“I know my responsibility,” he snarled, and Noren sat back at the menace in his voice. Westley stood from the table. “You know what lengths I will go to for my people,” he spat. Anger filled him—anger at Noren, at himself, at the mortals, at the gods. He stormed out of the empty dining hall.
It was later than he thought, the drizzling rain making the dark night eerily quiet.
He stood for a moment, letting the water cool his skin, soothing his anger. He made it to his tent and got ready for bed. His movements methodical as he went through the motions.
His mind was everywhere but the present as he slid into his warm furs. Memories flashing from horror to horror, much as it did every night before sleep these days, ensuring he would not find the rest he so desperately craved.
North would tell him this was a sign he was growing a conscience, but he wasn’t so sure. It was more than regret for his actions—he’d lived with the weight of regret for centuries. Maybe it was the doubt. For the first time in his existence, he was doubting who he was and what his purpose should be.
Westley drifted off to a fitful sleep as the sounds of the rain grew heavier outside.
Screams echoed in his ears as he jolted awake. The daggers he slept with were already in hand as he leapt out of bed. He scanned for a threatinside his tent but spotted nothing. Had it been a dream? A nightmare? It wouldn’t have been the first time.
Silence greeted him as he strained to listen. Only the loud vibration of the rain pouring heavily on the canvas of his tent. He relaxed his fighting stance but couldn’t shake the feeling of terror coursing through him.
The screams had been so real—too real, like he’d heard them a hundred times before. He was about to set down his daggers when another wave of terror washed over him, nearly taking him under.
Before he’d even decided to move, he was sprinting out of his tent. He didn’t know where he was going—he just knew he had to getthere.
He jerked to a halt outside her tent, realizing he was barefoot and bare-chested, the loose pants he wore to sleep soaked through. It was probably a bad idea to barge into her tent in this state.
“Solveig?” he whispered. There was no answer. “Solveig?” he said louder, but still, there was nothing.
Before he could change his mind, her scream tore through him again. It was the oddest sensation. He couldn’t hear it, but he felt it in his bones. His blood hissed with it. Panic gripped him as he tore through the knots that held the front flaps closed, desperate to get to her as quickly as possible.
As soon as he entered the tent, he could not only feel the screams but hear them too. Did she have some kind of magic to block the sound? It would be pretty incredible if she had managed to get her hands on a Sound Stone.
His eyes flashed around the room but there was no physical danger.
In the middle of the large tent was Solveig’s bed. She thrashed among the furs and covers, her face glistening with sweat and tears, eyes wide with a terror she was not seeing in front of her. In half a second he was at her side, trying not to drip all over her bed.
“Solveig,” he whispered firmly, hoping her name would wake her. But she continued to flail, another ear-splitting shriek tearing out of her. With trembling fingers, he took hold of one of her hands, squeezing hard, a sharp jolt coursing through him as their skin met.
“Solveig!” he tried again, louder this time, but she still did not wake.
Consequences be damned, he got onto her bed, straddled her hips and gripped her shoulders hard. He ignored the living current of magic flowing between them.
He yelled her name.
Somethingheavyweighedherbody down and water dripped on her face. Her magic flared to life before she heard someone calling her name. That wasn’t right. They didn’t know her name in the cave.
Panic seized her.
Did they find out? Had she said something without meaning to? She struggled against the irons that held her shoulders and arms in place.
Drip, drip, drip.
Cool water splashed on her face as she heard the voice call to her again. She knew that voice.
“You’re safe. I have you.”
She blinked rapidly and her vision cleared. Her tent. She was in her tent.
Drip, drip, drip.
As her eyes adjusted, terror struck again. A dark form with a shadowed face she couldn’t makeout hovered over her.
Fear. Fear was here. He was in her tent, holding her down. She was about to scream when the voice spoke again.
