Chapter 5
Chapter Five
The carriage jolts to a stop.
We’ve only been traveling for thirty minutes. In absolute silence. I throw a questioning glance at Zevayr that he ignores. Instead, he dismounts from the carriage, turning to extend his hand.
What is going on?
Still seated, I stare blankly at him. “Why did we stop?”
“A precautionary measure.” His deep voice rumbles over me, and somehow he makes those few words sound like a command.
I don’t move.
A beat of silence. Another staring match.
He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. The action irks me—what right does he have to be annoyed? I haven’t done anything.
“If we’re attacked,” he explains slowly, as if I’m incapable of intelligent thought, “they’d expect us to ride in one of the royal carriages. So we’ll ride in the smaller one.”
“Attacked by who?”
The Dark Commander doesn’t answer. Just keeps staring at me with his unyielding gray gaze.
“Why didn’t we just ride in the smaller one to begin with?”
Zevayr grinds his teeth. “I wanted to avoid explaining to Tormik why I was delivering his daughter in the … other carriage.” He jerks his hand, the sharp movement dripping with impatience. “Dismount. Please.” He grits out the last word like it pains him.
I cross my arms over my chest. “Stop saying you’re ‘delivering’ me. I’m not goods that you’ve bartered.”
Though that’s exactly what I am.
A flash of amusement flickers through his eyes, there and gone. When he doesn’t say anything else, I stomp down, ignoring his proffered hand, and tread through ankle-deep snow toward the smaller carriage at the back of the procession.
He reaches around me—too tidesdamned close—and opens the door. The back of my neck prickles at his proximity, his heat seeping into me. I dart up the rickety stairs to escape him.
I freeze on the top step, his presence a suffocating weight at my back.
Calling it the other carriage was misleading.
My heart beats faster, thudding angrily against my ribcage.
Inside the small carriage, thick iron shackles are nailed into the back walls on one side.
The interior is cramped—barely enough space for one normal-sized person, let alone me and the massive stormwielder I’m wedged against.
I whirl, gripping the sides of the carriage for balance. My breath hitches—he’s closer than I thought. He stands two steps below me but still towers. I have to crane my neck to glare at him.
“This is to transport prisoners,” I seethe.
“Very observant, Princess,” Zevayr drawls, his mouth twitching. “Now, get in.”
“Absolutely not. You’re out of your tidesdamned mind if you think I’m going to let you shackle me—”
“I’m not planning to shackle you. Unless you give me a reason.” He smirks, like this is some sick joke.
I jab my finger into his chest. His eyes flare in surprise. “You will not parade me through Arbinj like a prisoner. This is humiliating. Insulting. Improper. I can’t fathom—”
“Mayah.” The casual sound of my name on his tongue makes me flinch.
“Take a breath.” His voice is low, steady—infuriatingly calm.
“I’m only insisting on this carriage—this disgracefully obvious, painfully unworthy contraption—for your safety.
And I won’t let you endure it alone. I’ll be right there with you, crammed into this pathetic excuse for transport, which, as you’ve noted, is better suited for convicts instead of princesses.
” He holds my gaze, then gestures behind me.
“Once we reach Arbinj, we’ll switch back into the royal carriage.
You’ll enter the capital with all the pomp and respect you deserve. But for now…”
A beat.
“Get. In.”
I can’t think of a sharp retort, so I pivot quickly, my hair whipping his face, and perch onto the wooden bench with all the dignity I can muster after being subjected to that condescending speech.
Zevayr follows me inside, his knees bumping mine as he folds his massive body down onto the opposite bench.
I narrow my eyes at him in a scorching glare, but the tidesdamned man just tidesdamned smirks at me.
A disgusted scoff claws its way through my lips. I cross my arms and stare outside the smudged window, determined not to let him goad me further.
By my estimate, we’ve been traveling for over an hour in absolute silence. My knees ache—I’ve kept my legs pressed close against the bench. Otherwise, they’d bump against the Dark Commander’s knees with every turn of the wheels.
The tidescursed man takes up so much tidescursed space.
I scowl at him, but he doesn’t notice. He hasn’t spared me a glance since we resumed the journey—his gaze fixed firmly outside the window. I’m not sure what he’s expecting to see. The landscape hasn’t changed since we left—leagues and leagues of white terrain and large, snowcapped trees.
“Why did you refuse to stay at the palace?” I ask. “It was just one night.” The words leave my mouth before I can stop them. He finally looks at me, then, an unreadable expression on his face.
“The ceasefire is relatively new. I didn’t want to risk staying in … hostile territory for longer than necessary.”
“A ceasefire that only you have broken.”
“So far.” He’s annoyingly calm, muscular arms crossed over his chest. “And I told you, it was an accident.”
An accident that killed dozens of Tundrayni warriors and injured at least one hundred more. The phantom stench of their burnt flesh still lingers in my nostrils.
“During the betrothal ceremony … the thunder. Was that you?”
“Yes.” He doesn’t offer anything else. Irritation simmers inside me.
“Why?” I press, leaning forward.
“I was angry.”
“You can’t control your power when you’re angry?”
“Do you always ask so many questions?” he grits out, exasperated.
“Maybe.” I smirk. I’ve managed to shake his stoic attitude—annoyed him, even—and it pleases me more than it should.
“Why do you want to marry my brother?” he asks, his gray eyes unnervingly pinned on me.
The question takes me by surprise.
“I don’t. But I’ll do anything to protect my people.”
He doesn’t answer immediately, his eyes still riveted to me. I open my mouth, poised to ask what he finds so fascinating about my face, but the words never leave my throat.
A bone-rattling explosion rocks the carriage. I’m thrown against the wall as the carriage tips onto its side, my head slamming against the window. I’ve barely caught my breath when something massive crashes into me—Zevayr—forcing all the air from my lungs.
A muttered shit is all I hear through the pounding in my skull.
“Stay here,” he commands, his face barely an inch from my own. And then his weight on me is gone. I watch, still gasping for breath as he punches the carriage door open and climbs out. It slams shut behind him, muffling the mayhem outside.
The panicked shouts of soldiers, the frantic whinnying of horses, the dull clanging of steel. The carriage is dark and cramped, and the walls close in, a heavy weight pressing over my lungs.
I can’t stay in here.
Another explosion rings out, so powerful that my teeth clatter in my skull. More screaming, but fainter this time. I can’t tell if it’s because men have died in the second blast or because the shrill ringing in my ears drowns everything out.
But the next sound is bone-jarringly clear.
The deafening crash of thunder.
It’s so loud, so close, as if a storm cloud hovers directly above the carriage. Another boom rattles the air, and any thoughts of leaving the carriage vanish. My heart thrashes, desperate to tear free from my chest, while my breath stumbles in short, useless gasps.
Rain pelts the carriage, sudden and angry, its harsh staccato mocking me. I’m frozen in place, back pressed against the side.
Tides take me, I’m useless.
It’s just a storm. It’s just a storm. It’s just a—
The carriage jolts upwards before landing back down with a heavy crash, and my head knocks against the wall a second time. The world spins, and I swallow back the bile rising in my throat.
My power thrums inside me, familiar and welcome, surfacing unbidden to my palms. Before I can soothe the throbbing in my skull, sharp thuds echo across the exterior of the carriage, each one cracking higher.
As if someone is climbing it.
The door is flung open, letting in light and rain and something else, before it swings back shut with a slam. A soft sizzling echoes from somewhere near my head. Outside, another explosion tears through the chaos.
By the Tides.
The hissing sizzle grows louder, and with sudden clarity, I realize what the something else is.
Forcing the door open, I all but hurl myself out. I’m immediately soaked in the downpour, barely able to see through sheets of freezing rain. Soldiers swarm around me, slipping on ice and water. I do, too, landing hard on my knees.
A blade nearly nicks me as I crawl away from the carriage with a bomb inside it. My hands glow, shaky but ready. I scan the clearing, ready to heal or hide, but I can’t make sense through the chaos. All of the men are clad in dark leathers.
Which ones are Zevayr’s men?
It must be the Rebellion that attacked us.
I squint, trying to make out the Arbinji crest, but there’s too much movement, too much rain.
“There’s a bomb!” I shout, but the storm swallows my warning.
The stench of smoke and burning flesh fills my nostrils.
The sounds of battle are deafening in my ears.
The clang of metal.
Shouted orders.
The final groans of the dying.
But loudest of all—thunder.
In the midst of the chaos, I see him.
He’s a blur of dark leather and steel, his sword flashing around him like lightning itself. He impales one man, his sword pushing clean through the rebel’s abdomen.
He lifts his other hand skyward.
Lightning answers.
The sky splits open, and a massive, blinding bolt shoots down before my eyes and incinerates three men headed for him. Even after the bolt vanishes, the terrifying shape of the lightning flickers before my eyes, like a haunting, violent phantom.
My heart pounds in my ears. My lungs can’t get enough air, useless pants sawing through my chest.
Father was wrong. I am a sniveling child.
Don’t come out, Mayah. No matter what you hear.
Another bolt crashes down, closer to me this time, and a strangled yelp tears loose.
Loud footsteps sound on wooden stairs.
Me. They want me.
My hands claw at the frozen ground, knuckles whiter than the snow. A fierce clap of thunder jolts my bones. The snow is cold and wet beneath my knees.
My face is wet with tears. Or is it rain? It can’t be rain. I’m in my closet. Where is Mama?
The carriage I escaped explodes into millions of tiny pieces, wood chips spraying out in a shower of jagged edges.
That gets Zevayr’s attention.
His head snaps toward the sound, then swivels frantically until his gaze lands on me. His brows furrow. Concern? Anger? Another bolt of lightning crashes down, barely a foot to my left, and I scream and scream and scream. A body collapses beside me.
I’m not a betrothed princess anymore. I’m six years old again.
The door is opening.
The thunder is angry.
The world is burning. And
I
can’t
breathe.
The thud of boots grows louder. Lightning flashes, silhouetting the shadows of their feet. Where is Mama?
“It’s the princess!” a voice calls out. “Don’t hurt her!”
That’s the last thing I hear before the world snuffs out.