Alarm bells gong violently in my mind at the thought of being alone with him for weeks in the wilderness.
But I don’t see what other choice I have.
“Fine,” I grit out. “What next?”
“We keep walking ‘til nightfall. Tomorrow, we’ll keep going. There’s an Arbinji base near the border.” He walks away, as if his word is law. “The rebels might still be close. Skies, you’ve been shouting enough to lead them straight to us.”
He doesn’t even look back, just expects me to follow.
I do. Begrudgingly.
“Maybe next time, don’t call down a storm just because you’re cranky,” I mutter. “Giant thunderclouds make it very obvious that there’s an insufferable stormwielder nearby.”
He doesn’t deign to respond.
I hate him.
Chapter Eight
Truetohisword,Zevayr doesn’t stop until it’s so dark, visibility becomes an issue. After I trip over a snaking root for the third time, he looses a deep sigh and starts preparing a makeshift camp.
From his satchel, he retrieves a thick blanket and lays it over the snow. The blanket has barely settled when I plop down, eager to rest my aching legs. He offers me dried meat and a small pouch of nuts, and I tear into the tough, salty strip before swallowing it down like it’s roasted seal meat.
“Do you think we were followed?” I ask between bites, eyeing him warily as he sits across from me to eat his own portion.
“Maybe.” We switched directions often, but footprints in the snow are difficult to conceal. “We’ll cover more ground tomorrow.”
I nod absently, huddling into myself. Now that my body is still, the cold permeates my idle bones. I rub my palms together, blowing hot air over my frigid fingertips.
Zevayr’s eyes snag on my wrists again. The bruises have darkened in the past few hours—angry, thick purple bracelets, stark against my pale skin. His lips press into a grim line.
“Can you heal those?” he asks quietly, nodding toward my wrists.
I’m tempted to lie. I rather like the flicker of guilt that crosses his face each time his gaze lands on the raw skin.
But theydosting. And I’ve never had much patience for pain. One of the perks of being a healer, I suppose. Even the tiniest of aches are healed away.
And now that there’s food in my belly, I’m strong enough to heal the abrasions without worrying about draining my reserves.
In a blink, my hands glow white, and I press my fingers first to one wrist, then the other. Heat hums beneath my skin, and the bruises vanish like smoke.
When I look up, Zevayr is watching me, wide-eyed. Or, at least, one eye is wide—the other’s still an angry, swollen mess.
I sigh. I know I’ll regret this.
“I’ll heal you.” Deep breath. “In exchange for a truce. As long as you promise not to break it within seconds.”
A muscle pulses in his jaw. He studies me like I might bite.
Then—slowly—he nods.
I shift closer, kneeling before him, power already pooling in my palms. For a beat, I hesitate—I don’t want to touch him. But his injuries look painful, and my healer’s training supersedes any hatred I harbor for him.
Gently, I press my hands to the bare skin of his neck, trying my best to ignore the faint scratch of his stubble against my palms.
“Not trying to strangle me, are you?” he mutters.
I ignore him, focusing instead on sensing his injuries. Despite the poor state of his face, he’s relatively unharmed—except for a contusion on his thigh, so large I’m shocked he can walk without limping.
