How long had I been ignoring what was truly happening within Tavari, keeping my head firmly planted within my books, to study and pursue my Potion Mastery, while people within this Kingdom suffered? Was it fear or just a lack of care?
A hand firmly wrapped around the bicep of my uninjured arm as I reached the landing of the second floor, dragging me into a hall and through a door that led to an empty classroom.
His presence was suffocating as he released me, hovering and assessing. His eyes scorched wherever they landed on my body and I curled into myself. I didn't want him to see, to really look, scared that he would uncover the blackened soul within.
The withering heart that fluttered so painfully within my chest.
"Syra."
My name was soft, almost desperate.
Finally, my eyes met his and what I saw there broke me, every emotion flooding in all at once.
It was like the breaking of a dam, stone shattering as they flooded through, ripping and tearing everything in their path. Despair, rage, horror, disgust.
It was an unrelenting and never-ending pain.
I rushed forward then, hands shoving into his chest, but he did not falter. Not even when the attack continued, my fists beating upon the hardened muscle as tears ran rivers down my cheeks.
It wasn't until I gave a little cry of pain that he moved to stop me, his hand encircling the wrist of my injured one. The pain tore through mymind and I slid to my knees. The sobs that escaped were unrelenting as I tried to breathe through them, the air getting trapped and stuck within my lungs.
He crouched down, his fingers brushing softly, hesitantly at my tears, as his other hand still held my wrist.
"How can you do that?" My voice broke as I stared into those silver and green depths trying to see what laid within them.
"Do what?" His response was quiet, his jaw twitching, tensing.
And I realized it then.
That he was scared of what I would say. What judgements I would lay upon his soul, what burdens would be added to his shoulders for him to bear.
So I shook my head, my eyes roaming over the little silver scar just beneath his green eye.
My fingers reached out, brushing over it, fixed upon it. Perhaps he was more like me than I had originally thought. Opposite sides of the same coin. Children of a damned fate, one hidden within shadows and deceit, the other displayed as a prize for all the world to see.
"You hate it here too, don't you?"
His silence was enough of an answer, a sanctuary for me to burrow within and find relief.
Roan Delmar may have been raised within these palace walls, may have been the Captain of the KingsGuard, may have killed his own family and slaughtered innocents—but I could see it as we sat there upon the floor.
The shadows that danced in his eyes, the slump of his shoulders, the mask that was cracking as my touch softened something within him.
Roan Delmar was Luanthian, and he hated this just as much as I did.
Chapter Fifteen
"The Prince asked you on a quest?"
Merle's voice was quiet, a tenuous waver to her words as she glanced between Bran and I. We sat across from her at the same little table where we had grown up eating our meals together.
Her lips were pulled down into a worried frown as her fingers drummed across the wood, her body tense and uncertain.
A little breath escaped me at the question, nerves fluttering in my stomach. It had taken all my courage to get through the story of all that had happened, to tell Merle of what was to come, but she had listened. Had sat and listened to every word without interruption. Had traced a finger upon the scar that now marred my hand when I told her of what had taken place in that second trial, sorrow and horror filling her warm, brown eyes.
Rena had been quick to heal the ravaged skin of my hand, knitting flesh and muscle together once more with her golden light, but it left a ragged, silver scar stark against the olive skin of the back of my hand. One that not even the healing magic could erase. She hadn't asked any questions, she had taken one look at my face and had immediately falleninto her training. She had assessed the wound with careful precision, her voice soft and soothing. I couldn't have been more grateful in that moment, didn't know how I would have handled prying questions or concern.
When she was done Rena had simply offered that if or when I wished to speak of what happened, she would be there. She didn’t demand answers and it had sent relief rushing through my tired, exhausted mind.
