He’s deathly quiet.
“Hours after the battle was over, they were attacked. In the dark of night. Tidescursed cowards,” I spit, cheeks wet with tears. “Everything was incinerated. No survivors.”
Zevayr swallows. He draws me closer until I’m pressed flush against his firm chest. “I—I’m sorry,” he whispers. A muscle ticks in his jaw, his breathing shallow.
“It’s all right. There’s no healing this,” I say, almost to myself. “Some wounds never close. No matter how many times you pass glowing hands over them.”
Chapter Eleven
Sleepebbsawaythenext morning, slowly, languorously, like a gentle receding tide. Every inch of me is pleasantly warm. I try to shift, but I can’t—there’s a heavy weight settled over my legs and waist.
My eyes flutter open, squinting against the sunlight.
I’m met with a strange sight—Zevayr asleep next to me, my limbs tangled with his. Though we sleep beside each other each night, I always wake alone. He’s the first to rise, already dressed and brooding.
But not today.
I frown, scanning his face. Is he coming down with something? He’s never slept later than me. Gingerly, I untangle my arms and press my palms to his neck, sending a soft, probing wave of my power through him. He seems fine—no sign of sickness.
A gentle snore escapes him, and I can’t help but smile. His brow is smooth, relaxed, his full lips slightly parted. It’s a stark contrast to the raw anguish on his face last night when he told me of his friend.
I shouldn’t think about the way he said Lev’s name—raw and reverent—like it pained him to speak it aloud. Or how his voice broke mid-sentence, like the memory carved straight through him. Or how much I’d wanted, in that moment, to take away his pain and carry it with my own.
Unbidden, another detail returns to me—how he’d called Lev’s parents nonwielders instead of commons. A small thing, maybe. But from the most powerful stormwielder alive, it felt like something more. A crack in the image I’d built of him. A glimpse of the man beneath the thunder.
Zevayr is full of surprises.
And I’d told him of my own grief—of Sura and Tumaas—and he hadn’t offered platitudes or pity. He’d just listened. As though his silence alone could bear the weight of my sorrow.
I shouldn’t notice the way the sunlight brushes against the strong line of his jaw, softening the stubble that shadows his skin. Or the sweep of his lashes against his cheeks, darker than night. My gaze drops, lingering on the solid column of his neck, the breadth of his shoulders, the dip between his thick collarbones. Warmth coils low in my belly, and it has nothing to do with his body heat.
But what of the brother waiting for me in Arbinj? Will he be just as handsome?
A sharp pang of guilt pierces my heart, and I tear my gaze away.
Daak.
He would understand me sleeping in Zevayr’s arms each night—he wouldn’t like it, but he’d understand. He’d want me to be safe and warm andalive. But the thoughts running through my mind right now—those feel too much like betrayal.
I shift more forcefully, putting space between our chests, and Zevayr’s grip tightens around me as if even in his sleep, he can’t bear to let me go. His brow furrows, and his eyes flutter open,clouded with sleep before it’s blinked away. His hand skims the curve of my hip before he realizes we’re still touching.
I stiffen.
So does he.
Realization dawns on him, and he quickly releases his hold.
I inch farther back.
“Sorry.” His deep voice is rough with sleep, and I hate the part of me that wants to hear it again. He clears his throat. “I overslept.”
“It’s all right,” I say softly, offering him a tentative smile. It feels foreign on my face. His gaze drops to my lips. Traitorous warmth rushes to my cheeks, and I pretend I don’t know why.
“Your brother,” I blurt out, rubbing my thumb over the betrothal ring on my finger. “Has he also fought in many battles?”
A shadow settles over his face at the mention of Faramir.
“No,” he says stiffly. “Earthwielder or not, the crown prince is excused from combat. Too risky for the future king.”
