There’s movement in the tent behind him, and the waterwielder emerges, eyes still bleary. All vestiges of sleep are blinked away when she catches sight of her father standing rigid before me, staff in hand. That can’t be horror on her face, can it?
“How many men are stationed at the border?” Tormik draws my attention back.
“Fifteen, last I checked. Some might have died by now, though. We’re not suited for Tundrayn’s abysmal temperatures.”
Tormik clenches his jaw. “Has Varad secured an alliance with Volca?”
“Maybe. Probably not. My brother’s an ass.” I grin, satisfaction crackling through me as he bristles. “Not half as charming as I am. You lucked out with me as a son-in-law.”
“I’m afraid you’re not taking me seriously,” Tormik murmurs.
With a wave of his hand, he summons a ball of water from the trough behind the platform. It twists through the air, swirling and shimmering until it forms a sphere.
I know what comes next. My lungs scream as I suck in as much air as I can hold. The glimmering orb floats through the air—then submerges my head.
The water is cold, colder than when his daughter did the exact same thing days ago.
I don’t move.
I don’t struggle.
I won’t give them the satisfaction. Tension lines every inch of my body as I slowly release small amounts of air, bubbles floating to the surface.
Minutes pass.
My chest aches.
My lungs burn.
Unbidden, my eyes find the waterwielder, pale-faced and wide-eyed. Her hands are clenched into tight fists … and are those—tears?
They can’t be.
Some deep, idiotic part of me still holds onto a desperate hope that maybe she feelssomethingfor me.
Black splotches blur my vision. There’s a vise around my chest, squeezing tighter with every denied breath.
The waterwielder is blurry in my vision—the other woman places a hand on her shoulder and murmurs something in her ear. She shakes her head, pulling out of the woman’s grasp.
And she watches.
The pressure in my chest grows tighter. My head swings from side to side, trying to escape the bubble of water, to find some pocket of air. To draw in even half a breath.
My vision swims dangerously, and the water finally crashes to the platform with a loud splash. I sputter, sucking in heaving lungfuls of air between hacking, watery coughs.
“How many soldiers are stationed at the border?” Tormik asks again, almost bored.
“Three”—cough—“but your pathetic warriors”—cough—“wouldn’t last ten minutes”—cough—“against them.”
Tormik submerges my head again.
The waterwielder’s knees shake.
Thud.
Thud.
Thud.
