But Callum didn’t smile. Not even close. “Why, Verena?”
His eyes held mine, searching, as if he could peel me open and reach her, the girl beneath the serpent.
But his eyes told me the truth. He couldn’t find her.
“He could call to steel,” I sighed. “Six blades were about to pierce my flesh and howannoyingwouldthathave been?”
The arrowhead was sleek against my palm, its edges whispering of danger, of use. Callum’s own weapon hung low by his side. I hadn’t noticed it was unsheathed until now.
His hand gripped the hilt so tight his knuckles blanched, bone white. As if he considered, truly considered, turning it on me.
I stepped back.
Callum would never harm me. He couldn’t. He wasn’t afraid of me. He knew exactly who I was.
Didn’t he?
The question echoed, until his face shifted, then softened, fractionally.
The hardness in his eyes gave way, at least losing their false direction as he asked, “Are you okay, V?” His hand reached, finding my arm. This time, I let him pull me into his grip, let his fingers close around me, anchoring me in place. “Are you hurt?”
It wasn’t the killing that unsettled me. That had been drilled into me long ago. I was the trained blade, the shadow at the side of the Princess heir of Luamis.
The killing was not the fracture.
The fracture was the cost. Every time I let it stretch its spine, less of me returned.
And Callum’s grip, secure, safe,him, was the only thing in that moment keeping me from slipping away entirely.
I let my body fall into his, folding into his warmth, eyes closing for a single, greedy second.
Rook cleared his throat, shifting the pack against his back with deliberate noise. Ford sprawled on the ground like a lazy feline; hazel eyes fixed on the corpse as if it were an art piece.
“You two are sweet,” he drawled, tossing an almond into his mouth. “Nothing like family bonding.”
The words hit, teasing, designed to provoke. I shoved away from Callum and spun toward Ford where he sat far too close to the rotting mess at our feet.
“Ew, Ford.” My nose wrinkled. “How can you eat around that?” His nose crinkled back in mock offense as he flicked an almond at my face. “What the hel!” I snapped, batting at it, though it had long since hit my cheek and fallen to my feet.
Laughter tugged at the corner of my mouth.
“Smells don’t bother me,” he said. “Butcher’s son, remember?” His hand dove into his pack, rustling, and came back with more snacks. “Apple?” he offered.
My stomach twisted and I waved off the offer. The body called me back, despite the plea to look away. It was almost completely black now, blistering with veins that spiderwebbed across his face. The curse wasn’t just festering. It was growing, changing too rapidly.
“We should burn it,” I said. Firm.
Callum’s presence shifted closer, heat brushing my arm as his hand flexed, fire blooming into a molten orange. “I agree.”
The flames hissed as he extended his fingers, pushing them toward the body. Embers cracked, sparks snapping free to dance skyward, carried like fleeing stars.
His voice came cold, the lost language sliding forbidden from his tongue. “Scoarca.”Scorch. Hotter.
The fire obeyed, curling higher, brighter, until it no longer burned the common shades of orange but until his entire hand glowed violet-blue—an otherworldly aura, a holy flame.
He rarely showed more than a fraction of the truth, always restraining the full force of his strength.
I wondered if the weight of it, the knowledge of such power shackled, gnawed at him. To feel greatness and never set it loose.
