“How do your human stories begin?” He shifts his golden eyes to mine.
“Once upon a time,” I provide with a small smile, which he returns.
“Right. Once upon a time, there lived a boy in a poor villageoutside the city of Baegar. His mother was a weaver; his father a skilled woodworker. Every morning, he and his son loaded up a wagon of his work along with his wife’s wares to take to the market. He watched his father make trades for the things his family needed. Bread, meat, game pelts for the harsh winters. Ointment for his mother’s hands when they would seize from overuse. Despite how poor they were, despite the one-roomed hovel they lived in, and how little they had, the boy never felt that he went without. He loved his family. They were happy.”
I study Jace as he pauses, one hand massaging his other palm absentmindedly. He swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing quickly.
“One day, the boy and his father went into the village to trade at the market, only to find themselves in the middle of a raid. Soldiers from Vod had ransacked the town, busting down trade stands and gutting people in the streets. They broke into homes and looted what little valuables they could find. Took the women and set everything on fire.”
Chills skitter down my arms as I listen.
“The boy and his father raced home through the streets, tripping over strewn bodies. When they arrived, the boy’s mother was already dead. Her throat slit, her dress in tatters from where the soldiers... violated her. Her golden eyes, once so full of life, had gone cold and unseeing, staring up into nothing.”
My hand flies to my mouth, horrified.Oh, Jace.
“The boy fell to his knees, clutching his mother on the slick floor. He and his father didn’t hear the soldiers outside over their cries. Not before they shattered the window and tossed a flaming cloth dipped in alcohol inside. The curtains were the first to catch fire. Flames erupted across the liquor-soaked floor, devouring the walls. The wooden beams supporting the structure collapsed, trapping the boy betweenhis father and his mother’s blood-soaked body. He couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. He struggled to push the beam as the flames grew closer, but the boy was too small. Too weak. He watched as his father turned purple beneath its weight, and his chest stilled. He would die too, the boy realized. And he would soon join his parents. The flames would hurt, but it would be over before he knew it, and then there would be no pain. Not anymore.”
Jace’s eyes grow glassy, but no tears fall as he clenches his fists around his drawn-up knees. The tendons in his arms bulge. I listen, barely breathing.
“Spots began to dance across his vision as he choked on thick smoke and swallowed ash. That’s when a large male appeared in his vision, standing over him. He lifted the beam with ease and pulled the boy free before the flames swallowed him. He woke in an unfamiliar room, in a castle to the north. The Diamond Castle, his mother used to call it. The man sitting across from him, the same man that pulled him from the rubble, the man in a crown made of black diamond, leaned forward and said, ‘You’re safe now.’”
Jace’s fists slowly release, as if reliving the relief of his salvation.
“They healed his burns and scars. The king raised the boy. Gave him food, shelter, and clothes. He trained him until he could use a sword better than any of his men. Until he could ride faster. Until he was strong. Strong enough so that no one could hurt him again. So that no one could take away the things he loved ever again. In time, the boy began to show an affinity for air. He could send massive rocks flying across the training ring without ever lifting a finger. He could wield a sword without sparing a hand. And he hated it.” Jace’s disgust is fervent as his eyes burn into the floor.
“He hated his gift. It was so ironic that the gods blessed himwith this ability, but only after he failed to save his parents. Where was his gift when he needed it most? He was useless.”
Jace huffs a humorless laugh, shaking his head. I bite my lip, torn between throwing my arms around him or letting him finish his tragic story.
“When he was old enough, he fought in the king’s armies and worked his way up the ranks. He grew to enjoy it. The bloodshed, the torture, the killing. Each battle, he would envision those Vod soldiers sneering and laughing outside his window as his family’s home was burned to the ground. He pictured their faces as he massacred and mutilated his way through the battlefields. And only when he stood surrounded by bloody remains for miles did he remember that none of them belonged to his true enemy.”
Darkness twists his beautiful mouth.
His words trail off, lingering in the heavy air. The thickness makes it hard to breathe, like standing at the top of a mountain when you’re not used to the altitude. I wonder if Jace realizes he’s manipulating the air around us to match his mood.
“They killed your family,” I say softly. Jace shrugs.
“The pleasantries of war. The poor villages took the brunt of it. Raids like that were common among the slums.” His voice is hard. I reach for him, and his eyes snap to me as if only now remembering I’m here.
“Jace,” I whisper, laying my hand on his knee. “I had no idea.”
Now I see why he is loyal to the king. Not only does he owe him his life, but he loves the king like a father.
I shake my head. “I’m so sorry?—”
“I didn’t tell you this so you could pity me,” he says without venom. I’ve never seen him look so open, so young.
“Pity is just about the last thing I feel right now.” My eyes flicker over the strong planes of his face, the deep-set almondeyes and high cheekbones that give way to a chiseled jaw. His arms, strong and solid beneath his leather. His broad chest. The body of a warrior whose experience with death spans all the way back to childhood.
No wonder he is hardened. Closed-off. Who wouldn’t be after such trauma?
“The story was supposed to put you to sleep.” He stretches out beside me, mirroring my position, one hand propped under his head. “Now you’ll probably have nightmares about the monster that I am.” He toys with a lock of my hair, twisting it around his finger.
“You are not a monster.” I grip his hand tightly, eliciting a look from him. “Do you hear me? You are a warrior.”
He studies me for a moment before saying, “You really should try to rest.”
I scoot closer to him, draping an arm over his waist. He goes rigid and for a moment I think he’s going to fling my arm from his side. But instead, he pulls me closer against his chest.
