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Beneath my palm, his heart beats, steady, strong. I fixate on the rise and fall of his chest, the heat seeping through the woolen tunic. My fingers twist into the fabric, pressing into the firmness beneath and the steady cadence of his breath.
Inhale. Exhale. Slow. Measured.
The tempest roaring within me begins to fade, overpowered by the unshakable calm that radiates from him.
The wind softens, transforming into a gentle whisper that winds through the frosted air. The icy bite that stung my cheeks and numbed my fingers mellows into a cool caress, as though the forest itself has drawn a deep breath and exhaled in quiet surrender.
“You did it.” Lyxander’s words cut through the remaining haze, yanking me back to reality. To my hand pressed firmly against his chest, the heat of his touch searing into my skin.
My stomach swoops.
“Don’t touch me,” I snap, wrenching my hand free.
Lyxander shifts back, holding his palms up as if the gesture could make him look less threatening.
“I’m sorry—” The words lodge in my throat, and I look away, pretending the soft sway of the branches overhead holds my attention more than his gaze.
“I understand, little bird. You do not need to explain yourself,” he says softly. “Not to me.”
The grip around my throat eases, and I dip my chin. With trembling fingers, I retrieve the ring from where I dropped it and push myself up to my feet. The ground tilts when I stand, a slow sway that has nothing to do with the wind, which, while softer, still isn’t entirely calm.
“It wasn’t that bad the last time.”
“That tends to happen when you try to lock magic away,” he says.
I tuck the ring into the side pocket of my pack and leave it there.
The clearing feels too quiet now, the wind’s absence almost as unsettling as its fury. My chest aches, and my limbs shiver. I wrap my cloak tighter around my body.
“I made you a deal. So, I owe you an answer,” Lyxander says. “When my theïkós manifested, I told myself it was easier not to use it, safer to bury it than to risk what it might do. The more I ignored it, the more it twisted, warping into something I couldn’t control.”
“What happened then?”
He pulls off his left glove and pushes up the sleeve of his tunic, revealing the jagged black tattoos climbing down his forearm. “It burned me from the inside out, until it tore its way out of me.”
“Burned you?” I frown, my gaze flicking from his face to the tattoos as I lower myself back to the ground. Such power is reserved for the bloodline of the Sorrows and fire nymphai. “Do you wield fire, then?”
Something shifts in the wake of my words.
Lyxander goes still. Completely, unnervingly still. His eyes find mine, and a furrow carves its way into his brow, like he’s weighing the balance of some decision.
The scent of burning flesh fills the air, and he winces as the tattoos snake down his hand toward his fingertips.
A tremor ripples through the clearing. Above, the canopy sways, and in the distance, thunder rumbles low and deep.
My heart stutters. “What are you—”
“Not fire,” Lyxander says, his voice carrying a trace of a growl. He lifts his gaze to meet mine, and the charmed hazel of his eyes flickers, then flares to silver.
A storm raging within. Not dormant. Not calm.
Caged.
A brilliant flash of light splits the sky above the clearing, illuminating the forest in stark, blinding white.
“Lightning.”
Chapter 12
