Chapter 21
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
I storm down the corridor that leads to warriors’ quarters for the Stormriven Vanguard.
According to Nyrica, it’s the strongest of the four Vanguards, but Nyrica is not the man I’m hoping to find, because Nyrica—the jerk—turned me down when I asked him to be my master last night.
As he’s the kind of man who doesn’t believe in false kindness, he also told me why everyone I ask to be my master has rejected me like a walking curse.
“Most Altor die young, love. No matter how hard their master pushes them; no matter how well they’re trained; no matter how dedicated to the vanguard—Altor die in battle, and most of them die young.
” He’d shrugged, aiming for nonchalance, but I could see the pain and grief—and guilt—he’d tried so hard to hide behind his easy smile.
Then he’d pointed to the scar on my temple and said, “No one wants the death of Thayana’s marked one on their hands.
Being noticed by the gods is not a good thing, love.
If Thayana wants you to succeed, then Kheris wants you dead. ”
He didn’t have to explain further. If one goddess has chosen me, then another has marked me as an enemy. And the Altor—the gods’ soldiers, the gods’ weapons—know better than anyone what happens to those caught between divine forces.
It’s not a blessing. It’s a death sentence.
“Added to that … how to put this delicately? You’re far too pretty for these guys. You’d be a distraction.” He’d winked and then grinned wolfishly at Thalric. “Not for me, mind. I get distracted around here on the daily. I don’t want to piss off the gods when you die.”
Then he’d slammed his tankard on the table, slapped me on the shoulder, declared he had to piss, and sauntered away.
So Nyrica is out, which is truly awful because he would’ve been the perfect master.
Friendly, funny. Doesn’t hate me. Not attracted to me.
Thalric is out because he already has Leif, and they’re not allowed to take two, even though Leif is less than a year from advancement.
Caius has young Kiernan. I can’t even ask Faelon because he’s only recently advanced to sentinel, which isn’t a high enough rank to take a ward.
I’ve spent a week pacing these halls, searching, waiting, coming up empty. Finding a master is supposed to be like courtship—two people recognize something in each other and decide to move forward. So far, no one I want wants me back.
Ryot was the first to turn me down, and he’s avoided me ever since.
I turn down another winding corridor, rubbing my sore temple as I go. My scar from Thayana’s kiss still throbs a week later, though it has finally stopped spiderwebbing outward. The mark now reaches above and below my right eye.
Elowen frets over my temple, but so far nothing has provided any relief.
I haven’t told her about my constant headaches.
The only mercy this week is that my sleep has been blessedly quiet.
I haven’t had one single dream since my interaction with Thayana.
I hope they’re gone forever, that all my dreams had been leading up to that moment.
Now that it’s passed, maybe I can finally find rest.
I stop at his door. I raise my hand to knock, but pause. I can’t help but wonder what his childhood was like, and who he left behind for this life. While I’m standing there, the door swings open.
And then I’m staring into the stormy blue eyes of Skywarden Ryot of Stormriven. Ryot, dressed in his chainmail of Adamas, sword strapped to his back, a pack slung over his shoulder.
He’s leaving. The coward.
I step into his path, forcing him to either stop or barrel through me. He stops. Barely.
He tilts his head, his expression carefully blank. “Lost, rebel girl?”
I cross my arms over my chest. “No. I’m exactly where I want to be.”
He snorts, pointing to my left. “I doubt that. Nyrica’s room is two doors down.”
I ignore him. “You want to avoid me so badly that you’re running away?”
His lips press together. “I’m not avoiding you.”
A blatant lie. I haven’t seen him since I asked him to be my master. Not at the provisionary during meals, not outside when I’ve gone out to explore, not at the training grounds when Nyrica showed me around.
“I’m not here to see Nyrica. I’m here to see you. And since you’re not avoiding me, that shouldn’t be a problem, right?”
He shifts his pack higher. “You’ll have to catch me when I get back. It’s my rotation to patrol the coastline.”
“This won’t take long.”
“Whatever it is, it can wait.”
“It really can’t.”
His fingers twitch. I know he wants to leave. I know I should let him. But I don’t—both because I need him, and I like seeing him unsettled.
He shifts to brush past me, but I press a hand against his chest, forcing him to stop. He pauses, though he could easily push me out of the way. His heartbeat is steady beneath my palm, but the tension in his body is anything but.
“Please, Ryot,” I whisper.
My whispered plea does something to him. His head tilts back, his throat working like he’s swallowing something bitter. He drops his pack from his shoulder, and it thuds against the stone floor. Then, finally, he steps back into the room, retreating.
I follow, closing the door behind me.
There’s nothing in his quarters. No personal effects. No warmth. Just a simple bed with a linen sheet, and a few books stacked on the nightstand. This is a room that belongs to a man who keeps his distance. From everything.
I trail my fingers along the walls, feeling the cool stone before making my way toward the books by his bed. I run my hand over the leather bindings. The Annals of the Winged. The Divine Archivum.
I raise an eyebrow. “A little light reading this week?”
“I had some downtime.”
I tap the cover of the first book. “And you decided to spend it reading about the history of the gods?”
His gaze lands on the scar on my temple. “It seemed prudent.”
I wonder how many nights he’s spent reading about me, looking for answers. I don’t press him on it. Instead, I nod and look back down at the books. “You’ll have to let me borrow them when you’re done.”
“I’m finished with them.” He stalks forward, grabbing the books and shoving them into my hands. “You have your books. You can leave now.”
I don’t leave. I keep my eyes down, my fingers running along the bindings. “Did you know it’s illegal for Selencians to learn to read?”
Ryot stiffens beside me. “You read fine.”
I swallow. He doesn’t know. No one here does—that became clear in my first meeting with the archons.
“My mother taught me,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper. “As her mother taught her, and her mother before her. But we learned in secret. Most of our lessons were given with a stick in the sandy riverbanks behind our house.”
The wall I’ve built around my mind cracks, and I let him see. The riverbank, my mother’s hands in the sand, drawing letters for me to trace before we washed them away. The stolen candlelight, the whispered lessons, the ever-present fear that one wrong move would cost us everything.
I set the books down carefully, with more reverence than I meant to show. “I’m a terribly slow reader, though. It takes me ages to get through anything.” I turn back to him. “You’ve been hiding from me.”
He grunts and shoulders his pack again. “Right. Well. This is a conversation that can wait until I get back, and you have your books, so …” He gestures toward the door.
I don’t move.
“I need a master.”
Ryot sighs, rubbing a hand down his face. “Leina …” He drops his pack back onto the floor and sits heavily on the bed across from me. “We’ve already talked about this. There are a few men in Atherclad who?—”
I cut him off, allowing my frustration to slam against his senses. “Anyone who’s offered to train me … There’s something off about it, about them.”
“There are still men out on missions. Durnen should return soon. I can?—”
“Ryot—”
“No.” He knows what I’m about to ask, but I’ve not made it this far by giving up.
“It has to be you.”
He jerks to his feet, pacing. “Absolutely not.”
“Why not? You saw me in the ring. I would be a good student.”
He stops, turning to me. His eyes darken. “And when you die, and the goddess demands restitution from me?”
I scoff. “That’s an excuse. You know it, and I know it.”
He snaps. There’s no other word for it. In two steps, he’s on me, shoving me against the stone wall. His grip is firm, but not painful. His eyes are hard, his voice brutal.
“I’ve lost every ward I’ve ever had, Leina.
Every. Single. One,” he says, and I can hear it in his voice, the way he hates himself for it.
“Four of them. Young boys bright with hope and life and fight—all nothing but empty husks, their corpses sinking into the ocean that claims our dead. It’s like Kheris knows they’re mine.
She waits for them. And the moment I claim them, she reaches out from the depths of the void and takes them.
Not because they were weak. Not because they weren’t good enough.
” His grip tightens, his fingers callused against my skin. “Because they were mine.”
His hands clench on my arms, but not in anger. It’s as if he needs something to hold onto because he’s coming apart at the seams.
“It’s not about if you’d make a good student.
” He lets me go and takes a step back. With that step, he put so much more than distance between us.
He erects a wall, one I can almost see rising between us, built of grief and regret, of self-loathing and blame.
“It’s about the fact that once I claim you, you’re as good as dead. ”
I step closer. This isn’t only about war or survival or even the gods. This is about fate.
This thing that sizzles between us is something so much more than all of that. He sees it too—I can tell in the way his fingers twitch at his sides, the way his jaw locks like he’s bracing himself for a blow.
He can step back all he wants. I’ll keep stepping forward because I’ve never been afraid of ghosts. I’ve lived with my own for too long, carried them with me in my dreams, let them whisper to me in the dark.
Ghosts don’t scare me, but being powerless does.
“This is my choice,” I say. “It’s the only one I’ve been given.”
His head jerks up, something shattering in his expression for the briefest second before he slams his walls back into place.
“I trust you,” I tell him, because I already know it’s the one thing that will wreck him most. But somehow, it’s also already true.
“You shouldn’t , ” he grits out.
“Do you trust anyone else to train me?” I counter. He flinches, just barely, but I catch it, and when he raises his eyes to look at me, there’s something resolved and so fierce in his eyes.
“Leina Haverlyn.” The way he says my name—it’s not a surrender. It’s a vow. “Will you be mine? My ward, I mean?”
I tilt my chin up, meeting his gaze, and say what I know in my soul to be true.
“I already am.”