Chapter 39 #2
I will end Tyrston. Or I will die trying.
Everything feels dreamlike as he swings the hammer over his head, and I struggle to convince myself this is real. Finally, I grip my dagger with the tips of my fingers, prepared to hurl it at his throat—the most vulnerable spot for an Altor. A mortal wound, not covered by chainmail.
I throw the dagger.
There’s a roar and a crack of thunder.
My weapon falls back to the ground, useless. And I’m covered. Protected. Shielded. A force slams into place around me, hard and unyielding. It seals me in, locks out the world. The hammer comes down, but I feel nothing at all. Maybe this is a dream. Just a dream. Gods know, I’ve had enough of them.
I crumble, folding to the floor under the weight of the pain, as Tyrston is thrown again, his body whipping across the room and hitting the far wall with a sickening crunch. My eyelids drag down.
When I’m able to drag my eyes open again, Ryot is kneeling at my side.
“Hi,” I murmur to him, my voice slurring.
He’s frantic, and he’s staring at me like I’m the last star in his sky—something precious, and at risk of falling.
This is the way he looks at me in my dreams. Yes, this must be a dream.
His hands hover over me, as if he’s not entirely sure what to do with them.
I don’t think I’ve ever seen him so unsure.
I manage a smile as I slide my eyes closed.
I like him in my dreams. Dream Ryot isn’t so … surly.
“Hey, rebel girl,” he murmurs. I slide into unconsciousness on the sound of his soft voice, only to be roused later by his anger.
“You were supposed to fucking watch her,” Ryot is shouting, and I struggle to open my eyes.
“I’m so sorry,” Nyrica says. “I don’t …”
I blink my eyes open again. Nyrica and Ryot are both leaning over me. Ryot has a hand under my face, keeping my eyes and mouth out of the sand, but I don’t think he’s moved me otherwise.
Nyrica’s alright. The relief is almost blinding.
“Leif,” I manage to get out.
Ryot turns back to me, his fingers cradling my cheek. “Leif will be fine,” he says. “Thalric is with him.” His hand feels so blessedly real . “Can you move your fingers and toes, Leina?”
What a weird thing to have to do in a dream, but I obediently wiggle my fingers and toes.
“Thank Thera,” he mutters. “I’m taking her to Elowen.”
Soft hands pick me up like I’m fragile, cherished. I rest my palm against his heart and nestle my nose into his neck. I breathe in cinnamon, leather, and salt and I know beyond a doubt that I’m safe.
“Y’r’okay.” I have a hard time getting my mouth to form over the words.
“Yeah, my rebel girl. I’m okay,” he says. “And you will be, too.”
That shimmering warmth that I now recognize as him slides over and under and around me and settles against my skin like a caress.
It even blankets my mind, and I know I can relax my death grip on my thoughts.
I’ve felt this before, I realize. When the Kher’zenn attacked.
When Maxim was choking me. When I was cold on the mountain in our tent.
It’s Ryot. It’s him somehow.
“Back the fuck up ,” he snaps, his voice low and sharp, as he holds me tighter against his chest.
“You can’t speak to me that way,” Archon Lyathin says. “I demand?—”
But whatever surrounds me strengthens, sealing tight around the two of us.
It walls us in—not like a prison, but a shield.
Nothing gets through. Lyathin’s voice is gone.
The rain, the thunder—they vanish into silence.
Even the sharp pulse in my skull dulls, as if the shield presses everything back, everything but him.
“I had whadifs” I tell him, now that I know it’s just us.
“Whiffs?” Ryot asks me, his voice shockingly gentle as he continues walking. He’s moving quickly, but the movement is soothing, almost like a rocking chair. “What are whiffs?”
I focus, trying to enunciate. “What. Ifs.” I manage to get out, but my breath is jagged around each word. “About you.” I pull my eyes open, but the light and the movement are enough to have me crying out in pain.
“Shhhh,” he tells me. “Rest now. I’m safe. And so are you. Safe.”
Yes. I’m safe. And it’s enough that I let myself drift, my thoughts falling into a space somewhere between consciousness and dreams. Angry voices interrupt the serenity I’ve found.
With them comes a jagged, agonizing pain.
But I’m still trapped in this semi-conscious river of thought, and I can’t move . Not even to beg everyone to be quiet.
“They’re going to punish you.” It’s a woman’s sharp, angry voice. Who is that? Is that my mother?
“Let them.”
“This isn’t you , Ryot. You can’t go around snapping necks of wards.”
A growl, and a rough hand grasps my arm, tightly. “Do you see her, Rissa? Look at her.”
“You know how Tyrston’s gift worked. It thrived on fury. He lost control.”
I crack my eyes open to see Princess Rissa. My eyes slide back closed on a wave of confusion. What is she doing here?
“Then he wasn’t fit to be an Altor. He wasn’t fit to even breathe the same air as her.”
There’s a pause, and it’s heavy. I try to swim for the surface, but I can’t break through.
“What is it about this girl? This is dangerous, Ryot. You’re a hairsbreadth away from going against the Synod. Against the crown. This kind of … attachment …” she trails off. “It’s forbidden. You know this.”
He doesn’t answer, or maybe I don’t stay alert long enough to hear him. I’m dragged back under, floating in a river of pain. I’m so tired of pain.
Why must life hurt like this?