He scans the perimeter every night and meticulously erases all evidence of our campsites. Sometimes, we double back and take a different route to confuse anyone who might be tracking us. I’m surprised we haven’t encountered any more rebels—it’s impossible to completely erase tracks in the snow. Perhaps they were dissuaded by all the corpses the Dark Commander left for them to collect.
Despite my disdain for him, a whispering ripple of respect begrudgingly flows through me. Smug, arrogant monster, he may be, but he’s kept me alive so far.
Of course he can skin a hare in seconds. Of course he knows exactly what direction to travel based on the sun’s movements.
I hate being so dependent on him.
Why couldn’t he just be an idiot with a pretty face?
By the time Zevayr returns with a large snowshoe hare, the fire is crackling. His hood falls back, and I wish I didn’t notice the perfectly imperfect tousle of his dark hair, the shadow of days-old stubble along the sharp line of his jaw, the firelight dancing across his high cheekbones. My gaze drops to his full lips, currently turned down in a scowl—
I tear my eyes away.
Handsome or not, he’s a murderer.
He skins the hare in utter silence—which is just fine by me. When it’s ready, he skewers it on a long, thin branch and rotates it over the makeshift spit until the flesh is crackling. He doesn’t spare me a glance when he hands me my portion, which again, is just fine by me.
We eat in stilted, familiar silence.
Until he breaks it.
“You think my lightning is cruel?” Zevayr says, his voice frosted with ice. “You should see what waterwielders can do.”
His tone drops, low and razor-edged.
“I’ve pulled men off the battlefield with ice spears piercing their lungs—jagged,serratedshards. They choke on their own blood while we try to break ribs to dig them out. I’ve seen soldiers with bubbles of water forced over their heads. They scratch their faces bloody trying to escape before they drown.”
His eyes narrow.
“But the worst? Water forced in through the nose, mouth, eyes—until it fills the body. And then frozen solid. You know what that looks like, Mayah?”
Zevayr turns away—can’t bear to look at me anymore.
“And while your people have healers with glowing hands and soothing light, know what we have? Poultices. Crushed roots. Bark soaked in boiled snow. Whatever the earth gives us. We’refighting thesame warwith blood and dirt, while your people can erase wounds into nothing.”
A beat.
“So don’t talk to me about cruelty.”
He rises, a towering mountain of cold rage. Without another word, he stalks over to the blanket and lies down.
I guess I have first watch.
So don’t talk to me about cruelty.
His words flit through my mind in an endless loop. I stare at the fire, still catching my breath. I want to hate him. I want to cling to the cold clarity of anger. But his words echo like thunder inside me, and I don’t know what to do with them.
I hate to admit it, but he’s right. My people aren’t the only ones who have suffered in this tidescursed war. There must be peace.
For all.
That’s why I’m doing this.
Why I left my home.
To unite Tundrayn and Arbinj and end this war.
With a heavy sigh, I kick snow over the fire and trudge over to the blanket where Zevayr lies still. His stony gray eyes catch mine—he’s still awake.
