“Thank the gods,” he cries, no doubt waking everyone in the camp. “Do you hear me, oh Ancient Ones? You brought her back to me! And I thank you!”
An uncertain smile forces its way across my lips. I’ve missed Finn. Worried about him. Felt so much guilt. Now he’s here, alive and whole. Yet no matter what I envision, I can’t see any scenario in which this ends well.
When I look down, Finn kisses me like we’re the only two people in the wood. It’s a cold shock, Finn’s taste mingling with the memory of another man’s kiss.
Breathless, we break apart. I’m dazed, but not so rattled that I don’t notice the optimism on Finn’s face as he sets me on my feet. I can’t remember a time when this kind of light radiated from him.
This kind of hope.
He cradles my face. “How?” He strokes his thumbs over the marks along my jawline and down the column of my throat. “How do you have these marks? And how in the gods’ names are you here?” The amber flecks in his deep brown eyes glint in the morning sunlight, but there are thankfully no tears. He’s too happy.
I can’t decide which is worse.
“I don’t even care,” he laughs, still caressing my skin. “The marks only make you more beautiful. And who am I to question the gods about why they spared you? I’m only grateful they did. So grateful, Raina.” He kisses me again, short and sweet, before continuing. “There are survivors. Twenty-three, including my father and the hunters. We’ve been camped near the loch for the last week. It’s only a day’s ride from here.”
I smile and nod, unsure how I’m going to explain that I’ve watched them in the waters for a long while. I haven’t been able to discern how many there were, and though I wish there were hundreds more, I’m glad not everyone was lost as I’d believed.
Taking a steadying breath, I grip Finn’s wrists, anchoring myself. Words swirl inside my head, but like him, I allow myself a few moments to just be thankful he’s here. There were a thousand and one ways I could be mourning him right now instead of feeling his pulse thrumming against my fingertips.
But that’s not all I feel. My rune warms, throbbing with heat, and a surge of power beats the air, followed by the buzz of static on my skin.
Agitation travels along the bond, a steady, rhythmic vibration, like the well-timed plucking of an instrument’s strings. As though sensing it too, Finn lifts his head, and his elated smile falls.
A mask of contempt slams down over his face, and with his nostrils flared, his entire body tenses, primed for action.
Primed for a fight.
He drops his hands from my face and touches the curve of his bow. “What in the fucking Nether Reaches are you doing here?”
It takes a heartbeat for me to turn and move in front of my friend, arms outstretched in a protective stance.
Joran stands in the middle of camp, crossbow raised, loaded, and aimed. Wisps of silver hair dance around his face in the morning wind, but that heavy-lidded stare is locked on us, sure as his bolt. The belt of knives that normally hangs from the waist of his dark gray britches is missing, as is his sweater and the leather vambrace that rarely leaves his forearm. This morning is the first time I’ve seen this much of him, and the soft azure marks that cover his water witch’s skin.
Behind Joran looms Rhonin. His auburn hair whips around his head, and his shirt plasters his torso. He looks disoriented. Startled. But an arrow still sits nocked in his short bow, his shoulders tucked and rounded with tension.
A few other witches from Winterhold dot the campsite—Callan, Keth, Jaega. They’re half asleep, but they each hold a weapon.
Finn’s question wasn’t directed at any of them, though.
It was directed at Alexus.
He stands a few steps away at the edge of his tent, panting plumes of cold air. A shaft of first light pierces the treetops and glints off the razor-sharp sword laid over his forearm. He rolls his shoulders, muscles bunching and flexing, but after a long and weighted moment, he relaxes from his fighting stance.
His britches are untied and hanging loose at his hips, and he’s still shirtless, the scars of his many runes and the fresh, pink scratch marks from my fingernails on display in the rising light.
“Thibault!” Joran draws out the end of Alexus’s chosen name, waiting for orders.
“Raina,” Alexus says, but he keeps his gaze trained on Finn.
I hear a dozen unspoken questions in that single word.
“Tell them to stand down,” I sign. “This is Finn.”
I’m unsure why I announce that last part. It’s clear he’s already pieced together who our visitor is, or he never would’ve lowered his sword.
“It’s all right.” Alexus stabs the point of his blade into the ground. “It’s Helena’s brother.”
The others lower their weapons. Joran too. I look straight at Rhonin, jerk my chin toward Nephele’s tent, and sign Hel’s name. He heads that way, understanding my desire that he wake my friend. Already, I can feel a strain in the air, one I need her to help erase.
