“I still wish you’d listened to me that day…” Pyetar turned onto his back, gazing up at the stars. “Stayed at your post. But knowing you like I do now… there was no chance.”
“No, there wasn’t.” She turned her own gaze to the stars too. “Ireallydon’t like it when you tell me what to do.”
He chuckled, the sound deep and wonderful, and she turned to look at him. Pyetar rolled his eyes at her. His lips were a wide grin, his eyes sparkling.
It took her breath away. She wanted to curl into his warmth, his broad chest against her, his muscles around her. Wanted to run her fingers along his head, through the short brown hair. Wanted to kiss him again.
Pyetar seemed to realize that, his smile slowly fading. The moonlight dancing in his eyes turned serious. Raw.
“We should get some sleep,” he said.
Iryana nodded.
She waited for his breathing to slow, and then she scooted closer toward the tree.
Loose fist pressed to the tree, Iryana tried to form her metal-forged dagger. The magic pulled at her, fought her command. Flickers of it formed in her palm and then flickered away just as easily. She strained and focused, panting, until finally the dagger formed, blade embedded in the tree.
Shaking slightly from the exertion and panting heavily, Iryana ripped the blade out.
It got a little easier every time, but it was so slow and required so much concentration that she worried it would never really help. Practicing drained her so entirely that it was dangerous to do out in the woods where she might need her forgings at a moment’s notice. But she worried that if she did not try, she wouldn’t be ready.
That at some point, the only thing between her and death would be that little trick.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Iryana and Pyetar were led to a small meeting room. What little she’d seen of the fortress while being rushed through was surprisingly nice. It felt more like a small city than a militant outpost. When they’d made contact at the gate, Pyetar had explained the need for secrecy and requested a private audience with the Majors. This was apparently where the North and South River Brigades had elected as the base for their alliance.
Taking a moment to stretch out from their days-long hike, Iryana watched Pyetar. He was tenser than she would have expected, even though the soldiers had recognized him and easily agreed to bring them in. He knew these people, knew they were not fans of Karvek, but something was still bothering him.
The room was small, more of a sitting room than anything: a few worn benches and old stone walls.
Pyetar stared at her for a moment, his perpetually drowsy-looking eyes accompanied by tugged-together brows. Then, instead of planning for the meeting they were about to have, he continued the conversation they’d been having before arriving.
“So, being Third means you’re going to take over your family after your grandmother? Since the Second has passed?”
Iryana nodded. Admitting it still caused a current of anxiety that felt akin to bugs swarming her skin.
His eyes flicked to her. “There are a lot of things you’ve held yourself back from. Like your sisters.”
Like you,she thought with a spark of pain.
“You might enjoy giving into them now,” he added.
Her lips parted. It felt like he was watching her even more closely. Was he just talking about her sisters? Her family? Or was he talking about—him?
He’d said he wanted to leave the 18th, live somewhere else. He’d tried to join a settlement once… maybe he’d join hers.
Iryana shook her head slightly. No, he had said nothing about forgiving her, about still feeling… anything for her. He’d had plenty of opportunities. But then his gaze dropped to her mouth.
“They will see you now.” The voice made them both jump and pull away from each other.
She wanted to finish that moment, to demand Pyetar explain what he was thinking, but she would have to worry about that later.
The young soldier led them through a hall—not unlike Karvek’s manor back at Myura River Fort—and into an adjoining private dining room. It looked half put-together, like they had moved in but hadn’t finished yet. The table was delicately constructed; the chairs were fine and close together. It wasn’t a space meant to emanate power; it felt intimate. Even the warmth in the oranges and browns of the rug and the soft red botanical-covered fabric that covered the walls made Iryana want to relax.
The two heirs of the North and South River brigades sat next to each other on the other side of the table.
“Majors,” Pyetar greeted warmly.
