The chair creaked when Khayrivven shifted in it. Shifted, first, then got to his feet to pace the room from the wall to the narrow ladder leading to the second floor, where three bunk beds and a stack of supplies were always ready for Ebon soldiers who needed a place to stay. It was the only true reprieve the occupation brought with it—this cabin in the middle of nowhere, secluded from reality to a degree it sometimes felt like freedom.
The small windows allowed a view of the narrow path circling between the cabin and the rocks it was hidden between. If anyone set foot on it, a silent alarm went off, courtesy of the powerful magic wielders who’d built this place under Ulder’s ancestors’ rule around the time of the Great Purge. Ironic that magic wielders would support a king who prosecuted their kind. Ironic that the power of magic had been squashed by the non-magically-gifted. Ironic thatUlder’s family still kept a whole military branch made up of people wielding the very thing he was so afraid of.
But fear and anger were great motivators to rally the non-magical majority of Sen Dunai’s people against magic, to make them believe it was dangerous, damned by Eroth and his children, the Guardians. And when the kings had invaded Criulias and then Naolapia, they’d already had a host of loyal magic wielders at their side—theonlymagic wielders trained in their skills. Of course, it had been easy to overtake those provinces.
A shudder of disgust ran through him, and at the core of his chest, the fiery bond connecting him to Lory twisted, guiding his attention inevitably back to the woman he’d been made for. He didn’t know how the bond worked or what the sensation meant, but his instincts told him she was thinking of him, perhaps trying to communicate with him.
Stopping his pacing, he took another look at the clock—ten past four.
Where are you, Bellmont?
Out of habit, he checked his weapons—the shortsword at his hip, the knives in his boots, the throwing stars in his vambraces, the long, sturdy needles hidden in the harness usually holding his two sabers, the hunting knife at his other hip, the thin, silver chain hidden in his weapons belt, the sabers discarded on the table large enough to host six people at the center of the room.
His gaze had landed there when a zinging sensation warned him someone was approaching, making him drop into a crouch and inch toward the wall to peek out the window.
If it wasn’t Aiden, whoever had triggered the alarm wouldn’t like the various deaths awaiting them at Khayrivven’s hands.
Khayrivven held his breath.
There, in the shadows between the rock and wood, a glint of silver rushed past, so silently and fast it could only mean one of two things: a star just fell from the skies to mock him of his misery, or the more likely option?—
The door made an uncharacteristically crunchy noise as it swung open to reveal Aiden Bellmont, a simple blade in his hand, and looking a bit worse for wear.
Khayrivven’s heart did something it hadn’t done in a long, long time—perhaps not ever—because this was the man who’d given his life to save Lory. The man who’d become a brother to the woman who’d been made for him. To the beautiful creature whose fire now breathed through his veins and tugged on his chest.
As Aiden stepped across the threshold, Khayrivven threw his arms wide to welcome the man in whose debt he’d forever stand. “Brother.”
Thirty-Nine
Lory
A black tunicand pants adorned with leather pieces at her shoulders and forearms, black leather boots with enough compartments to house at least three blades each, and a weapons belt slung around her waist, Lory’s Ashthorn uniform felt exactly the same as she made her way to the training yard, Niely’s note burning a hole in her pocket. A full day of rest had been enough to restore her health, and another ten days of her normal routine—sparring and magic training with Hadrian and Anees, some knowledge classes with Dunveil, and Medica sessions with Nahrit—things had almost returned to theway they were before.
Much unlike what she had expected, Lenya hadn’t brought her in for questioning after Jarek’s disappearance. The fact that a thornling had vanished right from under the Triad’s nose should have brought more uproar, but Lenya had declared Jarek dead at breakfast the next morning, rather than admitting a student had left Ashthorn in a way different than as an ashmarked or via the cremator.
It had taken three days to convince Maes that her brother was alive, not only because they barely got a spare moment, which they could trust wasn’t infiltrated by Lenya’s spies. By now, Lory knew a few of the faces, and she still wasn’t a hundred percent certain Brycon wasn’t one of them. At least, the knowledgist hadn’t tried to get information out of them, the way others had. Everyone knew Jarek had been close with Tabi, Thal, and Lory, and so people kept asking the hows and whys of his death.
At first, Thal had felt left out when they’d spoken to Maes before they’d come to him, but after he learned the truth in an unobserved moment during Nahrit’s Medica class, he almost spilled the salve he’d been working on all over the table of the small, sunlit laboratory they’d been spending the afternoon in. “It all makes so much sense now,” were the only words he said before he’d squeezed Tabi’s shoulder, his chocolate brown eyes full of understanding as they’d met Lory’s across the table, his black curls bouncing on his forehead as he glanced around the room.
The three of them had spent every free moment together since, making sure they kept an eye on Maes, who preferred not to spend too much time with them until people stoppedasking questions about Jarek. Not that staying away would steer the Triad’s watchful eyes away from them.
Ycken had made it a habit to make all three of them miserable with his regular check-ins, demanding demonstrations of their fighting skills, and by that, found every possible weakness in their defense, and left them with cuts and bruises more often than not.
Lory didn’t complain, though. She kept her head down, the way Nahrit had suggested, and so did the others. Anees and Hadrian played the perfect phantoms, instructing with deadly precision and not showing any favoritism of sorts in front of the others, while every evening, Anees and Lory stared out the window together, musing how far Jarek and Olive might have gotten—and if they’d run into Khayrivven on their way south.
Every time she asked Anees for Khayrivven’s whereabouts, the phantom had no answer, and Nahrit didn’t seem to know either. She’d dared to ask only once, to the effect of him shaking his head. “He’ll be back soon enough.”
Lory lived by those words, holding onto the golden bond originating in her chest and stroking it with all the love her mangled heart had to give.
She hadn’t asked the Medica anything else, despite the questions about Niely’s note.
blood
fae
portal
An answer to that riddle would need to wait until they could risk an open conversation lasting longer than two minutes, tucked between Medica tasks and polishing weapons.
