18. A Soul So Bleak
18
A Soul So Bleak
Theron
He didn’t expect her in his room.
Not even by accident.
Which it had to be, judging by her startled, wide-eyed gaze that swept over his bare chest and the towel around his hips—his only clothing. Then her eyes fell to his hand, still gripping the dagger strapped on his thigh. A reflex. And then…
Is that a blush?
“I’m—” she blurted out. “I’m sorry, I took the wrong door. I’ll leave now.” She tried to get past him and open the door, but he stopped her with his hand against it.
“Don’t be in such a rush to leave, Calliste.” He didn’t mean to say it in such a husky voice, and yet a part of him enjoyed the way she froze, trapped in the corner between the door and the wall.
And him.
In that narrow space, the clean scent of her skin was more intense. As was the flush on her face and the visible outline of her curves under a thin bathrobe in a soft, neutral shade that clung and almost blended with her light-golden skin, so unlike her usual clothes. Her silver-and-emerald pendant glistened against her creamy skin.
“Why can’t I leave?” she asked, trying to move away from him but finding only a wall behind her.
Her room, he knew, was on the other side of that wall. It was an easy mistake to make in an unknown place, which made it even more gratifying, like stumbling across an enchanting nymph in an ancient forest. “My men are still out there. I can hear them talking. Not that any of them would say anything, but it’s best for you to wait.”
She bit her lip, clearly torn between his advice and her desire to flee. “If I leave now, it would be clear that I only took the wrong door, rather than—” And she trailed off.
“Rather than…?” He couldn’t help but tease her into finishing the sentence, almost laughing at the irony. Any other woman in his court would have jumped at the chance, judging by how many had tried to orchestrate similar scenarios in recent years.
This? They would have killed for an opportunity like this.
And she just wanted out.
But her face was serious. “I am the High Priestess of Epione. My conduct must reflect my station. And besides…” Her voice turned bitter. “I’m married. And you don’t happen to be my husband.”
“Your husband might as well be dead, which makes you a free woman,” he retorted, then stilled as he noticed the flare-up of fear in her eyes.
Which reminded him that he needed to talk to her, his thoughts tangled after the conversation with Lykos. Annoying as always, Lykos made a damned good point. Telling him about her past wasn’t about long-winded confessions but simple information, which she was somehow determined to keep from him.
If she had reason to fear her husband, then her silence was understandable.
Even if he’s dangerous scum, she’s under my protection now. Surely, she must know it. So why?
He was no stranger to understanding troubled marriages, having presided over divorce cases before. Divorces used to be rare because of the expense, and the aristocratic ones required his presence at the court, so he knew firsthand how twisted, bitter, and violent marriages could become. Only the most desperate noble wives could bring their cases to court, often paying with secret savings. These cases often stemmed from arranged marriages.
Her situation must have been similar, yet nothing he’d seen compared to her scars. It was painfully easy to guess her struggle: she likely lacked gold to start a court case and endured for as long as she could before finally escaping. But leaving a husband without his permission or a formal divorce would have humiliated him and questioned her decency. He didn’t want to push for a confession, yet he thirsted for even the tiniest scrap of truth. “It’s good that you’re here. I wanted to talk to you, anyway.”
She glanced at the doorknob.
Theron crossed his arms against his chest and leaned against the door with his shoulder.
She let out a frustrated sigh.
He caught the sweet scent on her breath. “So you’ve had some Hellenixian wine?”
Her eyes flashed. “Just a small cup.”
“Unusual for you, if I’m not mistaken.”
“Perhaps.”
That’s why you’re so eager to leave. You’re less in control of yourself. “I don’t blame you,” he said conversationally. “The Hellenixians are particular about their wine. They only use the sweetest grapes and harvest them when they’re almost shriveled. No wonder it’s so…” His gaze somehow drifted to her lips. “Intoxicating. I had a cup myself.”
She stared at him, still ready to bolt.
“Did you feel like having a drink because of what happened in Petrakelis Passage?” he asked slowly.
Her shoulders slumped, and she leaned against the wall, avoiding eye contact.
“Calliste, I… regret dragging you into this.”
“I would have gone all the same. People needed me.” A shadow crossed her face. “ She needed me, if only to ease her pain. But I wish…” She didn’t finish.
But he could read it in her expression, an echo of his own greatest regret: I wish I could have done more.
Gods, I know this feeling. A memory that was both a part of his life and an endless source of torture came back. He would never be able to shake it off. He clenched his teeth. “I could only hold my wife’s hand as she passed away.”
Her gaze shot up to meet his.
“Hold her hand and lie to her that everything would be fine.” Why am I telling her this? But then he knew. She understands what I’m trying to say. “Even though I knew it was a lie. I saw him—the god with raven wings—coming for her, and I couldn’t stop him.” Now he had her undivided, startled attention. “Panakeios failed me that day, but I cannot blame him. We all have our limits.” The thought that he never dared say aloud before finally escaped his lips, raw and furious. “Yet I hold the Fates and the gods responsible for allowing this to happen.”
Shock exploded on her face.
“I know what you’re going to say,” he went on, blaming the wine and knowing it had little to do with his outburst. “That there’s no use in raging against the Fates. That they are infallible and can never be wrong. But it’s a lie. The Fates are cruel creatures who revel in torture… just like the rest of the gods.” He straightened up, confused at how he voiced his innermost thoughts to her. Things he had never said aloud before.
Not even to Lykos.
But the bitterness in his heart only burned and hissed, pushing him to continue. “I am ashamed to have worshiped any of them. I cursed them all on the day my wife died. And now they’re paying me in kind.” He already regretted saying it, not because it was sacrilegious—he hardly cared about that part—but because she would likely try to talk him out of it, correct his ways in a well-meaning effort to save his soul. I don’t need saving. I’m condemned already.
And suddenly, his old friend—anger—returned in all its cold glory. For a moment, he was breathless with it, furious at everything again. “They can torture me with nightmares all they like. I’m not going to break. And I’ll never worship any of them again.”
Her eyes widened even more.
Yes. Take a good look at this godless ruin.
He withstood her gaze until it became unbearable, until one more moment would have him roaring at her to get out before she said something—well-intentioned yet useless all the same—that would make him hate her. He forced his fury back into the cracks of his soul and smoothed his voice to ice. “It looks like you can go to your room now.” He moved away from the door and grabbed the doorknob, ready to open it for her.
Her hand shot out, covering his and stilling it. She shot him a determined look, not startled anymore. Definitely not offended. Calm, in that eerie manner, like she was about to ride a storm. “Do you know who my biggest enemy is as a healer? The same god you saw: the god of death.”
He froze.
“I’m terrified of him, but I fight against him every step of the way. I’ve won plenty of times, but I’ve also lost.”
Now he stared at her.
“I hate losing to him. Always. Without exception,” she continued. “I know it’s inevitable, but I’ve made peace with my failures. As long as I know I’ve done everything I could, I don’t punish myself for it.” Her hand trembled against his. “But it always hurts so much at the beginning. Each time I fail, I have to re-learn how to let go and accept that the Fates have decreed otherwise.”
“Decreed otherwise,” he sneered, even though he was breathless at her sincerity. “You mean when they toyed with human lives again.”
She let out another long sigh, taking away her hand and leaning against the wall. “I cannot afford to believe in that.”
“Why?”
“Because…” She closed her eyes briefly. When she opened them, they glinted like steel. “Because it would mean there’s no reason for anything. And I believe that there is.”
Her words hit him like a punch to the stomach, leaving him dazed for a breath. But then his anger returned, cold and blinding. “This kind of belief justifies every senseless thing that happens in our world. Like this girl’s death. Why couldn’t she live on? It had nothing to do with your skills and everything to do with the cruelty of the Fates.” He let go of the doorknob and moved closer to her, his hand against the wall next to her arm.
Her chin high, she held his gaze without blinking, defiant. “You are entitled to your opinion,” she said slowly. “And so am I.”
He was prepared to launch a scathing remark, but then he noticed just how close they were. If he moved his face any closer…
Her lips parted.
He remembered staring up at her on the top of Rebel, bewildered and bloodied, framed with feathers still swirling in the air. That moment, he knew so well: when you stare in disbelief at having survived and feel more alive than ever before.
It had been a long time since he felt this way. In that shred of space between them, he felt alive again, and it was because of that fierce, unyielding woman before him. Broken, yet whole.
So, he meticulously took stock of every sensation.
The sweet wine on her breath.
The clean scent of her skin.
Her dark-cinnamon hair falling in wet, careless waves, clinging to her neck.
The steel shimmering in her hazelnut eyes.
But what shook him to his core was the overpowering rush of desire of the kind that could make him push against what was right and do foolish things. Like reaching out to trace her lips and finally find out if they were as smooth as they looked.
He floundered once again, confused. I cannot. It goes against everything, even for the godless bastard that I am. “You’d better go,” he finally said, making a physical effort to step away from her.
She blinked slowly, as if waking up from a dream, then slipped out of his room without a sound.
He held his breath, listening to the door opening next to his room and her quiet steps behind the wall. She didn’t seem to advance into her room, as if she stopped across from him. As if she could sense him behind the wall.
He pressed his forehead against the wall and closed his eyes.
Within her silence, he let himself spiral into his own darkness.