She ignores the jab. “You think your worth is tied to your magic.”
“No.” I shake my head. “I know my worth is tied to my magic. You lived in Crestfall long enough. What else is there for a kid in the city? You’re either noble or—”
“Poor,” she says.
“Rotten,” I correct. “Warlocks cleanse the city, and they need magic to do it.”
“Could’ve fooled me. Last I was there, six separate gangs dominated the streets.”
It’s my turn to glare at her. “We are under a strict jurisdiction. We cannot fly around burning down headquarters and blowing up drug dealers at random.”
“Really, Arion? Remember the Greenwood Isles?”
“I’d rather not.”
A pause. The weight of what we’ve done crushes both our chests. Zephyra picks at the hem of her shirt with a solemn frown. “Do you think anyone survived?”
“No.”
She shudders, and her torment thickens the silver cord. I wish I could ask how someone who seemingly endured so much, wrought so much chaos herself, could still be this soft at heart. How can the merrow thief who threw me on my ass be the same woman in front of me whose heart splinters from the destruction of an island that wanted her dead?
“The only people responsible for death are the ones who deal the killing blow. We didn’t hurt them. Yes, I decimated their isle, but I made certain my magic didn’t harm its people. Cultus Mortis bears sole responsibility for the lives lost. You, however, do not.” Thethought turns my stomach enough that I stand, my wings stretching as I offer her a hand. “Come on. We should sleep.”
She hesitates, staring at my palm but not accepting it. Not moving. “There was a moment. When we realized the library was gone and the earth was dead and the mob was forming… if they attacked us, I would have fought them. I would have killed them. That bears some responsibility, doesn’t it? If it hadn’t been the cult, it would’ve been us.Me.” She glances up then, shadows haunting her gaze, and searches my face for an answer.No—for reassurance. I don’t withdraw my hand. “I feel like I keep running and running, but it’s never toward anything. It’s always away. Away from the world. Away from death. Away from myself. But ‘away’ isn’t a direction. It’s circles. I’m sprinting through the same mistakes and history keeps repeating and time doesn’t stop. I’m getting older, and life isn’t any better than when I started running. I don’t want to be the person I am. I don’t want people to die because of me. But I’ve been running for so long… I don’t know how to quit.”
I don’t know how to quit.
“I understand.” I’ve spent my life running. Though it feels less like circles and more as if the finish line keeps edging just out of view. I have to hope one day I’ll reach it.
If we work together, maybe we’ll survive this.
Maybe we will.
She takes my hand, and I help her to her feet. For now, we’ll work together. We’ll plot a course to the Sol, deal with monsters and cultists and Gavriall, and find Abysses. Find Mortem’s heart. Everything else doesn’t matter.
Just her. Just me. Just surviving.
Her fingers twitch against mine, and I stare at where our palms connect. Her golden skin seems so bright against my own, like sunlight kissing a distant shore, her hand smaller. So much smaller. In the days I’ve known her, she’s been a criminal. A lecherous merrow. A woman on the run. But now—
Now, she has never felt more like Zephyra.
“Arion,” she murmurs.
My gaze slides to hers. “Yes, Zephyra?”
“We should go to bed.” She worries her lower lip between her teeth, and,fuck, it almost undoes me. Black swallows the turquoise of her eyes as molten heat ignites through the cord. The tunnel seems to shrink, walls closing in around us, narrowing the entire universe to this—to her. Pink hair. Soft skin. Beautiful.Breathtaking.She exhales. A laugh? A sigh? “Separately,” she adds. “Go to bed separately.”
“I understood.”
“You’re not moving.”
“You’re not moving,” I counter.
Her gaze drops to our hands, to my thumb reflexively stroking the inside of her palm. She shivers. “That feels good.”
The words banish any other thought from my mind. I don’t remember what the fuck we were talking about before. My pulse roars. It sounds like,That feels good. That feels good. That feels good.
“Yeah?” I move my other fingers down, toward her wrist, raking them back up with a rougher touch.
