CHAPTER 14 Wren
CHAPTER 14
Wren
‘The true alchemist fears not the crucible, for within its embrace, even the unyielding may be transformed’
– Alchemy Unbound
S HADOWS POURED FROM the vortex at her feet and wrapped around her limbs like ropes. They dug into her flesh, binding her tighter and tighter, cords of onyx lashing at her, the pain bright and fierce.
She screwed her eyes shut as the next onslaught of pain began.
Make it stop, make it stop—
Wren woke with a scream. The sheets were tangled around her legs and she fought to catch her breath, a river of perspiration between her breasts.
Her door flew open, pale torchlight from the hallway beyond illuminating the giant mass of a Warsword filling the door frame. He was barefoot and bare-chested, his leathers slung low across his hips and his hammer poised to strike. Eyes wild, he charged inside in a single stride, searching her room with brutal efficiency. His attention went to exactly where the shadows had been in her dream, as though he knew precisely where she’d seen them, where they’d struck her, until at last his gaze fell to where her fists clenched the blankets, and where her hair had come unbound, wild around her face.
‘It’s nothing,’ she croaked. ‘Nothing happened.’
Torj crouched beside the bed, resting his hammer across his bare shoulder. ‘It’s not nothing.’ His voice was raw, as though he’d been right there with her, as though the darkness had wrenched screams from his throat as well.
Wren exhaled shakily. Though they weren’t touching, he was close enough that she could feel the heat radiating from his skin. The torchlight cast a gilded glow across the warrior: the corded muscles of his neck and shoulders, the sculpted curves of his biceps, the hard sinew of his forearms. Hesitation flickered across his face before he reached for her, and in the quiet seconds between possibility and action, Wren pictured it: being pulled into those arms, pressing her lips to the column of his throat.
It took all her willpower not to lean into him. She had done so once before, and it had left her weak. She hated that his presence seemed to quell that panicked terror inside her.
Wren took a moment to catch her breath, waiting for her heart rate to slow, if that were at all possible considering who knelt before her. For a breath, her fear abated – replaced by something full of fire.
Until her eyes fell to the web of scars marring the flesh across Torj’s tattooed chest.
Guilt lanced through her at the sight. She had done that to him.
‘Get out.’ It was barely a whisper.
He flinched as though she’d struck him.
‘Get out,’ she said, louder this time.
Torj stood, ridges of muscle rippling, that same intense energy charging the air around them. ‘Call a night terror of that magnitude “nothing” again and I’ll be guarding you from your bedside next time,’ he growled, before slamming the door closed behind him.
With panic still gripping her heart in a vice, Wren reached for the box of trinkets beneath her bed, opening it in her lap. There, she counted each memento: the gold-framed monocle, the foreign coin, the pendant, the pocket watch, the signet ring, the inkwell, the brooch, the drake figurine, the coin...She recalled each poisoning with a small sense of comfort. She had taken her revenge; she had wiped the stain of their existence from the midrealms.
Yet it did not keep the shadows at bay.
The next day, Wren spent the early hours of the morning in her cabin, trying to forget the feeling of his hands on her. Each time it had happened, her heart had quickened. Each time, her magic had seemed to recognize its counterpart, stirring up longing she had no business feeling. Two years ago, he’d interfered with her ledger. His antics that night had cost her six months’ worth of work and snatched a mark right from her grasp. No, there was nothing to be stirred up but fury.
Resolved to ignore him, Wren dressed and piled her hair atop her head in her usual messy bun, donning her belt of tools and tinctures. She opened the door to find Torj waiting outside her cabin like nothing had happened.
Despite the rage coursing through her, Wren deemed that pretending was indeed the best course of action. At least this way she could deny she had ever imagined the press of his body against hers. Mercifully, the upper deck was bustling with other passengers, which gave her something to look at other than him.
The constant company was grating, be it the brutish Bear Slayer himself or Farissa, Cal, or Kipp. The fresh sea air soothed her, though, shaking loose a piece of herself that she’d kept tightly caged away.
She had barely been resting her arms against the rail for a moment, breathing in the briny breeze sweeping across the deck, when Kipp sidled up beside her, an entire loaf of bread in his hands. Cal took up the space on her other side with an apologetic grimace. Wren didn’t need to look over her shoulder to know that the Warsword was close behind them. She could practically feel the heat of his glower on her back.
‘Fancy a bite?’ Kipp offered between mouthfuls. ‘Baked fresh this morning.’
‘No, thank you,’ she said, though she couldn’t remember the last time she’d eaten.
Kipp shrugged. ‘Suit yourself.’
Wren glanced at the strategist warily. ‘Remind me again what you’re doing here?’
‘Rude,’ Kipp scoffed, nearly choking on the piece of bread he was chewing. ‘But I hear there’s an excellent tavern within the academy grounds.’
‘Kipp...’ she warned.
‘You ruin all the mystery, Your Queenliness.’
Wren’s patience was wearing thin already.
Kipp gave a dramatic sigh, as though she truly was spoiling all his fun. ‘Audra believes that as Thezmarr’s best strategist—’
‘ Only strategist.’
Cal snorted at that.
‘Semantics,’ Kipp retorted. ‘As Thezmarr’s best strategist, they think I should have a handle on some of the disciplines being taught at the academy.’
‘Like what? I don’t see you brewing anything unless it’s a new type of sour mead.’
‘And what a worthy pursuit that would be,’ he beamed. ‘But no. Thezmarr needs to be abreast of what’s happening. I’m acting as an ambassador of the fortress.’
Wren turned to Cal, who cut a fine figure as a Warsword now. ‘And you?’
Cal grinned proudly. ‘I’ve been assigned to the protection of a prestigious guest lecturer. I was specially requested.’
Wren’s brows shot up. ‘Who? Anyone I would know?’
Cal straightened his posture, a hint of satisfaction in his voice. ‘He’s from abroad, so probably not, but apparently he’s very renowned in his circles. Professor Vulpine.’
Wren tried to recall the names on the spines of her books back in her cottage, and those she’d read time and time again during her years at Thezmarr. She shook her head. ‘I don’t think I know of him. But good for you, Cal. Though, are you sure you can’t switch with the Bear Slayer?’
Behind them, she heard the Warsword in question cough loudly into his breakfast.
But Cal was all seriousness. ‘I may have passed the Great Rite, but Torj has been a Warsword for years . There is no one better equipped to protect you.’
‘The vote of confidence is noted and appreciated, Callahan,’ Torj called out.
‘Suck-up,’ Kipp snickered.
‘I don’t need protection,’ Wren muttered.
‘Anyway,’ Kipp said loudly. ‘Is there a bar on this boat? Preferably with a bevy of ladies who need entertaining?’
‘I did hear that the captain’s daughter is eager to meet Thezmarr’s best strategic mind,’ Wren replied.
Kipp’s brows shot up. ‘Really?’
Wren couldn’t help but laugh, the strangely foreign sound catching her off-guard. ‘No.’
Kipp had the gall to look offended. ‘That was cruel.’
‘You make it too easy, Kristopher.’
She left them on deck, ignoring the shadow of the Warsword who followed at a distance, pretending she didn’t notice the way his hand constantly drifted to the scars on his chest.