“Oh. Are you two … close?”
“No.” The word rings with finality this time.
Zevayr rises before I can ask anything else.
The rest of the morning has been strange. Zevayr and I have reached an uneasy truce—he hasn’t insulted me once today, and I haven’t felt the need to remind him of the blood on his hands. Even the silence stretching between us as we walk beneath thesnow-capped trees, normally vibrating with barely repressed disdain, seems—comfortable.
Still I hesitate before I ask, “When do you think I’ll be able to … bathe?” I cringe as the words leave my lips. Most nights, I’ve scrubbed melted snow over my face and neck, then promptly roasted by the fire until I stopped shivering. It’s only been days—I can’t imagine weeks without a proper bath.
Except now I’ve given Zevayr a fresh opportunity to belittle me. Will he call me a pampered princess? A spoiled, vapid girl? Or his favorite insult—a baby.
The corner of his mouth twitches. I bristle, readying a sharp retort.
But surprisingly, he doesn’t insult me. The rhythmiccrunch, crunch, crunchof our boots sinking into half-frozen snow is the only sound until he says, “If we keep this pace, the weather will warm up soon. We’ll come across several streams that you can use.”
“…Thanks.” It looks like the truce is holding. Something shifted between us last night, and the animosity that’s lingered between us has dissipated into … something else. I’m not sure if that’s a good thing.
Zevayr lifts a low-hanging, frost-covered branch with his bare hand for me to pass beneath. He doesn’t even grimace.
“You seem well acclimated to the cold.” I fold my arms tighter, bracing against the chill. He glances at me sideways. His lips thin, and he steps closer until our shoulders are almost touching.
“I’ve spent more time in Tundrayn than in Arbinj in the last decade.”
Right—killing my people. Except the thought doesn’t incite the same burning hatred in my heart.
Definitely not a good thing.
We keep a breakneck pace the rest of the day. When we stop at night, every single muscle aches in my legs. The heat of the fire seeps through my numb fingers as I hover them over the dancing flames.
My eyes cut to Zevayr’s slumbering form on the blanket.
I have first watch.
Which means, I have time to think.
Time for intrusive thoughts to bombard me—like how my feelings about Zevayr have grown complicated since our conversation last night. I want to see him as the fearsome Dark Commander—a ruthless murderer.
But the truth is, I don’t anymore. I see Zevayr, the man. I see his heart. He’s been hurt as much as I have. And that makes it difficult to keep hating him.
With a sigh, I gingerly stretch out my legs. I send a gentle wave of my power pulsing through my thighs and calves. A low hum of contentment escapes me as the day’s aches are erased.
When enough time has passed, I kick snow over the fire and head to the blanket where Zevayr sleeps. Careful not to rouse him, I gently peel back his heavy cloak. His arm is extended, as if waiting for me to rest my head on his bicep. I settle in beside him, letting his cloak fall over us.
I shift, my legs bumping against his lightly. My lips twist. His muscles must ache, too. He walks more than me, often doubling back to create new tracks, or scouting the path ahead, while I wait for his return.
Before I can change my mind, I rest my palms against the exposed skin of his neck. He doesn’t stir. Closing my eyes, I send a wave of power through him, soothing every aching muscle, every inflamed tendon.
When I pull my hands back, my heart feels lighter.
“What would you do if you weren’t a prince?” I ask as Zevayr studies the position of the sun, one hand angled against his forehead. Maybe I’m imagining it, but he moves easier today. He must’ve slept well after I healed him.
“I’d leave the realm.”
I stop in my tracks, but Zevayr keeps walking.
“Why?” I jog to catch up.
“To see the rest of the world,” he says with a shrug. “There has to be something better than this skiesforsaken continent.” He smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
