Evain’s fingers twist in soft red wool. Is Leth warm enough without the scarf?
This never would have worked. None of his options would have worked. Keeping his secret from Leth until they tired of each other, and moved on with their lives? Evain’s obsession runs far too deep, burns far too tenderly in unused and unarmored corners of his heart. He can’t fathom tiring of Leth.
He already knew keeping the secret forever wasn’t an option. Eventually Leth would realize Evain never ages. Eventually Evain’s guilt would grow too great. But his plan to tell Leth as soon as they reached safety—as soon as it was the right time—when would Evain feel safe enough? When would the time be right?
From one excuse to the next, he deceived himself as well as Leth.
Next week or next month, five years from now or ten, the result would have been the same. Betrayal lancing through Leth’s voice, furious pain in his eyes. Perhaps it’s better that it ended now, before Evain piled on more painful days or years of deception.
Perhaps he shouldn’t have courted Leth in the first place. But he can’t bring himself to wish for that.
He brings the scarf to his nose. Inhales, and breathes in only wool and snow. No trace of Leth. Darkness wavers in his vision. Maybe the next time he stumbles across a rift, he should just let the wild magic carry him home. However much he loves this world, he doesn’t belong.
As a demon, there are emotions Evain rarely feels. Perhaps that’s why he takes so long to put a name to the abyss in his heart. Perhaps it’s simply that his thoughts circle so slowly now, pushed and pulled by the tidal emptiness. When his anger and frustration fade, what remains is only profound sadness, etched like binding runes into his bones.
He doesn’t know how humans stand it.
?
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
LETH
Daziroth resists Leth at first, reluctant to move forward. His bridle lacks a bit, and wrestling his head around takes all Leth’s strength. “Will you stop fighting me?” Leth snaps once. His eyes hurt from the cold, surely, not because he’s about to cry. Digging his heels into Daziroth’s sides, he coaxes, “When we get to the camp, you can eat anything you want.”
Miraculously, the stallion settles down after that, and moves into a steady trot through the snow. His gait is smooth, barely jarring Leth in the saddle. Leth welcomes the wind cutting against his neck, streaming through his hair. As if the cold can erase the demon’s touch from his body and soul.
Leth’s route isn’t a conscious decision. It’s an inevitability. After all his foolish thoughts of freedom and rebirth, he falls back on the oldest pattern of his life and rides towards his brother’s camp.
Anton is often difficult and sometimes cruel, but he’s Leth’s brother. And he’s not a demon.
Exhaustion eventually dulls the knife in Leth’s heart. He doesn’t know how long he’s been riding. The river of stars runs clear overhead, but Leth’s mind is too dazed to track the progress of the moon. Every so often, he tugs Daziroth to a walk, unwilling to exhaust him, but the indefatigable stallion is always ready to trot again.
They reach the previous abandoned camp, and following the Dravans from there is easy. A troop of thirty is hard to hide. Leth urges Daziroth along the path, and as the sky lightens to a delicate gray, a smudge of smoke rises above the trees ahead. Canvas tents show through the gaps in the trees, but Leth knows better than to ride in unannounced.
He reins Daziroth in and whistles. Two sharp notes and two long. The thin sound sinks into the trees. After a moment of quiet, a figure in gray steps out from behind a tree.
“State your business,” the soldier calls out. One hand is on her sword, and the other in the pocket of her winter uniform.
Leth lifts his hands away from his weapons. “No need for the alarm talisman. Just take me to Anton.”
Her eyes widen in recognition, before narrowing again in renewed suspicion. Two months ago, that would have stung. Now, Leth’s tired enough that he doesn’t have to feign his blank expression. He’s too tired to care about anything right now.
The exhaustion is a relief.
“Wait here,” the soldier says eventually, and retreats through the trees.
Leth dismounts and shakes out his legs. Dizziness sweeps over him, black spots blurring over the snowy landscape. Leaning against Daziroth’s shoulder, he tries not to wish he has someone else to lean on instead. Deep, counted breaths restore his balance by the time the soldier returns with company.
Anton stands taller than the rest, and he outpaces them striding through the snow, his gray-furred mantle sweeping behind him. Stopping a few feet from Leth, his stern features draw into a familiar scowl—until, to Leth’s shock, he laughs.
“What in Valor’s name are you doing here?” Anton lifts a hand before Leth can answer. “Nevermind, tell me at camp.”
“I just need to resupply,” Leth starts, then flinches as Anton clasps a heavy hand over his shoulder. The rest of what he was going to say vanishes.
“Tell me at camp,” Anton repeats. “You’re frozen solid, little brother.”
There’s a warmth in his voice, a friendliness, that Leth hasn’t heard from Anton in well over a decade. His throat clenches, and he can’t say anything else. He can only nod, lowering his gaze, as Anton orders his people to take care of Leth’s horse.
