Chapter 11 Losing by Your Side
Losing by Your Side
T
urn the corner and I’m at Azaire’s window. Knock on the window and he will answer. But I don’t knock, I stare. I contemplate. I know how easy it would be to leave.
But when I see Azaire writing at his desk, I know that I’m not ready to walk away.
There’s precision in his emotion as his pen glides along the page. Something that’s almost calculated, mathematical. It’s specific and expressive. There is no other way to describe it but him.
And I fall into it—silently descending the endless well.
“There is still time to run,” the boy tells me, his words a rope, pulling me back up. He’s right—I want to run. I almost listen.
But this is a trial. This doesn’t have to mean anything.
The smoke of Lucian’s care still clings to me, the scent wafting with every breath. I want that, too. I want what everyone else has. So I plant my feet.
But fear overcomes me—I can’t have what everyone else has, and I don’t need the boy to tell me. I already know why.
Before I have the chance to give in to fear, to run, Azaire looks up from his black journal. His gaze meets mine, and he smiles.
Turning around is no longer an option.
As he opens his window, his smile grows. “What a surprise.”
The sound of his voice lifts something in me.
“A happy one, I hope?”
Azaire narrows his eyes, teasing. “Horrifically scary, actually.”
I bite my lip, taking a small step back from the window. “Then I better be on my way, huh?”
Before I can move, his hand flashes out—fast and certain—catching my wrist. I look up, breath caught, meeting his gaze.
“Leaving,” he murmurs, “would be more horrific.”
I can’t help but smile.
“This is all it takes to woo you?” the boy taunts. “I could do this in my sleep.”
“Then you should try it sometime.”
Azaire releases my hand, and I step closer. “What are you writing?”
I’m trying to distract myself from the boy. It took a lot of guts for me to walk here today, especially with the boy berating me, telling me what a bad idea this is.
I already know.
But, for once, I don’t want to face this day alone.
Azaire blushes, sliding a book over his notebook. “Nothing.”
It isn’t nothing—the opposite, actually. But he doesn’t want to share with me, and there are a million things I don’t want to share with him. So I leave it be, extending a hand through the window, over his desk and into his room.
“Coming?”
Azaire doesn’t hesitate before slipping his hand into mine. My longing and fear mix in equal measures. I’ve spent years running from this very moment, yet here it is.
It’s found me.
I pull him out of the window, both of us laughing when his feet catch on the sill, and I tug him closer, barely managing to steady him.
His hands grip my waist, fingers digging into the fabric of my shirt. It’s the same way he held me at the dance—only this time, there’s an undeniable intensity in his touch, as if now he knows it’s welcome.
For a breathless moment, we’re standing so close I can feel the rapid beat of his heart against mine.
His eyes drop to my lips, and a surge of heat pulses through me, desire coiling like a serpent.
Every part of me is drawn to him, every nerve humming with need, my skin burning where his hands rest.
I’ve always wondered if my first time touching a person again would be a kiss.
I can feel his body against mine, every inch of him. I can feel his gaze on my lips, every moment of desire.
It’s the culmination of years of stolen glances, yet in the face of it, we both close our eyes.
Neither of us acts.
I’m the first to pull away, because that’s how it has to be.
I can look.
I can never touch.
We walk through the woods, the sun peeking through the trees. It’s mostly silent, the tension teeming between us, like the calm before the storm.
As if we both know that this is as inevitable as the rain.
That we are inevitable.
Azaire is wondering where we’re going—I don’t want to explain before I have to. It’s not a bad surprise, but it’s not for him either.
This is for me.
This is my dream.
To live this day with someone else. Someone who cares.
It’s been a long time since I had that.
We clamber over the rocks and weave through the bushes until a small cedar cottage emerges into view.
Azaire glances at me, his dark brows lifting in surprise—as if he can’t believe I brought him here. As if he already knows what this means to me.
I could almost believe that he is feeling my emotions.
The last time I was here, I killed for the first time—tore the eyes out of a pernipe. I try not to let that memory taint my sanctuary as I step through the door.
Inside, the cottage is covered in dust and cobwebs. A thick layer of grime coats every surface, like always. The purple chairs and cushions are decaying with time, and the kitchen is something from the past—only one counter with a wooden mortar and pestle, and a big black iron pot on the floor.
It might be a part of the reason I enjoyed this cottage so much through the years. The world would change, but this stayed the same: dusty, old, and decayed.
The remnants of a world long forgotten. No one has lived in this part of Visnatus since the Arcanian War, before the academy opened. This cottage is, at least, a thousand years old. But it still stands, despite its neglect. Despite its loneliness.
It gives me hope.
“Upstairs is the best part,” I say, making my way to the stairs.
Every step is a different color—an array of dark blues, purples, yellows, greens, and reds.
Azaire likes the second floor, too. A tree has pushed through the home, its trunk breaking through the floor and its branches spreading wide.
He steps forward, brushing his fingers against the leaves as the sunlight filters through the stained-glass window.
The colors dapple his brown skin in shades of green, blue, and purple.
“What is this place?”
Branches and leaves crunch beneath my feet as I step into the room, moving away from the staircase.
“A very old home,” I answer. “Before the Arcanian War there were villages on this land. This is the last cottage standing.” Pausing, I gently touch the stained glass. “I come on this day every year.” I run my fingers along the rough edges of the window. “I used to come with Ma.”
I wasn’t allowed to return home to Eunaris on Ma’s birthday, so she would visit me for the afternoon.
We loved this room.
Today is the first in years that there was a possibility of not being alone here. It was selfishness that led me to drag Azaire along.
I stare out the window, past the trees and into the woods.
Sometimes, if I squint just right, it blurs into something familiar—my hometown.
A place I once considered the safest in the worlds.
I can almost see Ma and me, gathering wildflowers in the fields.
She used to cover one eye with a violet and smile at me, an image so vivid it felt straight out of a painting.
Ma was beautiful. Full cheeks with freckles and elegant emerald eyes. People used to tell me I was her spitting image. I hope I am.
I don’t realize I’m touching the scar along my chin until Azaire says, “I’m sorry.”
My hand falls away as I look back at him. “You aren’t supposed to say that.”
We don’t say I’m sorry at the academy. It’s improper. We say my apologies, and we don’t mean it, either.
Azaire chuckles softly. “I’m the farthest thing from elite here.”
“Yeah?” I smile. “Maybe that’s why I like you.”
“You…” Azaire steps forward, lips twisting into a grin. “Like me?” His voice lilts with teasing curiosity.
I shove an arm into his shoulder, laughing, then bite my lip to hold it in. “Don’t get all smug on me now.”
“My apologies.” He smiles. “I just like hearing it.”
Turning from him, I move toward the gap in the wall where the balcony used to be. I sit on the ledge, legs dangling, the ground far beneath my feet.
Azaire’s soft voice fills the room. “Thank you.”
He feels like love and gratitude. I don’t understand why, but I like it. The sun is in my chest, feeding the flowers.
“For what?” I ask, staring at my legs kicking in the air.
Azaire sits beside me, his hands resting on the floor, a breath from mine.
“For showing me.”
“It’s not a big deal.” I shake my head.
“It is,” he says, with so much sympathy that I long to pull away. Hide my face, because I don’t deserve it.
I am the reason I sit here alone every year.
“You don’t have to keep people out,” Azaire whispers. “I did it for a long time, too, until I finally realized that this life is meant to be enjoyed, no matter how many of those moments are fleeting.”
He says it, but he does not mean it. Not all of it. Behind his words, there is a twinge of guilt. That is the feeling I can’t help but cling to, because it is the very thing I fear.
My gaze drifts beyond the treetops into a blue oblivion. My voice stays soft. “You don’t understand the circumstances.”
There’s a lapse of silence as Azaire contemplates. I fall into his feeling, using it as a crutch, a way to carry my own.
“I lost my parents, too,” he says.
My head shoots up, but Azaire is looking down. I look down, too, seeing my dead mother on the ground. I rub my eyes, wondering what Azaire sees.
He knows this pain of mine—understands it. I study the planes of his face, the lines creasing in his forehead as he furrows his eyebrows.
“Do you… want to talk?”
It’s as if the cracks in Azaire’s shell fortify and send spikes through my walls. I don’t want him to tell me if he isn’t ready. I’m about to say as much when he mutters, “All I remember is someone taking me to Visnatus in the aftermath.”
I feel his pain, a guilt-ridden agony like my own. But he doesn’t harp on it, doesn’t tug the splinter out just to shove it right back into his skin.
Azaire’s gaze shifts to mine. “I don’t want to make you feel this,” he says.
I realize his walls closed not because he didn’t want to tell me, but because he wants to spare me the pain.
It’s the most thoughtful thing anyone has ever done for me.