“Are you all right?” I asked, turning her until she faced me, so I could study her fully.
She laughed, the sound disbelieving though there was no true bite to it. “You should be asking his mother that. Certainly not me.”
“It’s late,” I told her quietly. “Let me take you back to the hatchery.”
“No,” she said immediately, shaking her head. “I don’t want to go back there. Not right now.”
If she wouldn’t go back to the hatchery, then I would take her to my dwelling. But it would do us no good to be standing outside for the rest of the night. I pressed my hand to the small of her back. She felt cold, so different than how brightly she’d burned in the mountain.
“Come,” I told her softly.
“Not the hatchery,” she pleaded, looking up at me with panic I didn’t understand. “Please.”
“I heard you,” I assured her and then ushered her forward. She fell into step beside me as I wound us around the village, which was thankfully empty this far back, away from where most were gathered at the base.
We said nothing along the way, not even when she saw my dwelling come into view, its darkened windows and smokeless chimney looking uninviting. She didn’t say a word. Only climbed the short set of stairs as I shouldered open the front door.
Once we were both inside and I had the door bolted, she lingered inside the entryway, her head down, as I went to light the hearth and a few tapered wax candles for light.
“Why didn’t you want to go back to the hatchery?” I foundmyself asking once a soft bloom of golden light had chased away the colder shadows in the main room.
I gestured to the lounge area, which was much the same as since she’d been there before, and after she toed off her boots gingerly, she shuffled forward. She nestled herself down into the pillows, sitting on the ground, curling her legs beneath her.
“It’s too quiet at night,” she told me, her eyes pinned on an old snag in the rug. “I can’t stand it. Because it reminds me that I’m not home.”
I felt a sizzle of worry dart through my belly. Because if I had any say in the matter, she might never go home again.
But that was a dangerous thought. I shook off my protective riding vest, made of hatchling scales, hanging it up by the door. Then I went to join her. Though I desperately wanted sleep, I knew it wouldn’t come. Not after tonight. Not with what I knew loomed at dawn.
“I’ve been around people my entire life. My family, our friends. I’ve hardly been alone. And so, when I feel like this, it becomes more difficult to face that Iamalone here. Very alone,” she admitted, picking at a stray thread in the pillow. I listened to her speak, wondering what growing up in a family unit like that would be like. My own upbringing couldn’t have been more opposite.
Then she took in a steady breath and met my eyes head-on. “I know I didn’t kill him, Alaryk. But I’m the reason he’s not alive. I don’t know how to come to terms with that.”
“Amaia,” I said, my tone edging on warning. “You know this isnotyour fault.”
“When I have the ability to heal and I choose not to…then that certainly feels like my fault.”
“You’re not agod, Amaia,” I growled, catching and holding her eyes so she would understand. “You don’t get to choose who lives and who dies.”
Her lips parted, her eyes widening. “I didn’t say that. Only that therehadbeen a choice and I’d chosen to do nothing.”
“People die every day,” I said simply, knowing the words might sound callous and cold, given the circumstances. “In Karak, in Harta, in Dakkar. Are you responsible for their deaths too?”
“Of course not,” she said. “But he wasright there. For how long did he suffer? While Iwaited?” she spat, self-loathing evident in her tone.
“Do you want me to tell you that you’re a terrible person?” I asked, eyes narrowing on her. “That this is all your fault? So you can feel worse about a situation that was not your doing?”
“Of course not,” she whispered, eyes pained.
“Enough, then,” I said. “I don’t have patience for victimhood.”
She looked stricken by the words, staring at me wordlessly across the cushions. If I had to be cruel to make her see reason, then I would be. “I’m not…I’m not…”
“Don’t make his death about you,” I told her simply. “It’s not about you. Do you understand? Youcould’vehelped him. Just like Icould’vebeen here. Myzallacould’vestopped the assault earlier. But she let them fight, thinking it would get their pent-up aggression out. But ultimately…Ryak, and Ryak alone, could’ve stopped. And he didn’t. He’s a trained guardsman. A trained soldier, a warrior. You think he doesn’t know his own strength? He intended to harm, to kill…and he did. It’s as simple as that. The only question iswhy.”
Amaia flinched, but I thought that maybe the raw honesty of the words would prick her, make her see reason.
“Do you think I feel guilty?” I asked her.
