Chapter 8 In The Dirt #4
My body folds inward. I curl in on myself, as if I can shrink away from the words.
“That’s not true.”
“Isn’t it?”
The air shifts. It grows colder. Heavier.
Images ripple through the space around me like reflections in water.
My classroom. Me staying late to stack chairs while other teachers leave in pairs.
Me on the phone with my mother. She tells me to stay in Colorado. To live my life. I don’t listen.
Sorren bleeding on my classroom floor. Why did I help him? A stranger with an impossible story?
“You need to be needed,” the voice says. “Without it, you are nothing.”
I lower my hands slowly.
Blood streaks my cheeks like war paint.
“I am not nothing.”
The voice hums. Dismissive.
I hate it, and I hate myself.
Rage grows in me like a living thing. First a bud, then it builds. Blooms.
I stagger to my feet and whirl. “Who are you to judge me? Huh? Where are you? Why don’t you show your face?” My voice cracks as I spin in a circle. “Coward.”
“I am everywhere,” it answers. “Infinite.”
“I would think if you’ve lived this long, you’d have developed a conscience. That you wouldn’t toy with people’s emotions for fun. Or sport.”
I lurch forward and wrench Thornreaper from the ground. I don’t even flinch when the thorns bite deep into my palm. Blood spills freely, but I don’t feel the sting.
I raise the sword.
“You think you know me? That you have the right to look down on me?” My chest heaves.
“I do like to be useful, because I’m a good person.
I do want to help, because the world needs that.
It needs people who show up. Who look out for each other.
Who help a stranger, even if he occasionally turns into a rabbit. ”
My voice grows steadier. Stronger.
“You want me to feel ashamed for wanting to be loved? Doesn’t everyone want that? Don’t you?”
The blade burns in my grip.
Blood streams from my hand, pattering onto the soil. It spreads, merging with the blood of my mother. Of Sorren. Until the entire floor is slick with it.
“Maybe you’re the one who’s alone here.”
The sword pulses to my words, a heartbeat held in my hands.
“I am loved,” I shout now, the words tearing free of me. “Even if I am not useful. Even if I fail. Even if I’m alone. My mother loves me. Sorren loves me.”
My vision blurs, but I don’t look away.
“Tell me,” I demand. “Who loves you?”
The soil beneath my feet begins to tremble. Then the walls shake. Dirt and pebbles break free. They cascade down in a soft, tinkling patter that sounds like rain.
I glance down as tiny green shoots push up between my boots. They rise fast, twisting, unfurling, vivid and lush. Alive.
More vines burst from the walls, splitting stone and soil alike. Branches stretch outward, bowing under the weight of glossy leaves.
That same sweet perfume from earlier floods the air. Suddenly, there are flowers everywhere. Petals open in a riot of color—ruby, gold, violet, and blue—until every surface is covered with living green.
Within minutes, the entire chamber is transformed.
A carpet of leaves creeps across the floor, flowing over my mother’s body. Over Sorren’s. It rises higher and thicker. Until they vanish beneath it.
The outline of their forms softens. Flattens. Disappears.
As if they were never there.
My mouth falls open.
A butterfly drifts toward me, small and blue.
The one from the night before. Or one just like it.
It hovers inches from my face, its wings beating slow and deliberate.
I lift my hand toward it and, for a moment, it lands on me.
Lingers. Then it flutters away to join dozens more that spiral through the flowering vines.
Birdsong spills into the air. Followed by the croak of frogs. The buzz of bees.
Life hums everywhere.
The grass along the floor has grown as tall as my ankles. It ripples as a disturbance moves through it. A slow, deliberate wave traveling straight toward me.
The blades part, and a snake rises.
Higher.
Higher.
Until it stands nearly eye level with me, its body lifting from the grass in a smooth, controlled column.
I instinctively step back when I see the distinctive triangular hood flare wide around its head. Gold eyes, bright with intelligence, lock onto mine.
A king cobra.
“I guess that makes sense,” I say.
The snake sways before me, its black forked tongue flicking in and out, tasting the air.
“What makes sense?” it asks, the words slipping out on a soft, serpentine hiss.
“The egg,” I answer. “Snakes come from eggs.”
The cobra’s hood relaxes slightly. It hums at that.
“You murdered what I gave you without hesitation,” the snake murmurs. Light slides over its polished scales.
“I killed illusions.” I lift my chin, steadying my grip on the sword, though I keep its tip lowered.
“How did you know they were not real?” the snake asks.
“Because neither Sorren nor my mother would ever ask me to kill the other. That’s not who they are.”
The snake studies me.
“But you felt doubt.”
“Yes.” I nod once. “Doubt is not failure.”
“You felt regret.”
“Yes.” I pause. “Regret does not always mean you made the wrong choice.”
The snake circles me slowly. I turn with it, refusing to let my back face it.
I do not trust this creature. I do not trust what it shows me. Or what it says.
“You did not choose lover over mother.” The snake glides closer. There’s a detached curiosity to its tone. I steel myself not to retreat.
It rises higher. Closer. Its tongue flicks out, brushing the air inches from my face.
I do not blink. I do not back down.
“No,” I say evenly. “I chose myself.”
“You surprise me, Heir’s mate,” the snake says, studying me. “It has been a long time since I was last surprised.”
“My name is Nora.” I don’t lower my gaze. “Who are you?”
“I have had many names.” The final s sound stretches out, long and soft. Sibilant. “None of them matter. Your kind draws odd comfort from labeling things. As if naming something gives you power over it.”
“It doesn’t?” I ask.
“It gives you nothing.”
“If you don’t tell me what to call you, I’ll make something up,” I threaten, brandishing the sword slightly. “I’m thinking Melvin.”
The cobra hisses sharply, hood flaring in clear offense.
“Melvin?” it repeats.
“Yes. You look like a Melvin.”
A long pause follows. “Of all the names I have borne,” the snake finally says, voice tight with dignity, “there is one your tongue can manage.”
It lifts its head slightly.
“Veskar.”
“Fine,” I say. “Veskar. I still like Melvin, but it’s your choice.” I lower the sword slightly. “Now tell me where Sorren is.”
“How can you be certain he is not dead?”
“Because I feel him,” I answer. “Through the bond. I would know if he died.” My throat tightens, but my voice does not waver. “A part of me would die with him.”
Veskar holds my stare for a long moment. “Very well.”
“Nora?” Birds and butterflies explode into the air as Sorren bursts into the clearing.
He reaches me in seconds, stepping directly in front of me, placing his body between mine and the snake.
“Give me the sword,” he growls. “I’ll kill it.”
I step forward. To stand at his side. “That will not be necessary,” I say, keeping my gaze on the cobra. “We passed your trials. Did we not?”
“Indeed.” Veskar rises higher on its coils to match Sorren’s height. “Thornreaper is yours.”
“What about the Amulet of Springtide?” asks Sorren, a strange urgency in his tone.
The snake glides closer to him. It cocks its head. “Are you certain that is your desire, Princeling?”
“I see no other way.” Sorren’s body tenses.
Veskar looks between us, and something about its hesitation causes unease to stir in my gut. “As you wish.”
The snake lowers its gaze to the ground at our feet. We follow.
A single tendril pushes up through the grass, slow and deliberate.
It coils higher, thickening as it rises.
At its tip hangs a glittering necklace of gold.
The chain is heavy with thick, interlocking links that catch the light.
At its center rests a single jewel. An emerald, oval shaped, a deep spring green, veined with fine threads of silver.
As I watch, the silver shifts.
It bunches together, twines, and unravels.
Knots. Unknots.
Like something is alive, breathing, inside the stone.
The vine bows toward us, and the amulet slips free. It drops into Sorren’s open palm.
The tendril withdraws at once, sinking back into the earth as if it was never there.
Sorren bows his head over the amulet while Veskar and I wait. The great cobra coils nearby, silent, his gold eyes unblinking as they move between us.
After a long beat, Sorren steps toward me. “Let me put this on you, Nora. It will protect you from my uncle.”
I step forward and bow my head, ready for the relief of safety. To know I won’t have to run or hide ever again.
Sorren raises the necklace. Its chain trembles faintly in his fingers, creating a soft clinking sound. He holds it over my head, but right before he places it around my neck I glance up.
His expression is one of pure misery, his eyes tight. Mouth turned down.
But why?
We passed the trials. Won the weapons.
I explore the bond, pushing my consciousness out along the threads that connect us and find his end muffled, like Sorren is hiding from me…but that can’t be right.
He loves me. He wouldn’t lie to me. Trick me.
Would he?
Behind us, Veskar shifts slightly in the grass, scales whispering against the leaves, but he says nothing.
Like a battering ram, I force my way through the door Sorren has constructed between us. I use all my strength to fling it wide open. Sorrow pushes through the bond immediately. Not just sadness. This is a hollow, bone-deep despair that doesn’t belong to someone offering protection.
“Wait.” I step back, just out of reach.
I test the bond again and find nothing but grief. The kind of grief that comes after a funeral. The kind that happens when something is gone for good.
“How?” I ask him, my voice sharp. “How will the Amulet of Springtide protect me?”