6. I’m Going to Live
6
I’M GOING TO LIVE
WREN
T he night passes in a painful blur, and before I know it, the suns are washing away the darkness. I’m still running—stumbling—and tears have been streaming down my face. Who knew a body could produce so many tears or hurt so much? As dawn arrives, I know two things for certain.
One: I never want to run again in my entire life.
Two: I might be a mess of pain, but I’m alive .
I am alive, and it feels like a gods-damned miracle. I was never meant to see dawn, but I’m here and I’m not going anywhere. My bracelet is still on my arm, and the solitary sun dangling from my wrist reminds me of everything I’m fighting for.
The Given stick together .
Amelia would be proud of me. I’m proud.
That’s the thought that has me slowing to a staggering walk. I grip my sides as shooting pain runs up them, and I wheeze. Miraculously, my feet keep moving.
This time, I don’t focus on the way everything hurts. Pain is temporary, but my lungs are still drawing breath, and my heart is still beating. I’ve defied the odds, broken though I may be, and I’m still here. My plan shifts, becoming less of a hope and more of a rough semblance of something I can actually accomplish.
I will find the Sapphire Coast, leave this gods-damned kingdom, and live a full life. Not just for me but for my best friend and all the other Given whose lives have been cut short.
My lips twitch upwards. It’s not much, but it’s the first approximation of a smile I’ve had since Amelia’s untimely death.
“I’m going to live,” I declare, needing to hear it out loud.
The forest is unsettlingly quiet around me, and shivers crawl down my spine. I repeat the phrase again, and again, and again. I keep going until it’s ingrained in the marrow of my bones.
I, Wren Lilith Nightingale, middle daughter of Charles and Rya Nightingale, am going to live .
There are a plethora of barriers in my way. Money, for one. I have none, nor can I think of a way to acquire it without drawing attention to myself. Food, for another. My stomach chooses that moment to grumble, reminding me that a few pieces of jerky stretched over a day doesn’t make a sustainable meal. Not to mention my lack of geographical awareness. I need a map, but like money, I have no idea where to find one. And then there’s the issue of keeping the glowing spiral on my head hidden.
Even though my problems feel insurmountable, I refuse to let them bring me down. I will not let death claim me like it has the other gods-blessed.
My most pressing issue is shelter. I need to sleep. I’ve put it off for far too long, and I’m more exhausted than I’ve ever been. On top of that, clouds are systematically rolling in, bringing in a storm. Judging by the brisk air, coupled with the wind blowing the colorful autumn leaves in every direction, it will be a bad one.
The last thing I need after the past two hellish days is to get stuck in a rainstorm. Being wet would make this already awful situation ten times worse.
I stumble forward, my gaze sweeping through the forest, searching for a spot to call home for the next few hours. I’m not picky—at this point, I’ll take anything that somewhat resembles a shelter.
It’s amazing how quickly one’s standards fall when one’s life is on the line. Two days ago, I would’ve told anyone who asked that I didn’t enjoy the outdoors. Now, I don’t even have the mental fortitude to care about dirt or bugs.
I duck under a massive branch with long, thin green needles that brush against my skin and gasp. Hanging off a nearby bush are red berries the size of my thumbnail. My stomach growls, and I hurry over as quickly as my aching feet allow.
Finally , something in these woods that I recognize. We have a moonberry bush outside our home. Amelia and I used to pick them every year. Moonberries are delicious, a little sweet and tart at the same time. They get their name because, at night, they shimmer in the moonlight.
I drop to my knees in front of the bush and grab a handful. The berries are squishy, and their juices paint my hand red, but I don’t care. It’s been nearly two days since I’ve eaten anything fresh.
Tossing them into my mouth, I rock back and forth on my heels as the familiar flavor coats my tongue. I groan, the sound echoing through the forest. Esyn help me, but food has never tasted so good.
I feast on three more handfuls of berries before a rumble of thunder reminds me of the impending storm. I rise to my feet, and with one parting glance at the moonberry bush, I continue searching for a place to sleep. Now that I’ve taken care of one need, my others are more insistent than ever.
Judging by the movement of the suns, it takes another half hour before I find something that will work. It isn’t exactly a cave, more like a rough overhang cut out of the side of a mountain, but it’s close enough to a shelter that I exhale a sigh of relief.
Maybe the gods don’t hate me, after all. If I’m lucky, I might even be able to get a few hours of sleep. My body sags at the thought. I’ve never wanted to fall asleep more than I do at this very moment. Even though I know this isn’t a bad dream, the thought of escaping the horrible reality that is my life, even for a few hours, makes me smile.
The shelter is less than ten feet away when I hear it.
A groan. It’s so different from the sounds of the forest that I freeze. Was that real, or am I losing my mind?
I haven’t slept since before Amelia’s Giving Ceremony. Maybe this is my brain’s way of saying that enough is enough. Or maybe my sanity is slipping away. That seems equally plausible, considering the events of the past two days.
“Get a grip, Wren,” I whisper, shaking my head and taking a step toward the shelter. Chances are, it was just in my head.
But then, I hear it again, and this time, I know it’s real. Something, or someone, is out here.
My breath catches in my throat, and my heart thunders. Oh, gods.
Ignoring the sound would be the smart thing to do. I’m exhausted, and every part of my body is urging me to sleep. Even if I wasn’t ready to fall over, I’m an outlaw, for the gods’ sake. I need to start looking out for myself if I want to survive.
Yet when a pained moan rises through the air, it tugs on my heartstrings. Someone nearby is in serious pain. How can I ignore them?
The same part of me that encouraged me to save countless strays and injured animals has me taking a step away from the shelter. Then another. And another. With one last longing look at the spot poised to give me refuge, I sigh and turn toward the sound.
“Seriously, Wren?” I mutter, pushing branches aside. “Why can’t you leave well enough alone?”
It would be so much easier than this.
The problem is that I can’t . Something deep within me is encouraging me to help this injured being. I can’t ignore the call to assist them any more than I can wish away the glowing Mark on my forehead.
Now that I’ve made up my mind, I move swiftly. The sky is darkening, and thunder rumbles in the distance. I keep my eyes trained on the forest floor, searching for the source of the sound. They must be around here somewhere. I just?—
There.
Two boots, so dirty the brown is nearly black, are sticking out from under a thorny bush. Honestly, I’m surprised it’s a person and not an injured animal since I haven’t encountered anyone else during my run. Another agonized, pained sound rises, and I lift my skirts and hurry over.
Dropping to my knees in the fallen leaves, I ignore the sharp twig that prods my leg as I reach for the feet and pull. The body doesn’t move at all. I grunt, tightening my grip on their ankles.
Suns, this person is heavy. Or maybe I’m just weak. Honestly, it’s probably the latter. Either way, my already aching arms burn as I yank the person out inch by inch, releasing them from the bush’s thorny grasp.
It’s more of a struggle than I’d like to admit, and the thorns put up a big fight, but eventually, I’m victorious. The person is a man, a rather attractive one if I’m being honest, and his muddy tunic is ripped beneath his cloak.
Purple and black bruises bloom on his chest, and blood is oozing out of a laceration on his forehead. An empty sheath is on his hip, where a sword presumably once hung.
Who, or what, would do something like this? I’m not entirely sure, but it looks like he’s been here for hours. Hopefully, whoever did this is long gone.
A frown tugs at my lips as I reach up, brushing a lock of blue hair so dark it’s nearly black away from the man’s stubble-covered cheek. He looks like he’s a few years older than me, and the hard edge of his features is equally rough and attractive.
I’m not a healer, as much as I used to wish I could be one, but I know the laceration on his forehead needs to be looked after.
My heart twists, and I already know what I’m going to do. Wishing I’d been born with a heart of stone, I hook my hands under the man’s armpits and begin the laborious process of dragging him back to my shelter.
By the gods and everything I’ve ever held holy, I hope I don’t regret this.