She paused in the doorway of her room, staring at her familiar things, the bed—still unmade from waking earlier that day. The trunk left open. Clothes strewn about… All Eira wanted to do was curl under the silken bedding they’d been gifted from the draconi and pretend to not exist for a while. To sleep for a month and hopefully wake and discover this was nothing more than a nightmare.
“Are the journals not here?” Ducot asked, hovering uncertainly.
“No, they are.” Eira moved to her chest. “Everything is just as I left it. It’s a bit surreal to see.”
“I’m surprised they haven’t ransacked Champion Village yet.” He leaned against the doorframe, looking neither at her nor down the hall. She was certain his magic was pulsing across the house, keeping watch for any Pillars who might approach, even if she couldn’t feel it.
“It’s not like we have much here. None of us could bring too many things with us.”
“Yes, butyourthings are still here. And, for whatever reason, you are one of Ulvarth’s least favorite people.”
“Don’t remind me,” Eira murmured. An idea had struck her halfway through unloading her suitcase. She stood, squeezing past Ducot and heading for Alyss’s room.
“What’re you?—”
“This will only take me an extra minute.”
Alyss had a trunk and a large bag that she kept everything in. Eira dumped out the contents of the latter, quickly picking through for Alyss’s essentials. Just as she was about to leave the room, she ran back and rummaged through the chest, grabbing the journal Alyss had procured in the market—the one she’d begun scribbling a story of her own into. Her friend would prefer that over a fresh pair of trousers any day.
Noelle was next. Eira grabbed a few changes of clothes, stuffing them in the bag, but focused on returning sparkling pieces of jewelry to a velvet satchel. Noelle had mentioned on the first day of the tournament that she had been wearing her family’s jewels. Either they were sentimental objects, and Noelle would be grateful for them, or they could be used to barter with the pirates. Noelle was as pragmatic as she was focused on honoring her heritage.
Back in her room, Eira added only one change of clothes. She quickly stripped down, changing into her other, most practical outfit.
“Are you…undressing?” Ducot asked uncomfortably.
“First off, I didn’t take you to be one to concern yourself with modesty.” Eira slipped on a fresh tunic.
“I… You’re right,” he admitted with a slight grin.
“Secondly, it’s not like you can see me, nor are you touching me to find out what’s there.” Exhaustion might be in her bones right now. But the Lightspinning had healed the worst of her injuries. The dip in the river had washed away most of the blood and the walk shook off most of the muck from the river. With a fresh change of clothes, she feltalmostlike a new person. Enough so to make it back to Adela’s boat, at least.
“The idea of touching you in that manner is possibly the most unappealing thing I’ve ever heard.”
“You wound me. Though, the feeling is mutual.” Eira paused after stuffing the last of the journals into the bag. The dagger that Ulvarth had given her at the start of the tournament was still at the bottom of her trunk—the one that looked identical to the weapon she’d plunged through Ferro’s chest at the ball.
Without a second thought, Eira grabbed it and slipped it through one of her belt loops. She might not have her magic, but now she hadsomethingshe could defend herself with. And Eira had trained with ice daggers enough to understand the fundamentals…even if she’d have to adjust to not having other magic to supplement her attacks.
“Do you have the journals?”
“Yes.” Eira adjusted the strap of the bag to go across her body. It was growing heavy, but there was a little room left. “One more stop.”
“What?”
“I want to grab a few things for Cullen.” Eira made haste down the stairs, turning into the hall and entering Cullen’s room without hesitation. Ducot followed, closing the door behind them for good measure.
“We really shouldn’t linger.”
“I know.” Eira went right for his trunk. “But a few supplies aren’t going to hurt and we’re already here.”
Cullen’s clothes and effects were as orderly as she would expect them to be. Everything was neatly folded with not one article out of place. He kept his trunk like the rest of his life, and that brought a somewhat sad smile to her face. She didn’t see shirts or trousers; she saw all the different little pieces ofhimin their neat and tidy spots. There was nowhere anything extra could be added. Not a shirt into his trunk. Not her into his life.
The idea was a serene sorrow. One she had begun to accept and yet, some part of her still held out hope the world might have had a different design for them. As if she still wasn’t ready to let him go. Perhaps it was because she knew part of him had never let go. Her fingers tingled with the phantom sensations of air currents tangling with them. She could still feel the warmth of his forehead as he pressed it against hers, trying with all his might not to kiss her. See life leaving his eyes as he told her he loved her with what might be his last breaths.
Shaking the memories, she continued packing. Eira knew, without hesitation, what he would want for clothes. Without consciously doing so, she’d paid attention to all his favorite outfits. Or perhaps she was selecting the things she thought he looked best in, and might need.
Eira’s hand brushed against something cool and round. There, as if placed on a satin pillow made from a shirt, was the metal ball they’d practiced with for hours on end. She could see the outline of them sitting together—him against the wall and her against the foot of his bed.
Those days had been the first time she had thought they could make peace. The first time her heart hadn’t felt like it was going to beat so hard it would rip in half around him. That was when she still held the notion that, perhaps, they could find a friendship in the aftermath of all the rushed and messy emotions their love had blossomed from.
