Chapter 41
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
I stand in the inn room’s doorway, staring at the single bed while snow swirls outside the window. Inside, Stark has done what he can to make room for us to maneuver, but I understand the innkeeper’s apologies now—this room is tiny.
There’s barely space to stand without knocking your knees against the bed.
“I’ll take the floor,” Stark says gruffly, gazing at me from his perch on the side of the bed where he’s organizing his pack.
I don’t argue. I’m exhausted, cold, and sore—all I want to do is get out of these wet clothes, catch a few hours of sleep, and get back on the road.
Ideally with as much space in between me and the grumpy hero of Linsfall as possible.
I set my own pack down on the floor—or try to. The foot of the bed is so close to the wall and door that there isn’t even enough space for my bag, so I just wedge it in as best I can before opening the flaps to rummage through.
Stark’s taken the one small table in the room for his own use; a little piece of furniture to the left side of the bed, squeezed tight between the bedframe and the wall.
At least the place is clean , I think as I pull out a fresh, dry shirt to sleep in.
If only it wasn’t so damn small. The heat coming off Stark’s body practically radiates behind me. There’s no space to get away from him. I can smell him, too: musk, amber, wood and a hint of masculine sweat.
I hesitate, starting to remove my clothes, knowing that Stark could turn at any time and see me, can probably see my reflection in the dark of the window either way. But what else will I do, change in the hall? Maneuvering until my back is toward him, I quickly shuck off my leathers, and then my wet clothes, pulling on the dry tunic. I stare fixedly at the corner of the room the entire time, where a small lantern is bolted to the wall, the flame inside flickering.
“Should we get some sleep, then?” I ask once I’m done, clearing my throat and turning back toward him. His gaze drops, fixing sharply on my bare legs.
Shit . I glance down, realizing the hem of my shirt doesn’t quite cover the marks on my upper thighs. Lamplight gleams on the silvery scars, making them look all the more vicious.
Suddenly Stark is on me, his face thunderous, backing me into the tiny corner.
“Who did this to you?” he demands ferociously, one calloused hand clamping hotly on my thigh.
Heat flashes through me, starting in my breasts and ending low, between my legs.
What the fuck?
I slap his hand away, ignoring my body’s humiliating betrayal.
“What the hell do you care?” I snap with acrid sarcasm. “Are you going to protect me?”
Stark’s face tightens with rage, but he doesn’t back down. He crowds closer, looming over me threateningly.
“I know the marks of torture when I see them,” he growls. “Tell me who hurt you. Was it him? Your…” he pauses, sneering the word with poisonous contempt, “ prince ?”
Heart pounding, I stare up at him, determined not to be cowed. “Don’t you dare even talk about him. And no, he fucking didn’t. I did.”
The words come out of my mouth before I can stop them.
He stumbles back, his face flashing with surprise, then a string of emotions that stun me to my core: confusion, then understanding, followed swiftly by horror—or is it pain?
“You did that to yourself?” he repeats tightly.
“Yes,” I sneer. “So don’t worry, you don’t need to go sallying forth like the hero of Linsfall to ‘protect’ your favorite punching bag. Unless, of course, you’d like to take this opportunity to finally rid yourself of me.”
I plop down on the foot of the bed, facing away without waiting for an answer—or maybe just because I can’t stand seeing that look on his face.
Why is he suddenly acting like he gives a shit, after three months of torment? It’s deeply unnerving.
As I yank back the covers on the bed, Anassa’s awareness swells through the bond. She’s amused by my discomfort with Stark.
“Shut up!” I think at her, my heart hammering in my throat.
I can still feel him standing so close to me, in that narrow space to the left of the bed, watching me climb under the covers.
Thank fuck he doesn’t say anything more. After a few seconds, I hear him unpacking his bedroll and trying to wedge it into the narrow strip of floor. When the noises continue, I can’t help myself: I sit back up, glaring over at him.
“Problems?”
He turns to look at me, his gaze cold. “Nothing I can’t handle.”
From my viewpoint sitting up, I can see the issue—it’s not just that the space is so narrow. Because of the bedside table, the patch of floor isn’t actually quite long enough for Stark’s bedroll. Maybe if the asshole weren’t so damned tall.
He can sleep standing like a horse, for all I care.
Stark finishes making things fit as best he can, and settles in, halfway turned on his side and with his knees up to fit in the tiny space. He doesn’t complain, doesn’t utter a word, but it’s obvious that the position is extremely uncomfortable.
My head falls back against the headboard.
Fuck.
I don’t care if he’s comfortable. I don’t .
It’s just that—well, he is an impressive warrior, psycho killer instincts included, even if I dislike him. And if we might be battling Siphons tomorrow to save Saela and the other kids, I want him rested and at his best.
For Saela’s sake.
My breath huffs out in a sigh. “Okay, don’t be an idiot.”
“I don’t follow,” comes his dry response.
“You’re not going to get any sleep like that. Come on, the bed is big enough to fit both of us.”
The words are like pulling teeth, but even as I say them I know that it’s definitely the right thing, no matter how much I hate it. I pointedly push the blanket down, move to the far side of the bed as far as I can go, and then beckon at the other edge of the bed.
He stands smoothly, and then hesitatingly sits on the bed before swinging his feet over.
I almost laugh at the way he makes his tall, muscular body compress as small as possible on the bed across from me, as if I carry some kind of carnal disease that is transferred by touch. Yet there’s also a strange pang in my chest at the thought.
Annoyed with him and the situation and also with myself, I roll over and blow out the wall-mounted lamp, leaving us in darkness, my nose just an inch from the wall. Behind my back, I can hear him breathing, rustling the pillow under his head, adjusting the blankets.
Despite my exhaustion, I’ve suddenly never felt so awake.
My back tingles where I swear his eyes linger on me in the darkness. Unbidden, that time in training comes to my mind, when he yanked up my shirt and pressed his fingers against my belly, my ribs, into each and every bruise. But this time instead of feeling pain at his touch, sparks shoot through me at the thought of every press of his fingers.
I clench my jaw and squeeze my eyes shut tighter. I must be delirious from travel. It’s been a long day.
Desperate to take my mind off of the handsome psycho an arm’s reach away—close enough to do dangerous or debauched things to me—I focus my attention on reciting Saela’s favorite legends from memory. I think about Killian on the couch in my mother’s home, reading Sae the story about the goddess who had to save herself.
Then I think about Killian, how he’ll have gotten my note by now, how by the next time I see him I might have my sister back again…
Still, it’s a long time before I finally succumb to sleep.
I find little rest in my dreams. They’re broken, disjointed, and filled with anxiety. Images of the Faceless Goddess haunt me, morphing into my mother, blood pouring from every feature. She speaks to me in an immense, ancient voice both alien and familiar, but I can’t understand what she says.
I wake the next morning with gritty eyes and travel-stiff limbs, like I barely slept at all. The sky outside the window is dim and gray. Not quite sunrise. And the snow has stopped. Good.
Stark is already up and dressed for the road, packing his things with practiced efficiency. He glances over when I rise, gaze flicking to my legs, but he doesn’t say a word.
On the way out of the inn, he picks up a small cloth-wrapped bundle from Alisa.
“Eat,” he says, thrusting it into my hands. “I’ll get the wolves.”
I’m not hungry, but the command in Stark’s voice brooks no argument. If I don’t eat it by choice, he might shove it down my throat by force.
When I start to unwrap the bundle, he leaves me on the stoop of the inn and takes off toward the direwolf stables. Inside the waxed cloth, I find a day’s rations of bread, cheese, and dried meat.
I eat a few bites while I wait for him to return, thinking of the day ahead. In just a few hours, we’ll reach the front. Then Anassa and I will investigate the outpost where Egith said the children have been sighted.
Saela. Hold on. I’ll be there soon .
We’re on the road again in short order. This time, there’s no talk at all. We ride hard, crossing miles and miles of rolling wilderness before we reach the border city where the bulk of the kingdom’s forces are camped.
Grunfall. The border fiefdom has changed hands back and forth between the Siphons and the Bonded countless times during centuries of warfare.
The city center is farther away—spires rising off the horizon, though even from a distance there are gaps and gashes in the stonework, as if a giant has taken big bites out of the city, evidence of centuries of constant battles. Grunfall is spread over the banks of the River Sonnstrom. Eons ago, the fiefdom was shared between Nocturna and Astreona, with everything north of the river part of our country, and everything south of the river belonging to the Siphons.
It was the perfect place for war to break out.
We’re on the northern edges of the fiefdom, though, in Nocturna’s war camp. Astreona has control of the city itself currently. The few remaining buildings up here are ancient—squat, crumbling structures of stone that have been patched together with salvaged wood.
Newer structures have been erected—utilitarian huts made primarily of waxed canvas. Beyond that, the dirt ground is packed with hundreds of military tents. Soldiers bustle everywhere, dressed in dusty uniforms stained from countless battles. The smell of woodsmoke and unwashed bodies chokes the air.
Under that—almost too faint to identify—wafts the sickly sweet smell of rotting flesh.
It’s a stark contrast to the castle’s opulence: all function, no beauty, every element designed—or repurposed—for war.
A bleakness settles over me as we approach. Stark seems affected, too. His usual predatory grace sharpens into something harder, more focused. There’s an odd familiarity in it.
He’s at home here—if a place like this can be ‘home’ to anyone.
This is Stark’s world, I realize: the world of war. I’m about to see first-hand how he earned his brutal reputation.
Soldiers snap to attention when they see him, fear and respect mingling in their expressions. Bonded emerge from nearby tents as though sensing our approach, offering Stark crisp salutes, fist to the chest. Direwolves meander through it all, and even they pause to look at us, giving their respects to Cratos and Anassa in their silent lupine way.
Stark’s gaze passes over everyone, emotionless. He leads us to an enormous tent near the heart of the camp. Soldiers, Bonded, and messengers stream in and out through multiple exits, tending to their wartime duties.
This is Central Command.
Egith meets us inside at the war table where countless maps and diagrams detail the army’s many operations.
The Strategos Beta is haggard, but alert, her silver streak dulled with dust, her uniform bearing fresh bloodstains.
She nods to me, then Stark, when she sees us. “Good, you’re here. Made fast time, too.” She gestures for me to approach the table, wasting no time in delivering the report I came for.
“Three days ago, Kryptos scouts found this,” she says, pointing to a spot on the map not far from where we are now. “That’s Siphon territory, but it’s close to the border. An old religious temple of some sort that they’ve converted into an outpost. There have been sightings of children being moved in and out by the guards.”
My heart clenches at the word “children.” Seeing this camp and the immediate reality of war makes their presence here all the more distressing.
“The last sighting was three days ago?” I demand, uncomfortably aware of Stark standing beside me, watching with penetrating shrewdness. “How many guards were there? How many children?”
“That was the last confirmed sighting, but the scouts haven’t been able to get close since—didn’t want to risk tipping off the blood-suckers,” Egith says. “Three children and two guards were sighted, but at a significant distance. No identifying features.”
The hint of apology in her tone says she knows I’m thinking of Saela—that I want to know if any of those children could be her. Stark’s eyes are on me, assessing. I gave him the short version of the story about my sister’s kidnapping during our ride this morning, though I had a feeling he might have already known via his own sources. I keep my gaze fixed on Egith, unwilling to show Stark a single sign that my emotions could get in the way of this mission.
I can sense Anassa listening, too. A pulse of cautious optimism travels between us—both hers and mine. Saela could be there. Only one way to find out.
Anassa’s concern—and her willingness to go after my sister—gives me a shot of strength. I’m grateful beyond words to have the wolf’s support. Without her, I’d have no chance of getting Saela back.
“Do you have intel on the temple?” I ask. “Entrances, exits, guard routes?”
Egith nods and reaches for a leather-bound folder while I study the map and the terrain surrounding the temple.
“Here,” she says. “This is all the intelligence gathered by our Kryptos spies.”
I flip open the folder, shuffling through reports until I find a sketch of the building. When I lift it from the sheaf, another sketch flutters to the table. My breath catches.
“Is this…?”
“One of the Siphons spotted in the area,” Egith confirms. “A general in their army, high-ranking. She’s been sighted multiple times nearby in recent weeks.”
Goddess above , I think, staring at the unearthly face drawn in charcoal lines. She’s beautiful .
“You’ve never seen an image of a Siphon before,” Stark says beside me.
I shake my head, unable to tear my gaze from the ephemeral face on the paper. It’s almost human, but the eyes are too large, the bone structure too delicate—too perfect to belong to any mere mortal.
Egith plucks another portrait from the sheaf and lays it on top of the one I’m holding. “That’s their king.”
Lucien Brightbane.
My heart stops. This is the architect of all our suffering? This face?
It’s ageless and angelic, devastatingly beautiful, even drawn so roughly. I know from my studies that the Siphon king has been around a long time, but there’s not a single line on his face—no hint of the ages he’s lived except in the cold, bottomless wisdom of his gaze.
There’s something familiar about those eyes. Something I recognize faintly in the otherworldly planes of his countenance—but I can’t place it.
“He looks a lot younger than I expected,” I mutter. “Like he’s in his late twenties, tops.”
Stark scoffs. “You know they don’t age like we do. That thing is centuries old.”
Shaking my head, I set the portraits aside and nod to the map of the temple. “Tell me about the layout.”
“We’ve identified three potential entry points,” Egith says, pointing. “Here, here, and here. A simultaneous assault on all three entrances is our best bet to overcome their defenses. The timing must be perfect—they’re strongest at night, but that’s also when they’re most likely to be feeding and therefore distracted.”
Stark cuts in. “They won’t be feeding all at once—they’re too smart to leave themselves open like that. There will still be guards on duty, and we don’t know how many.”
Egith nods. “If we place our scouts here and here before sunset, we should be able to track the guards and sight the rest heading out to feed. Once that happens, we’ll have a very short window to take advantage.”
As the discussion of strategy continues, I find my gaze drawn back to the portrait of Lucien Brightbane. Why do I feel like I’ve seen him somewhere before?
Stark’s hand abruptly slaps down on the image.
“Focus, Cooper,” he growls. “We move at sunset.”