“It’s cold on that side of the camp.”
I eyed the hem of his blanket, where it rested halfway down his torso. He didn’t even wear his cloak, donning only his thick tunic and leathers. “You’re clearly not cold,” I pointed out.
He tilted his head. “Are you trying to tell me how I feel?”
“I’m not trying. I’m telling,PrincepsHarthon.”
The corner of his mouth kicked up. “I think you’re letting thismagvischarade go to your head.”
“And I think you’re having far too much fun irritating me at midnight. What do you want?”
“I want you to sleep.”
That wasn’t going to happen. “Talking to me isn’t helping me to sleep.”
“I didn’t start this conversation. You did,” he pointed out, and I rolled my eyes.
“Maybe I have no intention of sleeping.”
He searched my eyes as if he could see right into my thoughts. “You’re afraid to fall back into the dream.”
His soft statement had a denial racing to my lips. I staunched it, knowing he would see through the blatant lie. With Harthon, it was as if I were an open book, no matter how desperately I tried to close the cover.
Overcome with the urge to defend myself, I said, “Before all of this, I was never afraid, you know. My greatest concern was bringing home food to eat, and that was within my control. My nightmares were predictable. I handled everything just fine. And now…what you’ve seen of me is not who I am.”
“And what is it that you think I’ve seen of you?” he questioned.
Between my reaction after the kitchen fight to the countless timesI’d leaned on Harthon to save me or guide me through his world, to my fear from a silly dream—was it not obvious? “Fear. Weakness. Dependence. I’m out of my depths and haven’t handled it.” Admitting this was a weakness within itself, but I was too worn down to hold it in any longer.
“Before you told me how I felt. Are you now trying to tell me what I think?”
“Am I wrong?”
“I’ve seen resilience, strength, and an independence so stubborn it sometimes drives me mad. So, yes, you’re wrong.” My lips parted on a breath, but he continued, trapping my gaze with an unwavering sincerity that echoed in every word. “This was never your world, Etarla. It was nothing you ever planned for or expected, and you’re certainly not here by choice. You’ve handled it in a way that few ever could, and that’s because of who you are at your core. For that, I’m grateful.”
Each earnest word chipped at the disappointment and doubt that’d been an ever-present undercurrent ever since this all began. Whether I’d acknowledged it or not, it had always been there, weighing me down and weakening the confidence I’d once had in spades. My eyes became warm as my throat tightened, tears of relief, of exhaustion threatening to spill over and negate all of what Harthon just said. With the way he watched me, there would be no hiding them.
“It was the same nightmare I always have, but Koerlyn appeared,” I blurted, desperately seeking a distraction to stem the flow of water. “I guess it’s more of a memory than a dream, and I’ve had it so many times it doesn’t bother me anymore. But this time was different.”
“What usually happens in the memory?” he asked, curling his arm into a pillow and resting his head on it.
I supposed my arms would make for comfortable pillows, too, if they had such big muscles.
I drew in air, unsure of when it’d become okay for me to reveal this part of my past to the man before me. I’d only ever told Merelda of the haunting memory. Granted, she was the only person I was close to.
Harthon was silent as I hesitated, inviting my thoughts but not forcing them forward. It was encouragement enough. I could trust him with this. “When I was young, very young, my parents were killed. Raiders came to our village and slaughtered everyone, then burned our homes to the ground. I obviously survived.”
He grew still, lips compressing into a hard line as he waited for me to continue.
“I remember being inside our home. My parents were frantic. They tried to leave, but there was no escape, so they shoved me into an empty chest to hide me. I heard them die, and I opened the chest a crack to see the man who did it. That’s all I remember, and I dream of it regularly,” I said simply.
When Harthon spoke, his voice was as rugged as the ground beneath us. “Can you describe the man?”
“I only saw his back. He was big, his skin was tan, and he was naked above the waist. There was a strange scar on his back. It looked like a big spiral,” I answered, the murderer’s image clear as day in my mind.
Harthon’s face was too shadowed to see what flickered in his eyes, but I thought I saw a muscle in his jaw pop with tension. After a quiet moment, he said, “The person that you want to return home to is the person who raised you.”
There was no point in denying it, not now. From the moment I attempted to escape, Harthon had realized that there was someone important to me back home. He’d done nothing then. I knew with certainty that Harthon would not harm her to coerce me.
