“I don’t know what you’re?—”
He clucked his tongue. A rustle of clothes, a shift of his weight, and his warm breath skimming her cheek. “Trisha, don’t insult me. I’ve indulged you long enough.”
Blood pounding in her ears, she squeezed her eyes tighter as if to compel herself to fall asleep. But there was no escaping. No eluding the questions. Not anymore.
“He’s gone,” she whispered.
“With the Wolfbach chief and his nephew, too, no less.”
She flinched and stiffened, forcing herself to meet Blainor’s stare. His expression shuddered before it became a blank mask.
“I didn’t mean it. Didn’t want this?—”
“Save your energy, Trisha. I’m not interested in excuses.”
How she had any energy left, she didn’t know, but fury flared to life. She embraced it. “No, not when you’ve already drawn your conclusions, I’m sure. Do your worst,Warlord.”
His body tightened, holding the air. A loud hiss sounded as he released it. “I didn’t want to start the conversation like this.” He cut himself off. When he continued, his voice was calmer. “I’m not here to argue. How are you feeling?”
Trisha untensed and grew aware of the ache in her marrow, of the empty well within. She screwed up her face in pain. “Tired. Like someone’s carved me with stone.”
A moment of silence, his attention burning against herskin. She didn’t know what he saw, but it must be a sight because when he spoke, the words came out unexpectedly gentle. “This… can wait.”
How it tempted her, the sweet allure of oblivion, pretense. But no. She’d exposed too much. Eventually, she’d have to confront him. She wouldn’t lie here, wonder what he thought, or what her action had caused.
“J-Just let me have a moment,” she croaked, dry-lipped, throat parched.
Despite the world swimming in her eyes, she pushed herself to her arms, sitting up. The navy blue bed curtains were pulled aside, the dark wooden posters standing straight, the canopy overhead just like she’d woken up… this morning. It seemed impossible. A memory of another life. From the open windows, the breeze brought the scents of hay and distant flowers. The sunlight gleamed on the wooden board, red and orange.
“How long…?” Her words faded.
Blainor glanced over his shoulder to the distant hills, rugged against the darkening sky. “Most of the day. They brought you to the castle before noon.”
So long. Her mind failed to grasp the fact. She’d been sleeping the whole day. Trisha had never used her magic this way. Fear kindled, its icy touch freezing her heart.
What if breaking the veil had altered her powers? Could she still play?
Trisha focused. A weak flickering inside her, barely detectable, but there. She exhaled, shoulders lowering in relief. She hadn’t lost it. Her magic was still part of her. A bitter thought. For all the trouble it had brought, for all her lies, perhaps it would’ve been better to let it burn away.
Swinging her legs over the bed, Trisha grabbed the dark wooden pillar. She kept her eyes low, unable to meet Blainor’sgaze. If she did, he might realize how weak and drained she felt. Refusing his offer of support, she somehow pulled herself to her feet. The world dimmed. She blinked it back into focus. The darkness receded.
A warm touch on her waist, Blainor’s hand. She squirmed away, slapping it off. Again, everything swayed. “Don’t be an idiot, Trisha,” Blainor growled.
“I’ll manage.”
Each step was a struggle, a wager. Would her feet stumble before her will? Could she prove she’d endure, or would she fall into his arms? She didn’t want it. Didn’t need him.
And yet, inside her, a mix of conflicting emotions blended, rising and falling, as though dragged by the tide. Her heart raced against her rib cage, sending pinions of hurt through her nerves. She remained painfully conscious of Blainor’s presence, his breathing, that damned trace of wintry pine forests and rich soil and smoke. It was exhaustion making her knees weak. Only fear, sharp and burning, in her chest. Nothing else.
The few staggering steps from his bed chamber took an eternity, but then she stood in the room with the portraits and the chairs, the balcony doors open, curtains stirring in the breeze. Trisha didn’t resist, nor did she have the energy for it, when he took her by the elbow, half-dragging her to one of the chairs. Trisha’s legs trembled as she sank onto it. Everything blackened, the sounds distant, like voices underwater.
A rush of movement, steps approaching, a clink of clay and glass. Blurred motion around her, silent shadows brought to life. Commanded by the Warlord. When everything stilled, only the two of them remained, but a pitcher of water and a steaming bowl stood on a wooden table. Parsley drifted to her nose—a broth of sorts. Easy to digest, as though Blainor had known too well what she needed. For some reason, the thought tasted sour.
But she didn’t object, taking the bowl in her lap, hands shaking. The emptiness in her belly roared. A painful, savage sensation. The warm, savory bouillon tasted heavenly. So hungry, Trisha almost forgot about Blainor, his silent presence, the way he watched her. Too soon the bowl was empty, and she was staring at its bottom, scraping a spoon against it as though the act could summon more. She set it aside and took the glass of water instead.
The strained silence pressed her shoulders. She hated it. Hated how the fragile trust and ease built since her return from the Undying Lands seemed to have evaporated as though it never existed. Everything had changed. With deep, gut-searing certainty, she knew. All masks were off now.
“What did the others tell you?” she asked, fingering the glass. “About Chief Wolfbach and his aide?”
