“That's funny because I haven't been in this pool in,” he says and pauses, “over a year.”
I glance over at him again, and he's still staring at me.
I look away quickly and lift my legs up, watching the water drip off them and back into the pool. "So," I say, "now what?"
"What do you mean?"
I swallow. My throat feels thick. "I know you can't keep me locked up forever. I know you'll have to get rid of me eventually. And my father. So I want to know my fate."
Callum's posture shifts, subtle. He pushes off the pillar and takes a step closer, stopping several feet away. Close enough that I can see the pool lights reflecting off his green eyes.
"Who says I have to get rid of you?" he asks.
I shrug. "I don't know. I thought I wasn't worth saving."
"Do you really feel that way?" he asks, stepping forward slightly. "That you're not worth it?"
"Yeah." I stare down at the water. "I've been told since I was thirteen that I'm only worthy to serve the Order and my dad's bidding. So..."
I trail off and welcome the silence.
"That night my father was killed," Callum says in a low tone. "You said you waited in the hall. Why did you even go? What changed?"
I swallow hard. My hand moves to my left arm. I push up the sleeve, revealing the thin, precise burn running along my forearm. A single line, barely healed.
"This," I say quietly.
He steps closer and crouches beside me, his hand reaching out. His fingers wrap around my wrist, gentle but firm, tilting my arm toward the pool light.
"What is that?" he asks, his voice deep.
I look at his fingers on my skin. They're warm.
"A feather burn," I say. "Or the start of one."
"What?"
"When you disobey, you're marked with the Morrígan's calling. A feather. It's basically a thin wire they heat over fire and press into your skin. They make the shape of a feather."
"God," he breathes.
"It fucking hurts," I say with a humorless laugh, pulling my arm away and tugging my sleeve back down. "So I went."
He looks at me, and I say what I've been thinking the past few days because I need him to know.
"You know, Callum," I say softly, looking up at him, "I am truly sorry about your dad."
"Yeah," he says, standing. "We buried him yesterday."
"Oh."
I don't say anything else. What could I say?I'm sorry the Order killed him? I'm sorry my father orchestrated it? I'm sorry I didn't stop it?
None of it would matter. And even though we're so close we're worlds apart.
I sit in silence, staring down at the water. The ripples fade. The pool grows still.
"You know," I say finally, "we have something in common."
