looks before stepping forward, ready to lend their hands to the grim task ahead.
Jeremy stayed close to the sleeping Ophelia, eyes sharp and watchful as Timtur and the villagers labored just outside the ruined village, burying the dead. The work was grueling, gruesome and exhausting, and it took them days to finish. Timtur was late to report in, but right now, none of that mattered. His focus was on this task, this grim duty.
He slumped against a gnarled tree, muscles aching and dust-covered, when Jeremy sat up beside him and spoke quietly.
Ophelia stirred, blinking open her eyes. She tried to rise, but Timtur’s gentle hands held her back. “Don’t get up. Stay down. It’s okay,” he soothed softly.
Reluctantly, she obeyed, glancing to her side. Her eyes landed on the neighboring villagers carrying the last few bodies toward their resting place at the outskirts of the village. Tears streamed down her cheeks again, silent and steady.
“All this… because of a necklace I didn’t even know was magical,” she murmured, voice trembling.
“What necklace?” Timtur asked, leaning closer.
She tried to answer, but her voice broke under the weight of tears.
Jeremy’s feline form shifted, and his voice cut through the quiet like a blade. “A silver necklace, inlaid with blue sapphires and tiny white opals.”
Timtur’s eyes darkened with recognition. “That was Queen Calinthia’s necklace. A human queen, long ago.”
“Help me to my feet, please,” Ophelia asked, her voice fragile but determined as she looked up at Timtur.
He moved carefully, easing her up with steady hands, supporting most of her weight. She stumbled, unsteady on her feet, but Timtur’s arms held her firm. Together, they made their way toward the freshly turned earth where the villagers had been buried.
Ophelia’s gaze swept over those who had helped lay the dead to rest, rough faces streaked with soot and sweat, hands raw from digging. She whispered a heartfelt thank you, tears tracing slow paths down her cheeks. Then, her voice broke into a mournful song, the burial song of her people, fragile but pure.
One by one, others from the neighboring village joined in, their voices low and steady, weaving together a somber hymn that filled the heavy air.
Timtur knelt at the edge of two freshly made mounds, placing his palms lightly on the earth. His voice dropped to a whisper as he spoke words in the ancient language, soft and deliberate.
A faint blue glow pulsed from his hands, gentle but alive. From beneath the soil, shoots began to stir, tentative at first, then pushing upwards with growing strength.
Slowly, rose bushes erupted from the earth, bursting forth over every burial mound. Roses of white, red, yellow, orange, and countless other hues bloomed vibrantly, their delicate petals shining bright against the ashen ground, an unspoken promise of life amidst the ruin.
Timtur turned to Jeremy and Ophelia, his voice steady but heavy with purpose. “I need to go. I have to report to Gabija of Clan Panther, and the Dwarven King Althor.”
Jeremy gave a slow nod, his feline eyes gleaming with quiet understanding. “This is where we part ways, Timmy. I’ll be seeing you.”
Timtur nodded in return as Jeremy silently melted into the shadows, his form shifting back to that of a sleek black cat.
Ophelia’s fingers curled around Timtur’s hands, her voice trembling but fierce. “Please... take me with you.”
Jeremy’s mischievous shout rang out over his shoulder, laced with teasing warning. “Careful now, o’ lady, Timmy here doesn’t like hugs!”
Timtur scowled sharply at Jeremy’s jest, shooting him a warning glance. Ophelia blinked, confused by the exchange but unwavering in her determination.
“It’s a long journey,” Timtur told her gently, “and we need to find you a horse to ride.”
Timtur and Ophelia followed the group back to the neighbouring village, her fragile form wrapped tightly in his worn travelling cloak, hiding the torn, ragged clothes beneath.
He waited patiently beside his mare, eyes sharp and alert, while Ophelia was led inside a humble home. When she returned, the transformation was breathtaking. Gone was the cloak and the dirt, replaced by a set of riding leathers that clung to her like a second skin.
The dark leather hugged her slender waist and curved hips, every stitch emphasising the strength and softness beneath. Her jacket, cinched tightly at the waist with a worn belt, framed her chest and shoulders with a fierce, new determination. The sleeves tapered perfectly at her wrists, revealing hands that were both delicate and capable.
Her pants fit snugly, tucked into knee-high boots scuffed and well-worn, each mark telling a story of hardship and survival. The leather caught the fading light, shimmering with a dark allure that seemed to move with her.
For a long, breathless moment, Timtur was utterly still, unable to tear his eyes away from her. The sultry fire in her gaze, wrapped in that riding leather, was unlike anything he’d ever seen, a fierce, raw beauty that ignited something deep inside him.
The village elder approached, leading forth a black and dappled grey stallion named Mooney. Ophelia mounted with practiced ease, settling into the saddle like she belonged there.
Timtur’s voice broke the spell. “Are you ready?”
She met his eyes, nodded, and without another word, they urged their mounts forward, racing out of the village toward the looming shadows of the Buradoth Mountains.
They travelled for two days and two nights, stopping only to rest their horses and themselves. Timtur built a small fire from twigs and brush, the flames crackling softly as they ate a light meal.
Afterwards, Timtur lay down on the ground beside the fire, exhaustion settling deep into his muscles. Ophelia sat nearby, eyes tracing the stars scattered across the night sky like scattered diamonds.
Slowly, almost hesitantly, she crept closer to him. Her voice was barely a whisper as she asked, “Mr. Timtur... could I sleep next to you?”
Timtur nodded without hesitation, not thinking much of it.
But when Ophelia lay down right next to him, resting her head on his chest and wrapping her arms gently around his waist, something in his chest clenched tightly. His heart thundered, pounding loud enough to drown out the night sounds.
Before he could collect his thoughts, Ophelia was fast asleep, her breathing steady and soft against him.
Timtur sighed quietly, then carefully wrapped his arms around her, holding her close, protective, silent, and completely aware of the fragile warmth between them.
The Journey, Book 2; Chapter 26
Chapter 26: Stables The King’s private quarters were steeped in the stillness of night. Shadows pooled in the corners, and the soft glow of the hearth painted the walls in gold and ember-red. Nekonata lay reclined against a mound of silken cushions, Amira’s warm coils draped along his side like...
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