Brela didn’t want to be forced to choose, because she knew the choice she’d make every time. She would rather face torture and death than see her family suffer, which is why she never wanted them to get involved in the first place.
Cason leaned against their packs in Vuln, staring up at the night sky as he flexed his fingers. As if his spinning emotions weren’t enough to make him sick, the proximity to the Veil wall was just another torture. The flickering embers and spitting lightning inside him felt like ghost limbs, his senses a dull throb in his head.
Is this what hellthorn felt like to the shadow-cursed?
Shadow-kind, he reminded himself. It still left a bad taste in his mouth, but he owed Brela that respect. It was the honorable thing to call them, right? Isn’t honor what he was trying to cling to? Isn’t that what kept him from slipping over that ledge into the all-consuming disgust and hate his father possessed?
At least he was prepared for this dulled feeling. Maybe that’s how the armies from Rooke and Anfroy were able to destroy cities this close to the wall. Expose themselves over time to the wall or Veil shards, get used to the feeling of a weakened magic, and then use numbers to topple buildings and villages and homes.
Brela, on the other hand, seemed more invigorated the closer they got to the wall. He assumed it had something to do with the shard in her collarbone, like calling to like. He supposed that her increased energy was a good thing, considering they were standing in the ruins of her kingdom. The alternative was a repeat of Calcheth or the shadow temple.
She’d left Cason an hour ago to dig through some of the rubble, but he knew she never made it that far. Instead, he’d caught her facing the wall, hands and feet prancing about like she’d done at the castle in Severina when she was a prisoner. He’d assumed she was communicatingsomethingto her friends then, but who could she be communicating with out here?
Not that he’d ask when he was spying on her. She didn’t seem to realize he was watching her, or maybe she didn’t care, but Cason was mesmerized. Every movement looked like it was part of a complicated dance, yet it also looked like she was making it up as she went. Pausing every once in a while, tilting her head to listen to the silent wind, and then moving again. It was beautiful.
Shewas beautiful, wearing one of his silver shirts that seemed to glitter in the moonlight, pants tight enough to show off her muscular legs as they flexed with each twirling movement. And, gods, that long, white-blonde braid whipping behind her as she spun in circles was hypnotizing.
All of it. A deadly, powerful, stunning weapon. Woman.
Cason was utterly destroyed and remade by her ferocity and free spirit.
I love you.
The words had once again died before they ever reached his lungs, so here he was, staring up at the stars in the sky, willing his heart to stop pounding against his ribcage. Echoing louder as he heard her skipping back to their camp.
One. Two.
Brela let out a soft squeal as she slid on the grass and nearly crashed into him. “Cason,look,” she gasped, nearly breathless.
FiveSixSevenEightNine.
Four hells, he was countingherheartbeats, not his.
He blinked at her, and forgot what number he was on. The smile on her face made the stars seem like the most inconsequential things in existence. Her skin glistened with a thin layer of sweat from her dancing, making her actually shimmer with starlight. And her pale-blue eyes were more dazzling than anything he’d ever seen.
Unaware of him being absolutely dumbstruck, Brela shoved her hands at his face. “Look.”
Cason studied the dozens of round berries that stained her palms a purplish-red. He cleared his throat. “I don’t know what I’m looking at.”
Her jaw dropped. “What? You’ve never had louze before?” She impatiently tapped his hand, dumping a few berries onto his open palm. “They are myfavoritethings in the entire world.”
Cason could only stare as she shoveled the remaining louze into her mouth and let out a soft moan.
She swallowed and met his gaze, raising her brow. “What?”
“Your tongue is purple.”
She only stuck that tongue toward him, grinned wider, and shoved his hands closer to his mouth. “I know, nowtry one. They’re like cherries, but a million times better.”
Bouncing on her knees, Brela followed every movement Cason made with giddy impatience as he chewed and swallowed the small fruit.
“Four hells, it is good.” He looked down at his palm in surprise, eating another. “They’re like sweet cherries without the pit. I expected it to be tart.”
“I told you they were better,” she purred, stealing one back and popping it into her mouth. “Too bad you can’t try them in a pie. I’d be so fat if Farrah got her hands on these, assuming they even made it to the pie before I ate them all.”
Brela pushed off her knees as soon as Cason was done eating, dragging him with her.
“What are we doing?” he asked, tripping over their packs as she continued to pull him behind her.
