A jagged break splits the trunk in half, its needled branches drooping on either side.
Zevayr levels an accusing glare at me.
“What?” Shivering, I cross my arms tighter, chin tilted up.
“Look.” He points to the center of the tree—where the bark splits, there’s a thick, twisted column of ice, as if water had shot up through the trunk and then frozen until it cracked in half.
Reluctantly, I meet his flinty eyes.
“A waterwielder did this,” he says casually.
I don’t respond.
“You don’t know of any waterwielders that might have followed us, do you? The captain of the Tundrayni royal guard, perhaps?” His smile is cruel and sharp and colder than the snow around us.
No. Daak wouldn’t have been so reckless.
“Not that I know of.”
He stares at me for several heartbeats, his expression unreadable. I try not to fidget beneath his stare, but Tides, it’s unnerving.
“Seriously?” I snap, arms crossed. “You think I sent Daak after you? Maybe I should’ve.”
He barely grunts in response, before striding away so fast I’m forced to jog to catch up.
Back at the clearing where the hulking brute pinned me to the ground, there are two satchels tucked against a tree. I didn’t notice them before—probably because I was preoccupied with escaping him. He plucks one off the ground and hands it to me.
It’s one of my bags. He must’ve retrieved it from the battle site before tying me up and lugging me through the forest. How considerate.
“Change out of your wet clothes before you freeze to death.”
The command in his tone grates at me, and I’m tempted to refuse out of sheer spite. But I’ve already been shivering for far too long as it is, and I don’t want to die out here.
With shaking fingers, I open the satchel—all my belongings are jumbled. Of course, the asshole rifled through them. A wave of fresh irritation wells inside me.
“You went through my things.”
Zevayr doesn’t flinch. “I had to.”
“And here I thought I had a shred of dignity left. Silly me.” I laugh, cold and bitter.
He lifts a brow, utterly unbothered. “Happy to strip that from you too, if you like.”
My fingers curl tighter around the bundle in my arms. Heat prickles beneath my skin. My handprint on his face has faded, and I’m tempted to slap him again and again until it’s permanently tattooed onto his skin.
He’s smug. He’s so tidesdamnedsmug. Like every violation is just another thing I’m supposed to thank him for. I square my shoulders and glare at him, fire rising in my chest despite the cold.
“I’m not changing with you here,” I grit out. My voice is low, dangerous. I clutch my clean clothing to my chest like armor, daring him to challenge me.
I wait for a smart retort, a cruel smile, but instead he sighs and makes a big show of turning around and taking a few steps away, as if that’s supposed to give me comfort. With a muttered curse, I duck behind a tree and peel off my damp clothing. The cold air hits my bare skin like a slap, and I rush to put on the dry wool leggings and thick tunic. My boots are waterproof, so thankfully, my socks are still dry.
When I emerge, clothes dry and hackles raised, Zevayr’s back is still turned, but his arms are crossed, fingers drumming an impatient pattern on his bicep.
I hate him.
As if sensing my violent thoughts, he turns, raking his gaze over me. I do the same: his clothes appear dry—leather pants and a black long-sleeved shirt beneath a thick vest, brimming with weapons. I eye his cloak with envy—thick, soft fur on one side, supple leather on the other. He must be so warm.
“Are we going to be civil?” he asks, brow arched.
