Her eyes widened almost imperceptibly, lips parting in silent questioning.
“In the future,” he clarified. “You looked . . . ” Dominic trailed off, brows furrowing deeply as he tried to piece together the information the Whisperer had shown him. “Pale, weak. Like you were sick,” he said with a frown. He didn’t know what to make of the future with Adara, but since the first day she came to Andreilia, she’d never looked so fragile, so horrified as she had in that vision. “You seemed scared.”
Adara stilled, muscles going taut as she twirled that ring around her finger. She blinked once, clearing away any trepidation that flickered in her eyes.
She knew something. Something she clearly wanted to keep hidden.
Then she continued, as if there was nothing to worry about. “What else happened?” she asked, her tone even and calm.
Dom, I don’t want—Her sobs echoed in his mind. The image of her helplessly stumbling into his arms replayed in his head.Dom.She’d never called him that. He should be worried about what she was about to say, but for a second, he fixated on the adoration she’d said that nickname with.
“Nothing,” he replied. “The Whisperer cut the image off and tried to kill me before I could see anything important.”
The muscles in her jaw ticked as she bit the inside of her cheek, looking anywhere but at him.
“Do you know what could have caused you to look so weak?” To look like she was on the brink of death.
Her eyes flicked to the dagger sheathed in the vambrace on her arm. Perhaps a comfort to remind her she was never without a weapon—never weak. She shook her head. “No,” she said softly. Her features pulled into a frown, eyes downcast as she picked at the dried blood beneath her nails. “No,” she repeated, voice filled with something Dominic could only believe to be despair. “Let’s hope that it’s not as bad as what it showed you.”
Indeed, the Whisperer could have only shown him one small piece of information that made the situation appear worse than it was. After all, the image had been ripped away before he could tell what was happening. All could turn out to be fine.
At least that was what he kept telling himself after Adara retired to her room to get some rest, and he made his way to the captain’s quarters. Through the porthole, the sky seemed depthless tonight, a void of impenetrable darkness. A reminder of what he needed to be.
The sea crashed against the ship, restless and angry, as if the monsters had awoken determined to rage at his cracked composure. He never should have told Adara anything, never should have thought about her in any way that didn’t involve plotting her demise. He should not still be ruminating over that vision.
The Plagued Sea rumbled beneath the boat, rocking it, as if some great beast lurked right beneath the hull, poised to devourthem. The creature was steady, constant, pounding against the bottom of the ship, allowing more time between each strike. Like a beating heart—slower and slower until death finally ceased it. Dominic wondered what monstrous thing had consumed his heart after he tossed it into the Plagued Sea. Wondered if it had enjoyed the taste of his rotten heart and had come back for more.
Or perhaps it was merely reminding him of why he’d gotten rid of his heart in the first place.
Chapter 18
SapphireflamestwirledaroundAdara’s fingers. She studied the scars that marred her uncovered hands. She’d indeed come extremely far since the early days in her training when the flames would either dwindle to ash and smoke, or rage until they became a furious inferno.
In her defense, she’d had no one to properly teach her. A few minuscule things she’d learned from her father—useless summonings that hardly passed as a party trick—but other than that, she’d been far too young to try anything more difficult than wielding a simple flame. Sure, he’d informed her of theknowledge she needed to understand what being a Flamecarrier meant, but that was nothing compared to actually manipulating the fire. The rest she’d had to learn on her own. Hence, the mangled skin on her hands. A mistake she had made and learned through failure.
Adara stared at the fire in her palm. A writhing, dangerous thing that lay just beneath her skin. The flames morphed into a firebird. Its wings spread wide, prepared to take flight in one mighty beat—
A thud sounded from within the confines of the storage room, somewhere behind the crates stacked near the back. The fire in her palm flared as she startled at the sound, and she drew the knife from her vambrace. Cautiously, she rose from her bedroll, her magic illuminating the room. She approached on silent feet, peering behind a stack of crates. A figure moved in the shadows, and Adara lunged, tackling them to the floor. A sharp pain shot through her arm, her wound from the Whisperer still slowly mending itself together, but she ignored it.
The intruder violently thrashed beneath Adara. He looked about the age of eighteen. Gold earrings glinted beneath his disheveled dark brown hair, strands of it draped over his forehead. His eyes were wide with fear, darting between her weapon and her flames. Beads of sweat rolled down his sepia skin. With his back to the floor and a dagger pinned at his neck, Adara had to keep angling it away so he wouldn’t slice his own throat along her blade with each writhing movement.
His muffled voice sent vibrations through her palm covering his mouth.
“Shut up,” she whispered with a scowl. She wasn’t even sure he understood the Malrynese she spoke, given that he was clearly Enfiderian and must have snuck onto their ship in Gierok. “I’m trying to save your gods damn life,” she muttered.
Dominic would have the boy killed on sight, simply for daring to sneak onto their ship. Adara wasn’t sure why she was giving this stranger the chance to explain himself, but something tugged at her to put her blade away. An invisible force urging her that he was of no harm.
She had, in fact, effortlessly tackled him to the ground despite him being a foot taller and broad with muscle. She was the one who had him at knife-point and magic coursing through her veins. How much harm could he possibly do?
“I’m going to remove my hand now,” Adara informed him quietly. She listened closely. The ship was silent, the Andreilians presumably still asleep for the night. “Stay quiet.” Slowly, she removed her hand from his mouth, retracting her dagger from his throat as well. Rising to full height and sheathing her dagger in her vambrace, Adara outstretched a hand to the boy. His fearful eyes tracked her every move, then settled on her hand. Carefully, he reached out to grasp hers. Adara pulled him to his feet.
“Thanks,” he murmured, unsure of himself, a thick accent evident in his Malrynese words. She was glad he spoke multiple languages because she didn’t know a lick of Enfiderian.
Adara stood with a hand on her hip, palming the knife in her belt. “Do you know whose ship you just snuck onto?” she asked, fingers drumming along the hilt.
Firelight danced over the sharp angles of his jaw and cheekbones. His throat worked as he contemplated his answer. “Yes,” he breathed. “You’re sailing to Andreilia.”
“Then you know they’ll kill you when they find you.”
