Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
We’ve been traveling for days. True to his word, Zevayr doesn’t touch me—except every night when I sleep in his arms. We don’t talk about it. Like he said, it’s necessary for survival in the frigid landscape and nothing more. I try not to dwell on it.
During the day, we usually travel in silence.
But whenever Zevayr does speak, it’s a struggle not to strangle him. I’ve never met a more infuriating man. It’s as though his every comment is designed to burrow beneath my skin and rile me up.
“How much farther until we’re out of Tundrayn?
” I ask, my breath misting in the brisk air.
The unforgiving chill manages to seep through my borrowed gloves.
I lock my jaw so my teeth don’t chatter.
It irks me that the freezing temperatures don’t seem to affect Zevayr nearly as much.
He must’ve grown accustomed to our harsh climate over all the years he’s spent in our lands—murdering my people.
“At least another two weeks.” He glances back at me, a mocking smirk curling his full lips. “Tired already? I didn’t realize Tundraynis were such babies.”
I scoff, rolling my eyes. “I’ve met corpses with better insults than you.”
“Meet a lot of corpses, do you?”
“Yes, actually. It’s quite cruel. They come back in droves from the border. Usually burnt to a crisp by lightning.”
His jaw clenches so hard, for a second I hope his teeth will crack.
And just like that, we’re back to traveling in silence.
Frost crunches underfoot as I gather dried pine branches for a fire while Zevayr hunts. We’ve mostly been eating snowshoe hare, though once he caught a large arctic fox.
He scans the perimeter every night and meticulously erases all evidence of our campsites.
Sometimes, we double back and take a different route to confuse anyone who might be tracking us.
I’m surprised we haven’t encountered any more rebels—it’s impossible to completely erase tracks in the snow.
Perhaps they were dissuaded by all the corpses the Dark Commander left for them to collect.
Despite my disdain for him, a whispering ripple of respect begrudgingly flows through me. Smug, arrogant monster, he may be, but he’s kept me alive so far.
Of course he can skin a hare in seconds. Of course he knows exactly what direction to travel based on the sun’s movements.
I hate being so dependent on him.
Why couldn’t he just be an idiot with a pretty face?
By the time Zevayr returns with a large snowshoe hare, the fire is crackling.
His hood falls back, and I wish I didn’t notice the perfectly imperfect tousle of his dark hair, the shadow of days-old stubble along the sharp line of his jaw, the firelight dancing across his high cheekbones.
My gaze drops to his full lips, currently turned down in a scowl—
I tear my eyes away.
Handsome or not, he’s a murderer.
He skins the hare in utter silence—which is just fine by me. When it’s ready, he skewers it on a long, thin branch and rotates it over the makeshift spit until the flesh is crackling. He doesn’t spare me a glance when he hands me my portion, which again, is just fine by me.
We eat in stilted, familiar silence.
Until he breaks it.
“You think my lightning is cruel?” Zevayr says, his voice frosted with ice. “You should see what waterwielders can do.”
His tone drops, low and razor-edged.
“I’ve pulled men off the battlefield with ice spears piercing their lungs—jagged, serrated shards.
They choke on their own blood while we try to break ribs to dig them out.
I’ve seen soldiers with bubbles of water forced over their heads.
They scratch their faces bloody trying to escape before they drown. ”
His eyes narrow.
“But the worst? Water forced in through the nose, mouth, eyes—until it fills the body. And then frozen solid. You know what that looks like, Mayah?”
Zevayr turns away—can’t bear to look at me anymore.
“And while your people have healers with glowing hands and soothing light, know what we have? Poultices. Crushed roots. Bark soaked in boiled snow. Whatever the earth gives us. We’re fighting the same war with blood and dirt, while your people can erase wounds into nothing.”
A beat.
“So don’t talk to me about cruelty.”
He rises, a towering mountain of cold rage. Without another word, he stalks over to the blanket and lies down.
I guess I have first watch.
So don’t talk to me about cruelty.
His words flit through my mind in an endless loop. I stare at the fire, still catching my breath. I want to hate him. I want to cling to the cold clarity of anger. But his words echo like thunder inside me, and I don’t know what to do with them.
I hate to admit it, but he’s right. My people aren’t the only ones who have suffered in this tidescursed war. There must be peace.
For all.
That’s why I’m doing this.
Why I left my home.
To unite Tundrayn and Arbinj and end this war.
With a heavy sigh, I kick snow over the fire and trudge over to the blanket where Zevayr lies still. His stony gray eyes catch mine—he’s still awake.
I bite my lip. It feels wrong to sleep beside him and steal his heat, not after our fight. I head toward the other side of the blanket, bracing for a night of numb limbs and chattering teeth when his deep voice stops me.
“Mayah.”
He’s said only my name, but somehow it’s a command.
Something primal flares in my belly. I shove it down and shuffle over to him.
Zevayr peels back the cloak and offers me his arm, like he’s done every night since he dragged me over to him.
It feels unnervingly natural to rest my head on his large bicep.
Comfortable—safe—when he covers us with his heavy cloak.
This is a necessity for survival. Nothing more.
Zevayr is not my friend. I can’t let myself forget that, even when I’m in the protective cocoon of his arms. I steal a glance at his face—his gray eyes are fixed to the space above my head.
No, he isn’t my friend.
But he is a person.
And he’s hurting.
And a healer is helpless against her instinct to soothe pain.
I shouldn’t care. But I can’t look at all that grief and do nothing. I was trained to close wounds. Not turn away from them.
At least that’s what I tell myself before I speak.
“Who did you lose?” I ask softly, eyes focused on the steady rise and fall of his chest. It feels too intimate to lock gazes with him.
He doesn’t answer. I would’ve assumed he didn’t hear me, but his body stiffens, so I know he did.
I begin to think he might not answer at all, when he finally speaks.
“My best friend.” His voice is hoarse, arms tense around me.
“Levaint. We grew up together. Zev and Lev.” A brittle, humorless laugh escapes him.
“His parents were nonwielders—simple farmers.
Imagine their surprise when their five-year-old son grew a giant tree in the middle of their cottage.
They brought him to the palace for training. We were inseparable after that.
“He was a powerful wielder—and all wielders must join the army. We fought our first battles side by side before I was assigned to a different squad. Stormwielders are lethal even from a distance, but earthwielders are more effective in close combat. He—”
Zevayr swallows deeply, his throat bobbing.
I don’t know why I do this—I reach for his hand and lace our fingers together. His hand twitches, like he doesn’t know what to do with my kindness. But the small gesture gives him the strength he needs to continue.
“Lev—” Zevayr stutters over his friend’s name.
He clenches his eyes shut tightly, as though holding the memory in place.
“It was after a brutal battle. Your side won. We retreated. I was settling down for the night, tending to my wounds, when a soldier rushed into my tent, said I needed to come immediately. In that moment, I knew. I just knew what was waiting for me.”
“What happened to him?” I whisper, though I’m afraid to hear the words.
“Waterwielder. Forced water into his body and froze it. He couldn’t see, couldn’t speak.
We had fires burning around him, blankets covering him to try and melt it, but wielded ice is cruel.
He was in unimaginable pain, and there was nothing I could do for him. Lev suffered for hours before he died.”
I swallow hard. “I’m so sorry.”
“Me too.”
I never would have expected to share so much pain with the Dark Commander.
My lips speak the words before I can cage them. “My best friends were Sura and Tumaas,” I say quietly, voice catching. “Twins. Their mother worked in the palace kitchens. We grew up together—three shadows always getting into trouble. They called me Mayah-bear. Because I’m ferocious when I’m mad.”
A watery laugh escapes me, and it coaxes a small smile to Zevayr’s lips.
“One time, we snuck into the palace laundry and stole every piece of clothing. Knotted everything together and strung them across the banisters like garlands.” I shake my head.
“Father was livid. Tumaas made up a song about it. We were inseparable. Sura always had this hope that Tumaas and I would get married, and we’d be a real family. ”
My smile slowly fades, and Zevayr’s grip tightens around me.
“But they were nonwielders. And in Tundrayn, that means you’re expendable.
They were sent to the border five years ago, despite my begging.
Father wouldn’t make any exceptions. Not even for me.
Especially not for me.” My voice thickens.
“They wrote to me every week—long, silly letters. Tumaas would dictate to Sura—I’d always teased him about his atrocious handwriting.
I kept each one. I used to reread them when I couldn’t sleep. ”
I pause, bracing myself.
“There was a big battle. One of the worst. So many wounded, so many dead. We won—barely, but we won. They made it back to camp. I know because Sura wrote me a letter. Said she was safe, that they’d survived.
And that maybe, in a few weeks, they’d come home.
I slept with that letter beneath my pillow.
Clung to it like a promise. Her letter made it, Zevayr, but she never did. ”
He’s deathly quiet.
“Hours after the battle was over, they were attacked. In the dark of night. Tidescursed cowards,” I spit, cheeks wet with tears. “Everything was incinerated. No survivors.”
Zevayr swallows. He draws me closer until I’m pressed flush against his firm chest. “I—I’m sorry,” he whispers. A muscle ticks in his jaw, his breathing shallow.
“It’s all right. There’s no healing this,” I say, almost to myself. “Some wounds never close. No matter how many times you pass glowing hands over them.”