Kael’s grin was real this time, almost boyish, a little proud. “Not useless at all.”
He reached out, as if to demonstrate. His fingers brushed against hers, the touch feather-light. The contact jolted her, a spark running up her arm and into her chest.
Kael withdrew, but not far. He cupped his hand, palm up, and said, “Here. Try again, but let the energy run through instead of against.”
She rested her hand in his. Their skin was nearly the same temperature, but his touch carried a pulse, beating in a rhythm that seemed to synchronize with her own.
Together, they focused on the pebble.
This time, it jumped.
Alina startled, a peal of laughter bursting forth from her, a clear, surprised sound that echoed in the circle. She covered her mouth, embarrassed, but Kael’s smile was wide enough to make her forget her shame.
He let her hand go, the space between them charged and new.
They sat that way for a long moment, neither willing to break the connection.
Eventually, Alina spoke, her voice almost a whisper. “Does it ever scare you? What you can do?”
Kael’s eyes searched hers, honest and unguarded. “It used to. Now I’m more afraid of what I can’t do.”
She nodded, understanding more than she wanted to admit.
Kael leaned closer, his voice low. “What happened with the flower—creation and destruction are the same act from different angles. You can’t have one without the other.”
Their faces were only a breath apart. Alina felt the energy between them, something fierce and sweet, like the smell before a storm. She wanted, just for a second, to close the gap.
A shout from the camp and the clatter of pots broke the spell—the return of the real.
Kael straightened, the old armor settling back into place. “We should get back. I imagine you don’t want to miss dinner.”
He stood, offering her a hand up. She took it, letting his grip linger a moment longer than necessary.
Night closed in as they walked toward the stronghold, thick and warm. Neither spoke, but each was changed—tighter, sharper, more alive.
The only sound was the slow, contented rhythm of their steps, and the memory of a single pebble, jumping at the call of their joined hands.
9
What Else Is New?
The mess hall was alive, but not in a happy way. The long tables ran end to end, scoured and battered by years of use, lined with men and women whose laughter seemed designed to hide the exhaustion in their eyes. The high, domed ceiling of the hall was lost to blank darkness. Torches spat and guttered in their iron sconces, pooling the rough-hewn faces in firelight and letting the edges of the room dissolve into shadow. The air was thick with the smell of sweat, old bread, and a constant undercurrent of wet rock.
Alina perched on the narrowest edge of the nearest bench, hands folded in her lap, trying to make herself small. After what she had learned, she not only felt out of place, she felt guilty. She was ashamed and at the same time wanted to shout “I didn’t know! I am not like that!”
Her woolen cloak was an enemy, both scratchy and insufficient against the damp; she twisted its corner between her fingers, the motion soothing and nervous at once. The chorus of rebel voicesmade her scalp prickle—sharp, fast, overlapping, with the energy of people who had learned to savor a hot meal and a safe seat, because tomorrow, both might be gone.
Although she had been here now for quite some time, she recognized only a handful of faces. As she had kept to herself, most were still strangers: burly men with haunted eyes, women with faces lined and drawn from worry and malnourishment, children who ate in wolfish silence, their gaze darting from bowl to doorway as if expecting at any second to be found out. Alina kept her head down, but she couldn’t help noticing how many of them looked like ghosts of the people her father had warned her against.
Across the table, a woman with a voice like gravel told a story about a ruined bridge, how the king’s men tried to cross it in pursuit and the whole span had collapsed, dumping two dozen soldiers into the flood. The story was met with jeers and a round of battered tankards. A boy next to her, barely older than sixteen, tried to match her for bravado, recounting the time he snatched a loaf from a merchant’s cart in broad daylight. This was met with less enthusiasm, but the woman ruffled the boy’s hair anyway, then clapped him on the back so hard his bowl almost tipped.
Further down, Finn Redbrook presided over a miniature court. He sat sideways on his bench, one boot on the floor and the other propped on a stool next to him, as if the ordinary conventions of sitting did not apply to him. He was performing for his crowd with his usual antics, telling jokes, spinning spoons, making coins disappear and then reappear behind the nearest ear, to the shrieks of a toddler and the visible delight of her mother. He was a patch of pure color in a sea of grays, his hair wild, his shirt torn, half of it tucked into his pants, the other half hanging out.
When Finn caught Alina watching, he flashed her a grin, white teeth flashing and green eyes alight with mischief. “Careful, Princess,” he called, voice carrying despite the din. “If you keep staring, I’ll start charging for the show.”
The nearest heads turned to follow his gaze. Alina felt the heat flood her face. “Sorry,” she managed, too quiet to be heard.
Finn swung his boot off the stool and leaned across the table, lowering his voice into a stage whisper. “Or maybe you just want a front row seat?”
