I ate a second piece. Then a third. The silence between us grew almost comfortable, woven through with exhaustion and something I didn’t yet have a name for. Comfort? Companionship?
If we were not here, I would still knife him in the neck. But we were, and he was my only tether to life.
I tied the sack off and held it out. He took it, and in return offered me the canteen.
The water was cool against my tongue, the metal mouth of it colder against my lips. I forced myself to drink slowly. Part of me wanted to insist he drink too, but the rest of me knew better. I doubted a fae needed reminding of his limits.
I exhaled, wiping my mouth. “I don’t suppose the others expected us to live this long.”
He gave a one-note laugh, dry as bone. “No, I expect not.”
“You thought we’d be dead by now, didn’t you?”
“Yes.” He didn’t even pretend to soften it.
I stood up and unsheathed my sword.
Dorian’s eyes tracked me in the night. “Going out to change our fate?”
“No.” I unclasped my cloak and laid it on the ground. “I’m ensuring we have water in the morning.”
Without my cloak the chill hit instantly, biting through the dried sweat on my skin. I shivered but ignored it. That was our way in the Kingdom of Storms—pretend the elements didn’t touch you, even when they carved through bone.
Behind me, Dorian shifted. “What are you doing, exactly?” His voice was lower now, curious.
“It’s simple, really.” I laid the sword flat atop the cloak, then bunched the leather at either side to create an angle. “The dew slides down the leather and pools on the blade.”
A pause. Then I heard him shift again, closer. “And that actually works?”
“It should. In the Dip, there was a man famous for his dew collectors. Once, he pulled enough water from a linen shirt and a leather cord to fill a flask.”
“That’s impossible.”
“We all thought so. Until he did it.” I straightened, brushing the damp from my palms. “But this? This is nothing.”
Silence followed. Then, from behind me:
“It really only rained acid there, didn’t it?”
I sat back down across from him. “Not always, but often enough that regular rain felt like a dream. I remember the first time I felt it…”
“Yes?”
“I was maybe four or five. A normal day. And then… it rained. All day. No acid, no green haze, just clean, cold water.”
“You were four the first time it didn’t rain acid?” When I nodded in the dark, he said, “Why didn’t it?”
“No one knew.” I could still see it in mymind—silver against stone, water running in rivulets between roof tiles. “People danced. Some fell on their knees and wept.”
Dorian remained carved of silence, unmoving in the dark.
“And what did you do?” he asked quietly.
“My mother took my hand,” I said, my voice smaller than I meant it to be. “She lifted me up onto her shoulders so I could get closer to the white clouds.”
The memory had always been bright. Joyful. For the first time, it made my nose and eyes sting.
I turned my face away and swiped at them, quick and sharp. The ache stayed.
