He shook his head and tried to clear it as a prickling cold sweat broke out on his back. Darkness crept around the edges of his vision, his ears began to ring and he stumbled, reaching blindly backward for some kind of support and almost falling when there was none.
“Hey, I’m sorry. Hell.” Tristan grabbed his arm and steadied him. “Rafe, a little help here.”
Val dropped his head and rubbed the thumb of his free hand along his forehead. He needed to think. But it was so difficult with his head pounding in time with the buzzing in his ears.
Rafe took hold of his arm, and the darkness faded as a wave of grounding warmth spread over him.
Fuck it all. He wasn’t going to collapse. Not in front of these men. Men he’d once thought of as brothers. But no longer, not now that he knew the truth of just how shallow their loyalty was. Not in front of anyone.
Tristan held out a pair of soft leather breeches and a cotton shirt. “Here, put these on and then come and eat something.”
“No, I—”
“How will it help if you pass out on the way?” Rafe narrowed his purple-blue eyes.
Val tried to think of when last he’d eaten anything and came up blank. Occasionally he’d been given food and water, just enough to keep him alive. But when last? It had all become a blur of agony and fear for Alanna, and then horror that Nim was there.
And now, after everything, he was going to lose Alanna anyway.
They’re going to hang your princess.
“Fine,” he grumbled, hearing the dry rasp of his voice, and turned to the back of the tent to pull the breeches on with some vague privacy. “I’ll eat and then I’ll go.”
He gritted his teeth and slowly threaded his arms through the sleeves of the loose shirt. It clearly belonged to Jos or Garet, one of the Mabin soldiers, designed with openings at the back for his aching wings. But it still scraped agonizingly along the half-healed gashes, while the buttons at the front tugged on the bandages covering his chest and abdomen, inflaming the raw cuts and burns beneath them.
“Listen, Val….”
He turned, still doing up the last torturous button, to see Tristan, the man who had been his best friend, standing alone in the tent.
Tristan folded his arms over his chest, highlighting the green and pewter scales flickering up to his neck. His face was solemn. “I want to apologize—”
Val shook his head carefully, not wanting to add to the throbbing pain behind his eyes, and looked away. He didn’t want or need an apology.
He had expected so much more from his friend. He had kept Tristan out of everything. Partially because there were things he had promised not to share, but also because he knew that there would be terrible repercussions for anyone who questioned Ballanor. He had done it to keep his friends safe.
But gods, he hadn’t expected everything to spiral out of control so quickly. Or so horrifically. Or for Tristan to walk away without a word, leaving him behind to be tortured, his execution set, without once looking back.
He knew how bad it had looked. But shouldn’t friends trust you even when it looked bad? Shouldn’t they at least ask you if you’d done the things you were being accused of?
Brothers? Fuck that.
Tristan must have read his thoughts on his face. His scales glittered as they rippled up his neck, and he looked like he might say more, but he grunted instead and opened the tent flap to lead the way out.
Thank the gods. Val didn’t have the energy to deal with Tristan and his half-assed, meaningless apology.
The camp was laid out around a small fire, hidden in a tiny clearing surrounded by dense woods. Jos was threading a brace of partridges onto skewers while Nim sat beside him cleaning vegetables. The rest of the squad was watering the horses and putting up the last tents.
Keely sat on the other side of the fire, one arm in a sling, her face pale and eyes closed. Beside her, Tor sat silently polishing a gleaming blade.
It was so… normal.
And it made him want to howl through the throbbing in his head. Howl in grief for how much he’d lost. And in rage that none of these people, quietly going about their business, seemed to understand how horrifying the world was.
He genuinely hoped that they never learned the truth. Never had to see for themselves that the monsters were real; walking around disguised as people. And that those with goodness in their souls would always be doomed to lose, because how could someone with any kind of morals ever win in a war against those without?
But he also resented their blissful naivety. Their quiet peace. Their laughter as they went about their chores. Their friendly banter. Resented them. And wanted nothing to do with them.
He limped toward the fire and settled himself near its warmth, ignoring the squad around him, trying to block out the day-to-day sounds that were grating down his last remaining nerve. Working hard to block it all out and push away his rage before he scrounged up a blade and stabbed someone.
