Chapter Eighty-Eight #3
“Yes, but I can cast my shield over her body so long as I can imagine it.” Heat crawls across my cheeks as he raises his brows in surprise, apparently picturing what I should probably clarify.
“The first time I could see where I sent it, I started around her clavicle, then followed the warmth of her skin to guide my shield up and under the Emperor’s own magic.
” Cirrin’s lip pulls to the side, perhaps remembering why I felt the need to protect Tasch’s throat at the time.
“Then when we were made to dance together, I merely sent it under her skirts and followed her warmth like before.”
Cirrin nods. “It makes sense. The energy inside a stone is entirely different, which Malin can sense—and that’s why all of us are needed.” He pauses to pin me with a meaningful expression. “We each have an integral role. You and Malin are not interchangeable. You are not replaceable, Varic.”
His meaning decreases the heat from shame burning beneath my skin, and his expression relaxes as he presses his lips together.
The cooling sensation of his healing swirls around my leg while awe and gratitude unfurl in my chest as the swelling and bruising fade around my ankle.
Then an itch I could never hope to scratch is felt inside the bone, and a slight sense of nausea twinges in my gut from the sensation of everything knitting back together.
We collectively hold our breath as he relinquishes his magic, then his shoulders slump along with his gaze.
I slap my hand down on his shoulder and shake, before imbuing what I can of my own healing magic into him. “Thank you, my friend.”
A shudder runs through his body before his eyes lift to mine with tears brimming.
“You’re worth it.” His expression lifts as he tilts his head to the side for emphasis. “Even when you’re acting as stubborn as a Dragon.”
I crack a smile as Minea lets out more of his grating laughter.
“It is an honor to call you my friend,” Cirrin says, clasping his own hand over my shoulder. Then he does something I don’t think to anticipate when he leans to pull me into a hug.
The lump in my throat grows as I slowly wind my arms behind his back as he pats me, and I return the sentiment.
“Shit.” He feels his right side pocket as realization strikes me at what he’s always kept inside it, and a new sort of grief falls over us.
“Is your storybook missing?”
His solemn expression is all the confirmation I need while I reach across the gap to squeeze his hand.
“It’s okay.” His voice is barely above a whisper as he appears to be anything but the sentiment he claims. “This simply marks the start of a new life for us. I can honor those stories for the comfort they brought me while we lived trapped within these walls, and I can always find another copy later on if I want.”
“And you’re also allowed to feel sad when you lose something meaningful. Especially something which acted as a touchstone while you endured such hardship. You are allowed to mourn the loss of an object holding such significance, Cirrin. I know I have.”
“What?” he asks, with a mischievous grin spreading across his lips. “You lost the portrait of Tasch you’ve kept in your pocket ever since you convinced Fray to let you have it the morning we returned to the Palace?”
My hand rises to temper the heat spilling across my cheeks, though I know he’s merely teasing. And I refuse to prove his point by double-checking that the portrait is folded within the compartment he mentions.
“It’s alright, Varic. I can always find another copy. Maybe even the same binding.”
“And perhaps you’ll write your own someday.”
Cirrin’s expression turns into one of thoughtful reflection. “You really believe we’re on the path to freedom.”
“I know we are. And you will be able to decide what you do with your life.” I pat his arm. “I will make sure of it.”
Lars’ boots glide along the slick ground until they come to a stop beside us.
Malin braces Lars as he sways in place, appearing to be significantly paler than usual.
Malin nods to each of us to indicate he’s fine, but I still stride toward them as the telekinetic holds his hands up in defense while looking back at me in shock.
“Cirrin healed me, now let me heal him.”
Malin releases a breath as I take hold of Lars’ arm without any protest—which we collectively seem to recognize is a bad sign as I turn and glance at Cirrin and Malin to convey my concern.
“That’s weird,” Lars says, and my brows rise as I wait for him to explain. “Your healing feels different—like buzzing rather than coursing pulses of energy.”
I shrug and release him once he can finally stand on his own.
“Are you good to fly?” Malin asks, though he’s looking at me instead of Lars.
“Yes.” My voice is uncertain as my brows knit together, yet he merely nods again and turns with Lars to mount their respective Dragons.
Cirrin and I exchange knowing looks before preparing our own for flight.