Now is not the time to melt into a puddle of feelings. That he is able to speak this truth aloud… it is the greatest gift I could have received from someone I could not imagine being without.
“Can you stand?” I’m too exhausted to carry him, but if he’s able to use the wall for support, we can make it work.
“Wren, listen to me. Zephyrus cannot get his hands on you. Run. As far and as fast as you can. When this ends, I will find you. I swear it. But I need to know you’re safe.”
Calmly, I wipe the smeared dirt from his jaw, though I have never felt closer to hitting someone so dense. “Do you honestly believe I will abandon you, husband? Or perhaps that has been your plan all along.”
“Blast you, woman. Can’t you see how I love you? Is that not enough to fulfill my request?” He attempts to sit up, only for his expression to crumple in pain. The blacks of his eyes shine against his pale face. “Please. For my own sanity.”
I snatch my hand away, mouth agape. “You can’t say things like that when I’m trying to save your skin.” I wonder if he even means it. He is delirious. Likely suffering from extensive blood loss. “We’re not discussing this. Stand up. We’re leaving.” I tug on his arm.
“It’s a lovely sentiment, truly,” a voice drawls from the darkness, “but I’m afraid it’s too late for that, Wren.”
The West Wind peels away from the shadows. I have only ever seen him perfectly groomed, yet here, now, he looks as though someone took a switch to his face and enjoyed it.
Those boisterous curls hang sweaty and limp. A bruise grows like a blight on one cheekbone, his right eye swollen shut. As for his tunic, it’s slashed to ruin, the skin beneath scabbed and bloody.
I plant myself in front of my husband, despite Boreas’ slurred cursing, my hand wrapped around my dagger. If Zephyrus wants his brother, he’ll have to cut me down where I stand. My hands twitch, eager for the fight.
“You can change your mind,” I growl. “You can make the right choice. Let us leave unharmed. You’ve done enough damage this evening.”
I can’t believe I ever thought the West Wind pretty. He is ugly to the core. His heart is rotten, black. How could I not have seen it? I have been blind, so blind.
“It never had to come to this,” he replies. “I approached Boreas with a reasonable request. Had he agreed to banish the winter intruding on my lands, we would not find ourselves in this situation.”
“Doubtful. The selfish are never satisfied.”
Zephyrus shifts, fingers alighting casually on the dagger at his waist. Where is the bow he is never without? Perhaps his power has been depleted, and hinders him from calling upon the weapon. “Everything always came so easily to my brother. Boreas, the North Wind, the eldest of our father’s sons.” His teeth glow with a white luster. “Why should he not be punished for failing to take accountability for his actions?”
“So that gives you justification to ruin his life? He—” No. I will not describe the ways in which Boreas was destroyed by that loss. Zephyrus does not deserve an explanation, and he likely cares not. “You’re just a spoiled, petty, jealous prick. By the gods, I hope one day you experience the depth of his suffering. I hope it destroys you.”
He traces a finger over the hilt. “Charming.” But he appears unsettled by my tone.
“Let us go,” I say, “and I promise your realm will be restored to its former state.” As I talk, my mind races forward, sifting through possible solutions. How are we supposed to get past him? Maybe I shouldn’t have ordered Pallas and his men away. But I did not want their deaths on my hands.
“The time for reconciliation is past, I’m afraid.” He curls his hand around the knife hilt. “Hand over your spear, Boreas, and your wife will walk out of here with nary a scratch.”
“Don’t give it to him,” I snap, my gaze never straying from the West Wind.
Zephyrus ignores me. His focus remains on his brother, who lies prone at his feet. “What will it be? Is your power so important you would sacrifice your wife’s safety?”
“Don’t listen to him. I can protect myself.”
He appears saddened by my unwillingness to cooperate. “Then you have made your choice.”
A green vine lashes out, wraps around my throat, and snaps me back against the wall.
Boreas roars, struggling into a seated position. His face whitens from the motion, and he sways, flopping onto his back, panting. The talons at his broken fingertips lengthen and curl. As he weakens, the darkwalker within begins to manifest.
The West Wind watches his struggles stonily. “It is your spear or your wife’s life. Choose, or I will do it for you.”
“You’re despicable,” I spit. Hot, furious tears cloud my vision. It would be the cruelest irony to die after having discovered a life worth living.
“Wait.”
A shallow hiss from where Boreas lies on the ground.
Something begins to take shape on his chest: a smooth wooden haft tipped in stone.
