Chapter 33 #3
Veros’s gaze flicked to the timepiece in his hands.
“Perhaps that’s something I should have given her long ago.” He shoved it back into his pocket, then held up one finger. “A day. Just give it one day before you tell her about Zory. Then we’ll approach her together, because you know as well as I do there will be no rest until she’s found.”
Atlas roughed a hand over his face. “I don’t have a good feeling about this.”
Caedian cleared his throat. “I hate to be the bearer of bad news…”
“Are you serious right now?” Atlas whirled on him, the new layer of snow crunching lightly beneath his boots. “How much worse can it possibly get?”
Veros cocked his head to the side, pinning him with a look of utter contempt. “Do not tempt the gods, Atlas.”
“Quite a bit worse, I’m afraid.” Caedian stole a glance over his shoulder, scanning their surroundings for any sign of movement, ensuring the whispering walls of the palace could not overhear whatever he was about to say next.
“If we don’t figure out who is hunting the immortals, it’s only a matter of time before the Coven of the Scarlet Moon and the Morvayne take matters into their own hands. ”
He moved closer, ducking his head, and when he spoke, his voice was a hollow scrape against the howl of the wind. “Already there are whispers that the woods are awakening.”
As if they could hear, the thick trees beyond the walls of Starysa groaned and creaked, their branches bending and snapping like the angry jaws of a feral beast.
A glint of apprehension reflected in Caedian’s eyes as he locked onto the tops of the trees set against a backdrop of jagged mountains.
His fingers twitched by his side, his hand hovering above the hilt of his sword, prepared to draw his weapon.
A muscle feathered in his jaw and then he blinked, but the strain he harbored in his rigid frame did not ease.
He remained tightly wound, ready to attack, his body primed with anticipation for a fight.
“The docks by the Ladova Bay are swarming with rumors,” he continued, leaning back, eyeing the long shadows reaching across the gardens.
“They could be overheard in every tavern and back alley, some of the hearsay was spoken in code, like a secret. Already there have been claims of the dryad’s alluring laughter, the sailors at port swear she calls to them.
And the hungry growl of the baukvist looms closer. ”
“This can’t be happening. Not again.” Not so soon.
Atlas raked both of his hands through his loose curls, sending bits of snow flying around him, clinging to his sweater and boots.
The last time the Deszvila Forest awoke, it was recorded in the histories as the Reaping, for never before had the outcome been so grim and plagued with death.
The walls surrounding the city were reinforced and held against the wood’s dark advances, but the madness of the forest still found its way into Starysa’s secure and fortified borders.
Mortals were sacrificed on altars of quartz, their eyes gouged out, their bodies flayed open, their flesh given as gifts to the baukvist to keep them away from the city’s gates.
Vampires were overtaken by bloodlust, their cravings intensified with each new moon, their thirst growing more insatiable with every breaking dawn.
They drained their victims dry, until their skin sagged from their bones, until they were merely empty shells of humanity.
Not dead, yet not alive. Many took their own lives—their decaying bodies littered the streets for days.
Witches turned into frantic heretics, spouting off spells and charms to keep away the lurking evil.
They smudged the city with bundles of sage, performed lulling musical chants during the witching hour, and wove necklaces of rowan berries.
They hung bows of bundled ash wood over the doors of Starysa and engraved runes into the hardwood with their fingernails.
Many of them, Rozalie included, abandoned their homes in the wicked wood, seeking refuge in apartments above shops and below in cellars, taking shelter in the Marzena in hopes that the vile ancient magic would fail to snuff them out.
The fae survived as well, but they were not unscathed.
Magic was torn from them, stolen from their souls in the pitch of night.
It was so vile, so heinous of an act, that those who suffered from it keened in despair, and bound themselves in iron.
If they were in possession of wings, they were ripped from their backs, carving a wound so deep the blood would continue to seep.
Not even the healing properties of their magic were enough to save them.
When the wicked wood awoke, the world went dark.
Atlas lifted his gaze to Veros, searching his friend’s face for something, any sign that they weren’t meant to endure another Reaping.
“Tell me it isn’t true.” Atlas’s plea was quiet, a coarse appeal to the gods. To the fates. To the skies. “Tell me time favors us.”
Veros was still.
He didn’t move. He didn’t breathe. His face was lacking all expression, a plane of even neutrality, as it so often was when discussing the nature of his magic.
But there was a shift, the gold ring around his pupils dimmed.
And Atlas knew. “We can’t catch a fucking break.”
“One thing at a time, Your Highness.” Caedian clamped his hand firmly upon Atlas’s shoulder and squeezed. “One battle at a time. One breath at a time.”
Right.
Except Atlas exhaled slowly, his breath misting before him in the winter’s chill, and he suddenly wasn’t sure if he’d ever be able to breathe again.