Chapter 21
Chapter
Twenty-One
A yc pauses only long enough to turn to Xylie, shrug out of his pack and drop it carefully at her feet. “There’s rations in there. Better leave it with you.” Ayc winks, just in case she doesn’t understand.
She nods. Tavish tilts his head curiously as Saga sniffs the pack. Hopefully, Saga can’t pick up the smell of a dragon’s egg.
Ayc starts to turn. Xylie grabs his wrist. “Your hands,” she signs. “I never redressed them.”
“It’ll be fine,” Ayc says.
Xylie makes a sound of protest, but he’s already heading toward Lora who waits by Tempest’s side. Xylie darts past him, yanks a bottle and some rolled bandage from her bag, and presses them toward Lora. “Change his dressings, or he won’t be able to wield a sword.”
“Thanks, Mother,” Ayc says.
“Slip them into my pack,” Lora says, twisting and crouching so Xylie can reach.
When Xylie steps back, Tempest bows her head and forelegs. Lora grabs a fistful of feathers and swings gracefully onto Tempest’s back. Ayc doesn’t hesitate to mount behind her, and so he doesn’t realize his mistake until her spine nearly presses to his chest. The impact is instant—a lightning bolt that flares all the way to his fingertips and down to his toes, leaving his skin blazing in its wake. He did not properly consider the full consequences of his decisions—the repercussions of Lora’s body being so close to his own.
Fuck me.
Tempest paces a few steps to the right and spreads her wings wide. Ayc wobbles, and he reaches instinctively toward Lora’s sides to steady himself. He freezes before his hands can land on Lora’s hips and tightens his legs around the barrel of Tempest’s body. His muscles protest, aching, and he knows he’ll regret leaving his pain tonics behind.
“Go to Duell and find a tavern,” Lora says to the others. “We’ll find you there.”
“Get back before Lahlis comes,” Peregrin warns. “You don’t want to be out there alone when he finds you again. And for fuck’s sake, Ayc, don’t do anything foolish.”
Ayc shoots him a childish grin. “Love you too, Peregrin.”
Tempest flings herself into the sky without warning. Ayc bites back a cry of surprise and tightens his thighs, but the muscles that always ache only hold for a moment before the pain intensifies past his tolerance. He slips backward, pushing against Tempest’s wings.
Lora catches both his wrists and steers them around her waist. “Hold onto me. We need to fly hard.”
No. Just fucking no .
But she lays his hands on the outward bow of her stomach, and even through the gloves and dressing, it’s too much. His awareness screams at the contact. Unaware of the chaos she has created, Lora seizes feathers once more. Tempest continues her ascent into the clouds, her wings sounding like thunderclaps. Lora bends herself lower to Tempest’s neck to shelter from the wind that roars past them. Her back arches away from Ayc, but her hips slide backward until only an inch separates her bountiful ass from his?—
Fuck! Ayc thinks again. I’m so fucking fucked.
The heat fills every inch of him, turning his blood from a simmer to a full boil. He hardens at her nearness. If her ass slides back any further, there will be no hiding exactly how much his entire body is betraying him.
And not just his cock. His hands are traitors, too They long to press tighter into the soft flesh of her stomach, to measure the exact curvature of her wide hips, to slide down the hills of her thick thighs. Instead, he forms them into fists, hard enough they tremble.
He's generally better at controlling his emotions than this. He’s learned how to mitigate pain: to treat it with tonics, or to drown it out with music or sex, or to seal it behind mental walls so it’s only a hollowed echo—ever present but survivable. He has always dealt with the way his traitorous body longs for Lora the same way. He hides his desire behind locks and walls and ridiculous jokes. When he keeps her at a distance, it’s so easy to pretend he does not want her.
He even managed it when they were in the Ever River, when they both had far fewer clothes. But that feels like months ago. Before Peregrin told Ayc about the way she rescued him, before she risked her life to save Xylie, before he found that she secretly defies her mother to free the innocent.
Before she began chipping away all the reasons he’s supposed to hate her.
Tempest flies slower now. Vidar’s falcon is in the sky before them. Its wings beat hard, straining to stay ahead of Tempest, leading the way.
Ayc inhales the crisp air through his nose. The wind blows Lora’s loose hair back into his face, and he catches the scent of it. They have been traveling for days, but the scent is strong. After everyone fell asleep last night, did she work oils into her hair like Xylie had, in an attempt to rescue her curls from the saltwater? The scent is rich and smooth, like heavy cream, but within lies another scent. Sharp, sweet, and earthy, all at once. Familiar, but it takes a moment to place it.
Is that… anise?
Fuck, why does she have to smell like anise? He loves anise, loves the star-shapes they come in and the potent taste it gives his baking creations.
Lora tightens her hands in the feathers. He can’t see her face, but he is sure her expression is fixed in determination and focus. She is utterly composed, and she has no idea that he’s hanging on by a thread.
This is… this is how he dies. This is surely going to kill him, if he doesn’t figure out a way to regain control.
“Hey, Lora,” he calls over the wind, “have you heard the one where— oomph! ”
Her elbow sails back and collides with his ribcage. It’s what he needed; a sharp stab of reality. She hates him… and he hates her.
I hate her. I hate her. I hate her.
It’s the mantra he fills his head with until he can forget the truth, until the fire at his skin slowly begins to recede.
“How long ago did you start this organization?” Ayc asks, wanting to focus on anything else.
She straightens, putting some distance between them. With each fraction of an inch, Ayc can breathe a little easier. “My second year at Adamant.”
The ground sails by far beneath them in patches of farmer’s fields surrounding a village. He can tell they're still in Noxumbra by the large training arena found at the village’s edge. Fighting is a sport that almost all Noxumbra participate in. Tempest lets out a vibrating cry, and the hawk responds with a shriek of its own. The heat in Ayc’s skin continues to relinquish to the coolness of the wind, but it never fully surrenders. He’s still keenly aware of Lora’s every move.
“How do you fund it?” Ayc remembers the coins Lora pressed into Vidar’s palm. “Surely an organization like this costs money, and I’m certain your mother makes you account for every bit of spending with the money she gives you.”
“I don’t need her money,” she states. “I earn it.”
“With the opium?” Ayc teases.
“No, I pay for it with my art.” She says it quietly, almost like she hopes he won’t hear. Vulnerability creeps into her voice. Instinctively, his arms tighten around her, a strange longing to comfort her. She heaves a quick breath, in and out, and he releases the hold .
“I weave tapestries,” Lora continues. “And knit clothes. And I sell them at fairs and festivals throughout Everadyn.”
“I know,” Ayc admits.
“You do?”
“I’ve seen the booths at the festivals.” But he knew about her talent before then. Since the time he arrived at Wyntra, he would see her hiding in dark corners with her books and her knitting needles. He knew she created Xylie’s treasured multi-colored coat. And at every festival he’s attended, he’s walked through Lora’s booth, letting the buttery material of her creations flow over his fingertips. He would always tell himself he wouldn’t go, but he responded to the booth’s presence like a siren’s call, like he couldn’t resist being near something Lora created with her own hands.
Lora never runs the booth herself; she has always been at Adamant. Instead, it’s tended by a Totus Omni fae by the name Hellevi, an elder female with deep brown skin and eyes that shift in color, just like Lora’s. She sits in the corner, knitting so quickly her needles look as fearsome as knives. She's always kind to the people who wander in, but her ability to negotiate the best price for the artwork is ruthless. It took a lot of charming—and bribing with baked goods—for Hellevi to admit what Ayc suspected: that she’s Lora’s grandmother, the mother of Lora’s father.
Ayc hesitates before adding, “Your art is really beautiful, Lora.”
Lora glares at him over her shoulder, as though thinking he’s teasing her. But she must see his sincerity, because her face relaxes. “Thank you. My mother always believed it to be a waste of time. ”
“Your mother believes a lot of foolish things. If the only thing your art does is bring you joy, it isn’t a waste of time.”
The corner of her lips creep up and then fall. Fuck, what he’d give to see her fully smile. Or laugh. He’s done so many foolish things to get her to laugh. He’d do even more.
He’d do such foolish things for her.
Ayc, you’re being an ass. Stop it.
“I heard you have a booth at many of the festivals now as well,” she says. “Does it bring you joy?”
It’s such an odd question, but Ayc replies honestly, “Yes. There’s something about creating something beautiful from nothing that makes me feel—” He trails off, certain that whichever words he chooses will seem ridiculous.
“Important?” Lora suggests. “Powerful? Like you’ve done something worthy of existing?”
Those words are not quite what Ayc imagined, and yet, they are perfect. “Yes.”
He didn’t think that this would be something he’d share with Lora. The headiness of mutual understanding settles over them. Perhaps, Lora feels it too, because her body relaxes. It brings her closer to him, her pack pressing into his chest. He inhales, the anise filling his nose again, and the fire awakens. But this time, it isn’t blistering hot. It’s warm and comfortable. Like sitting before the hearth after a long winter day.
And somehow, that feels even more dangerous.
“Why do you stay at Wyntra?” He tenses at her question, but she presses on. “Why don’t you go out on your own and create a business? Own a bakery like your mother did? People love your baking. I am certain it would be successful.”
Ayc frowns. Why is she asking? Surely, she already knows the answer. “Well, your mother would hate to lose her favorite baker.”
Lora’s back tenses once more, and a sharpness gnaws at her tone. “My mother says you are free to go and do whatever you please. Is that not true?”
Ayc’s mind whirls at the question. Lora knows that Ayc isn’t free, doesn’t she? She must understand the power that Yris has over him. But if Yris lied to her, then maybe?—
Tempest follows the falcon in a sudden, steep dive. Ayc tightens his grip around Lora, his palms blazing at the place where it contacts the outward curve of her stomach. Tempest pulls up just as quickly. She soars below the clouds now, and the air becomes a little less thin.
Lora’s fingers uncurl from around the feathers; the heat of them flutters near his hands. His breath stills, and the moment stretches on with the uncertainty of whether she’ll touch him. Then her hand curls around Tempest’s side once more.
Ayc exhales. There are hours left of this flight, and he’s not sure he’ll survive.
“Ayc?” Lora presses. “Why have you stayed in Wyntra for so long?”
“It’s…” Ayc looks around him, as though the right words might be written in the sky. “It’s complicated.”
When she turns her head once more, her eyes are a startling lilac, a lighter purple than he’s seen before. “What hold does my mother still have on you? I suspect it’s something strong, just like I suspect it’s the only reason you agreed to be my Fifth.”
He searches her face, the line that forms between her eyebrows. For the first time, he’s certain. She doesn’t know. Fuck, she doesn’t know . The astonishment knots his tongue. Even if he could manage to untangle it, he can’t tell her, not if he doesn’t want his head to feel as though it’s splitting open. Besides, she has enough power over him already.
When he doesn’t answer, Lora heaves out a breath. “Fine. You can keep your secrets.” She shifts forward again as Tempest picks up speed, her ass sliding back once more.
And fuck, this gryphon ride cannot be over soon enough.
By the time they reach the northern edge of the forest of Elodie, Ayc’s pain has passed his normal threshold. Every jolt rocks his sore muscles as Tempest slips between the entwined branches of the towering evergreen trees and lands heavily on the forest floor. When he slides off, his knees threaten to buckle, and he clasps ahold of Tempest’s side. A cold sweat breaks out on his neck. Blackness tints his vision. No, he will not let this pain get the best of him. Not today. Not when a boy’s life depends on him.
“Are you all right?” Lora asks, as she slides down beside him.
“Fine,” he says through his teeth.
She arches an eyebrow, unconvinced.
He unlocks his jaw and says it again, “I’m fine. Just a muscle cramp. I only need a minute.”
Her brow remains furrowed, but she walks away to give him space. Ayc focuses on his breathing, the way Peregrin taught him. In through his nose; out through his mouth.
Tempest clacks her beak and brushes her wing against Ayc’s shoulder. Ayc turns to see one silver eye fixed upon him, as though attempting to tell him something. She rustles her wing again.
“Are you sure?” Ayc asks.
Another clack of her beak.
He glances over his shoulder, but Lora’s back is turned as she drinks from her canteen of water. He quickly finds a small, noncritical feather in Tempest’s wing and plucks it. He hides it in the palm of his hand as he approaches Lora. She turns at the sound of his footsteps and offers her canteen without a word, before surveying the clearing where they stand once more. The falcon waits on a broad branch of one of the towering trees, shuffling its wings impatiently.
Ayc swallows the feather with a bit of water. Without a warm beverage to ease the passage, it gets stuck in his throat. Sputtering, he gulps down another drink, his eyes watering.
“Are you dying?” Lora asks.
Ayc coughs. “Not today.”
“Pity.” But her lips tip upward, the dry sarcasm clear for once.
The gryphon feather works its magic, like a breath of fresh air. The pain diminishes but does not completely fade. It turns instead to the stiffness that he would expect of any other body that underwent hours on the gryphon.
The falcon calls out to them and then glides to another tree branch, farther away.
“I think he wants us to follow,” Ayc says.
Lora already moves over the forest floor, a hand resting on one of her swords. The bird leads them through the trees. The forest is denser here, on the border, than further south where the Totus Omni build their homes. Here, the trees nearly touch, and their branches entwine to form a roof above them. Ayc and Lora squeeze between the trunks and slip through the shadows as the falcon darts from one tree to the next, leading them closer to the edge of the forest. Tempest prowls after them, occasionally taking a different route when her massive body doesn’t fit in the tight path between trees.
Lora holds up a hand to halt Ayc. She cocks her head, listening, and soon Ayc hears it, too. Voices. Footsteps. The snort of a horse. Lora crouches low and creeps forward in the brush. Ayc copies her movements, thighs shaking from exhaustion as he holds the position. Thorns scrap across their armor as they go. They stop at the very outskirt of the forest. An open plain stretches before them.
Fifty yards away, a party of at least a dozen men on horseback pick their way across the trodden path in the field. Each Lux Aester fae wears the traditional sky-blue tunics, embroidered with suns. In the center of the group, one horse bears two riders, one rider’s arms bracketing the boy before him. The boy looks utterly hopeless, his hair sheared crooked and messy, his tunic two sizes too large, ropes biting into his wrists. Ayc grinds his teeth together.
Lora curses beneath her breath and draws her sword.
Ayc grabs her arm. “We have to wait,” he says, keeping his voice low.
She shakes him off. “For what?”
“Until nightfall.”
“You can’t go invisible now ?”
“I can sneak in now, but I have to be able to get him out, and he can't turn invisible. If we go now, we risk him getting hurt.”
Lora stares out at the party. She fists her hand so hard around her sword that it trembles.
“You’re right,” she spits out, like she hates the taste of the words. Her eyes turn silver, bright in the dimness. “I want to rip every single one of them apart for doing that to him.”
Ayc’s shivers, but he knows now her viciousness doesn’t frighten him. It thrills him.
“What’s his name?” Ayc whispers.
Lora sighs. “Ohen.”
“Have you met him?”
“No. Does that matter?”
Ayc shakes his head. “No, it really doesn’t.”
Ayc and Lora follow the Lux Aester party from the shadow of the trees for two hours. Vidar’s falcon has disappeared, but Tempest remains close by. Despite her size, her paws make no sound as she makes her way through the brush, though occasionally Ayc hears the snap of bones as another unfortunate squirrel runs into her path and becomes a lovely snack.
As the sun dips toward the west, the Lux Aester stop to make camp. Crouched low in the shadows, Ayc and Lora watch them pitch tents and start a fire to cook food. One bastard drags Ohen into a tent, still tied up. When they are certain the Lux Aester will remain for the night, Lora and Ayc retreat farther into the woods to wait until the sun has fully set.
Nervous energy builds beneath Ayc’s skin as they gnaw on provisions from Lora’s bag. It settles the ache in his stomach, but does nothing to ease the tension, the heavy responsibility of knowing that boy’s fate rests with him. He pushes himself to his feet, debating whether pacing will release the energy or merely worsen his pain, but Lora stops him.
“Let me dress your hands.”
A little constriction at his throat tells Ayc that he won't be able to resist. He flops down in front of where Lora sits next to a tree with gnarled roots sprawling in all directions. She opens her pack which sits beside her and pulls out the vial and dressings Xylie put there. Ayc peels off a glove and unwinds the old dressing. He stares at the skin of his palm. What was once a raw and blistered mess is now nothing but smooth skin.
Lora’s hands tighten on the vial. She blinks at his hand. “It looks… fine.” She draws a finger over the skin, from the heel of his hand to the tip of his middle finger. Her touch is featherlight, but fuck, it awakens Ayc’s nerves to sing an entirely different song from the anxiety.
I hate her, he tells himself. I hate her.
She grasps his other wrist and gently—almost too gently—removes that glove. A few more careful movements and the dressing fall away to reveal that hand healed as well.
Lora’s brow knits. “I saw your hands yesterday. They were… much worse than this.”
“That salve Xylie put on them must have worked wonders,” Ayc says, pulling his hands away and fisting them against his thighs.
"She is powerful," Lora agrees, but her brow doesn't relax.
“She's going to be the best alchemist of this age. Evander would be jealous.”
Lora cocks her head, like he's a puzzle she’s trying to solve. But then she looks away and shoves the bandage and salve back into her pack. She opens the pack wider and shuffles a few things inside in her search for something else.
“Who’s Evander?” she asks.
The knot that’s already in his stomach tugs tighter. He shouldn’t have said anything. He was just trying to distract her from his hands. “The master of the apothecary at Creed Castle. He was a bit of a physician, too. Brilliant, though not formally trained.”
She stiffens, every muscle drawing taut. She withdraws slowly from the pack, a book in her hand—the one she carries for reading, not for writing. “Is that the man I…” She trails off.
“Yes,” Ayc says, softly.
She stares hard at the book’s cover, the one that bears dark swirls, but no title. The silence hovers between them, thick and slow as molasses. Somewhere in the deeper shadows of the woods, a squirrel shrieks and bones crunch as Tempest finds yet another snack.
“What book is that?” Ayc says, to save them both from this moment. Growing up, he saw Lora with a book as often as he saw Lora with a sword, but he’s never dared to ask. Now seems as good a time as any.
“What?” she says, her voice rising an octave. She clutches the book to her chest, splaying her hands over it to hide it from his view. “It’s nothing.”
Ayc frowns at her odd reaction. She’s acting almost like she did when he stripped his clothing at the river. “Your book is called Nothing ? What a peculiar title.”
She narrows her eyes.
“If you’re embarrassed to be reading such a stuffy classic,” Ayc teases, “you could just say so.”
She ticks up her chin and returns to her cool tone. “If you think it’s stuffy, there’s no reason to discuss it with you, is there? And maybe you should keep your nose out of my business before I remove it from your face.”
Ayc throws up his hands in surrender. “Very well, then. I’ll leave you to it.”
He paces a few feet, but the release of energy does little to expel the tension in his skin, so he keeps moving. Lora settles back against the tree, nestled in between two arching roots. She cracks open her book, somehow finding her space without anything to mark it, and begins to read. Tempest returns and stretches out on a patch of moss, soaking in the few rays of swiftly fading sunlight that make it through the evergreen branches above, preening at her feathers.
Pages turn, the wind whispers, and pine needles crunch beneath his feet. It’s too quiet to drown out the sound in Ayc’s head. He torments himself with all the scenarios of the plan before them. He imagines all the way tonight might end disastrously, of how he might ruin everything.
Lora sets the book face down over a root, stands and stretches her arms above her head. Ayc forces himself to look at his feet so he doesn’t stare at the arch of her spine.
“I’ll be right back,” she says, before slipping between the trees and heading deeper into the forest. No doubt to relieve herself out of his earshot.
Ayc paces a few more steps, and then his focus draws back to the book she left. He thinks of the way she reacted earlier, like she had something to hide. And here is the perfect opportunity to settle his curiosity. As soon as the idea enters his mind, he knows it’s a tremendously bad idea. But he knows he’s going to do it anyway.
Glancing the way Lora went to make sure she’s still gone, he hurries to the tree and snatches the book up. Keeping his finger in the book to mark her place, he flips back to the title page.
A Measure of Perfection by Allari Rose.
Very well, certainly not a classic he’s ever heard of, not that he’s the most knowledgeable in literature. He’s never been able to force his mind to focus all the way through a book. He turns back to the page Lora is on and reads the top line.
…the baker’s tongue trails up my inner thigh, tracing the path of chocolate pudding that leads straight to my…
Oh…
Ayc nearly drops the book in surprise.
Oh!
A delighted smile yanks at his lips as he continues to read. This is definitely not a classic book. This is filthy and dirty, and he didn’t know that books like this existed, but he thinks he might have finally found a novel he’ll enjoy?—
“What are you doing?”
Ayc snaps his head upward. Lora stands a few feet away. His heart skitters.
Well, if she’s going to murder him, he might as well have some fun with it.
“I was curious about what you were reading, and since you wouldn’t tell me, I thought I’d take a peek,” Ayc says, keeping his tone warm. Teasing. “I have to say, the baker in this is really creative with his use of chocolate pudding. And, of course, his other non-baking tools.”
Her eyes fling wide with horror. It's perhaps the most expression he’s ever gotten from her face, and a crow of delight escapes his mouth before he can stop it. He slaps a hand over his lips, but her face has already locked into a look of pure mercilessness .
She charges toward him, and he jumps back and holds the book up out of her reach. He has few advantages over her, but his height is one of them.
“Is this the sort of book you normally read?” he asks.
She doesn’t answer, only twirls to reach the book from a different angle. He spins out of her way, and for the second time, surprise fractures her face.
Her eyes darken with fury. “Lots of people read those books.”
“I’m not judging you. I’m rather impressed, actually. Is that the sort of thing you like?”
He wants to yank the question back down his throat, because no sooner has he uttered it than he imagines it. Lora spread out and bare, every curve of her abundant body on full display as his mouth forges a pathway to the core of her. Hot. Fuck, he is instantly so hot that red tinges his vision. Closing his eyes, he rapidly retreats from Lora, trying to buy enough time to take a cooling breath.
A branch snaps beneath Lora’s foot, clumsy in her haste, and he opens his eyes in just enough time to see her lunge. He jumps back, but too slowly. She slams into him, her hand wrapping around his neck as she propels him back into the tree. She pins him there, chest-to-chest, her fingers curled around his throat. She doesn’t squeeze, doesn’t constrict his airway, and yet he cannot breathe. The air around them surges and vibrates the way it does during an electrical storm, the hair on his arms standing at attention. He holds the book up still, but she doesn’t reach for it. She’s just as frozen as he is. Her full lips part as though she has surprised herself . And those lips are so close to his—so painfully close—that he can feel her unsteady exhale.
Ayc has survived many things .
He will not survive this moment.
It aches and longs and bleeds in his chest, and he cannot stand here, sharing air with her. A moment more, and his hold on his control will fracture and he will haul her mouth to his and erase the distance between them.
So, he gives her his best wicked grin and covers her hand with his. He presses her fingers in, just enough to feel the pressure against his pounding pulse. “Harder,” he whispers. “I like it harder.”
Just as he predicted, she reels back, her eyes flashing silver. She paces away from him, then spins back, planting her hands on her hips. Her breath comes in quick bursts, like she’s run a dozen miles. He forces himself to lean casually on the tree and inhale through his nose so she doesn’t notice how unsteadily he’s breathing, too.
“I swear you were put here by the divine just to torment me,” Lora says, through her teeth. “You will be my ruin.”
“You’re already mine.”
Lora goes utterly still, and Ayc wishes he could bite back the words. He swiftly holds the book out to her. “Here.”
She eyes it wearily, like it’s a trap. Then she snatches it from his grasp. It snaps closed, losing her place.
“Maybe you’ll let me borrow it sometime,” Ayc says.
She clutches the book closer to her armored chest. “No, because then you’ll dogear it or spill coffee on it, and I’ll have to kill you. I don’t let people borrow my books.”
In the last few days, Ayc has learned so many new things about Lora. She dances when no one is watching. She risks everything to rescue kids her mother has abandoned. And she reads filthy, sexy books and loves them enough to kill for them. It might be his favorite detail yet.
“All right, I’ll get my own copy,” Ayc says. He snaps his fingers. “I have a brilliant idea. We should start a book club. I can bring treats.”
Her narrowed eyes are cold enough they would freeze his blood, if he hadn't nearly been set on fire a few moments go. “I fucking hate you," she snaps and then whirls around with enough force her cape waves and her hair sails around her. “It’s almost dark. We should go watch the camp.”
She marches away, and Ayc fixes his eyes on the back of her head and nowhere else on her body—definitely not her swaying hips—least his mind return to images he has no business entertaining.
From her spot in the dim light, Tempest clacks her beak repeatedly, like she’s laughing at him. Like she knows.
He gives the beast the finger and follows Lora.
Long after darkness has fallen, the Lux Aester finally go to sleep, taking their places in the tents or spread out on bedrolls on the ground. One stretches before the tent where Ohen is imprisoned, and another remains awake, pacing around the perimeter of the camp. Their fire has burned low, casting only the dimmest of lights over the camp.
“I’ll take out the guard.” Lora’s voice is scarcely louder than a breath. “Are you ready?”
Ayc nods. He can do this. He will do this.
“Good.” Lora hesitates, then adds, “And… be careful.”
Moonlight drapes over her face. She gnaws at her lower lip, like she’s afraid for him. He chuckles at the thought.
“Careful,” he warns. “Keep saying things like that and I’m going to start thinking you like me. ”
Lora looks away swiftly. “That’d be remarkably foolish of you.”
“Truly.” Ayc removes his bracelets and tucks them into his pocket. “And there’s nothing to be worried about. Court magician and baker extraordinaire, remember? What could possibly go wrong?”
He takes one last deep breath, steps into the darkness, and disappears.