Chapter Thirteen
It’s gigantic.
Monstrous.
The bear stands on its hind legs, towering over Zevayr, and looses a menacing growl. Before I can react, Zevayr shoves me behind him, stretching himself to his full height, sword unsheathed and ready.
A heartbeat, then another.
The bear doesn’t move. Neither does Zevayr.
And then the worst possible thing happens.
Zevayr turns his head seconds before there’s a rustling in the underbrush, and then, a boy emerges, perhaps twelve or thirteen. Clutched in his hands is a large sword that eclipses him.
“Leave them alone!” he shouts at the bear.
“Zevayr,” I urge, but he’s already darting toward the boy.
He’s too late.
The bear swipes through the air, his claws tearing into the boy’s abdomen.
My feet move before I can register it.
Zevayr plunges his sword into the distracted bear’s side and yanks downward, ducking to avoid its weak retaliatory swipe.
But my focus is on the boy. His shirt is shredded, skin along with it—and the gashes are deep. Kneeling, I lift his head into my lap. His skin is already clammy, eyes glassy.
Tides help me.
Without a second thought, I summon my power when—
“Georg! Oh, Georg!”
The glow dies from my hands as a frantic woman bolts into the clearing, her long skirt swishing through fallen leaves. In a blink, she’s kneeling beside me, clutching the boy’s hand, tears streaming down her lined face. “I told you not to wander off alone,” she cries, cheeks gleaming with tears.
A loud thud. I follow the sound—the bear lies dead. Zevayr is unharmed. I want to sag with relief, but I can’t, not when there’s a boy dying in my lap.
“Help me bring him back to my cottage,” the woman pleads. The utter anguish in her voice pierces my heart.
“Wait,” I say, placing a hand on her arm before she can rise. “He’ll lose too much blood.”
“Mayah.” Zevayr’s voice is a warning.
But the boy’s skin is too pale, his breathing too shallow.
It’s a warning I don’t heed.
I call to my power again, until my hands glow with gentle white light.
The woman gasps, but my focus is reserved only for my patient.
My hands pass over his wounds carefully.
One of the bear’s claws nicked his stomach.
Focusing, I mend the tissue and soothe the inflammation.
Next, I heal the deep gashes until his skin is seamless once more.
My power flows through his body, sensing for any other internal damage—there’s a strained muscle in his lower back, and some minor scrapes and cuts.
I open my eyes, raising them to find Zevayr.
I expect fury.
What I find is worse—something soft and vulnerable flickering in his gaze.
Turning to the woman, I softly say, “He’ll sleep for a while. But your Georg will be just fine.” Her eyes are wide, glued to her son’s healed belly. Slowly, she looks at me. Really looks at me. Her gaze lingers on my eyes.
“Thank you,” she breathes. Then she tugs me into a tight embrace, her tears warm against my neck.
Zevayr carries Georg back to the cottage and settles him into a bed far too large for his small frame. I blot the sweat from his brow, then draw the covers up to his chest. In the doorway, his mother, Georgaina, hovers helplessly, wringing her hands.
Zevayr’s eyes burn into my back, but I’m too nervous to face him, afraid of what I’ll find.
Instead, I place a hand on Georgaina’s shoulder and give her a warm smile.
The older woman wipes a tear from her cheek and insists we stay for a meal.
I shoot Zevayr a questioning glance, and he nods.
His hand scorches through the fabric of my tunic, searing into my lower back as we follow Georgaina to her modest kitchen.
His steady touch anchors me in a way that it shouldn’t.
She feeds us delicious roasted hen and salty potatoes.
It’s my first time eating hen—it’s too cold in Tundrayn for the small birds to survive.
And after weeks of subsisting on unseasoned rabbit, I think it might be the most delicious thing I’ve ever eaten.
I try to take small bites, but I finish my portion in minutes.
Georgaina notices and piles more hen onto my empty plate. Zevayr hides a smile behind his hand.
“We don’t have much,” Georgaina says by way of apology. “But you’re welcome to anything you like.”
“This is perfect.” I smile at her, taking another bite.
“Where is Georg’s father?” Zevayr asks casually, his gaze flitting between me and the worn, wooden door.
Georgaina shakes her head, fingers playing with the checkered tablecloth. “He was summoned to the front lines a few years ago. His sword came home. He never did.”
Suddenly, the hen tastes like ash in my mouth.
“Georg carries the sword everywhere. Says he wants to be a soldier like his Pa. I want something more for him, though. Something better. But … we’re commons.” She shrugs, eyes glistening. “If the war doesn’t end, in a few years, he’ll leave me, too.”
Her words splinter my heart.
I’ve been agonizing over my people, but everyone has suffered in this war. Especially nonwielders.
This is why I need to get to Arbinj.
Zevayr clears his throat. “Is that a garden you have out back?” He gestures to the window behind me.
She nods. “It’s doing all right. Could do with some more water, though. Well’s empty. Soldiers came through a few weeks ago. Siphoned it dry.”
Tides, did these people have any luck?
A muscle ticks in Zevayr’s jaw. “And the Rebellion? Any trouble with them?”
Georgaina eyes him warily. “They stop by from time to time. Not friendly, but not hostile either. Sometimes they bring food.”
She says nothing more, but her silence speaks clearly.
The Rebellion isn’t their enemy.
Across the table, Zevayr catches my eye. His jaw is locked, lips pressed into a thin line.
Georgaina flicks her gaze between us, sharp eyes missing nothing. “Last I heard, Prince Zevayr was delivering the Tundrayni princess to Arbinj. But they were attacked. No one’s seen them since.”
My heart skips.
Zevayr’s hand moves—slowly, deliberately—to rest on the pommel of his sword. I plead silently with my eyes, hoping he’ll understand—hoping he’ll listen.
Please. Please don’t.
His jaw tightens further. I might be healing stress fractures in his molars later.
His fingers tighten around his sword.
Please. I don’t dare breathe.
Then, his voice cuts through the thick silence. “We heard something similar,” he rumbles, gray eyes locked on mine. “Except he isn’t delivering her, like bartered goods to be traded. He’s safeguarding her. Like a treasure.”
My breath catches. My lips part. Just for a heartbeat, something soft flickers across his face.
Then, it’s gone.
“We’ll be on our way,” he says, smoothly rising from the table. His hand doesn’t leave his sword.
I follow. “Georg will need a few days of rest when he wakes. Try to keep him indoors, if you can.” I squeeze Georgaina’s hand.
“Thank you,” she murmurs, pulling me into another embrace. “I wish I had something to offer you in return.”
“You do,” Zevayr says gruffly. “Forget you ever saw us.”
She nods solemnly. Georgaina tries to pack us food, but I shake my head. They have so little already.
Outside, the sky weeps—a gentle drizzle that hadn’t been there moments ago. There wasn’t a single cloud in sight, yet now the rain falls soft and steady.
Zevayr draws me to his side, sweeping his cloak over us like a canopy, and together, we walk on.