Chapter 39
Thirty-Nine
A tlas faced off against Veros in the training grounds, the resounding clash of their swords was just enough to muffle their conversation.
His feet moved swiftly over the frozen ground, and with every step he matched his friend’s movements, his grip even, his strike sure.
He opted for loose-fitting pants despite the winter chill in the air, and a trim sweater of soft wool for ease and accuracy.
More than anything, however, he supposed he was grateful his wounds had healed in two days, and he was relieved there was only a scar from where that fleshflayer had attempted to gouge out his intestines.
He circled Veros, keeping his pace slow and methodical, tossing a haphazard glance over his shoulder every so often.
Caedian stood just to the right of where they sparred, his arms folded over his chest while he lounged against one of the granite pillars, silently scrutinizing all of Atlas’s mistakes.
There was nothing his Captain of the Guard despised more than a pupil who refused to study.
And while Atlas had been trained under Caedian for as long as he could remember, there were a few habits he’d refused to discard, and they set his captain’s teeth on edge.
Conversing during battle, for one.
“Have you learned anything new?” Atlas asked, sparing Caedian another glance as he dodged an attack from Veros.
He knew it wasn’t the best of circumstances, but at least this way, they lowered the chances of their discussion being carried back to the kralv.
Out here on the training grounds, their voices would blend with the clang of metal, drown in the grunts of those fighting around them, and hopefully be lost to the howling wind.
“As a matter of fact I have.” Caedian glowered, his gray eyes darkening with barely contained frustration. “While you were busy fighting for your life, nearly getting yourself and our future princess killed, I spoke with Eldress Valaina and Davorin.”
Atlas locked his jaw and silently lunged into his next strike, which Veros easily dodged.
Perhaps Caedian wasn’t frustrated with him after all.
Maybe he was straight up pissed. There was an edge of hostility to his tone, and it was quite obvious that he was still furious about Atlas following Everinne into the Deszvila Forest. It was unlikely he’d forgive him anytime soon, especially after going in without any kind of reinforcements.
“And?” Veros prompted, saving Atlas from having to pull the information from Caedian.
The captain cut him down with a look of pure menace.
“And,” he drawled, shoving off the slate pillar, “Davorin confirmed our suspicions. There’s an entrance that links the Marzena to the Mystic Obscura. Apparently Khiran visited a number of times.”
Atlas considered this bit of knowledge. Khiran was the missing vampire whose blood could heal, whose bite never fully turned his victim.
His type of power was rare, especially since his maker was a damn vampire fae—something that was almost unfathomable for the sole reason that faeries and vampires weren’t exactly known to be anything more than cordial to one another.
All that aside, Khiran had been one of the first well- known immortals to vanish and it was no small coincidence that the last place he was seen was the Mystic Obscura.
Veros swiped at him, the tip of his sword just licking Atlas’s shoulder. The blade cut through the sweater and grazed his skin.
“You’re distracted.” Veros jabbed with his weapon again, and Atlas barely avoided the hit.
“I’m thinking,” Atlas countered, tossing the hilt of his sword from one hand to the other, weighing it as he ran his tongue along his teeth.
He knew the hunting of immortals with rare magic and the Mystic Obscura had to be connected somehow. It was like he was staring at a puzzle, and there was only one piece missing, the one that would mesh the image together. He never should’ve trusted Reine.
Fucking blood magic.
“We’re going to the Marzena,” he announced, lowering his weapon. “Tonight.”
“Giving up already, Your Imperial Highness?” Veros teased, twirling his sword with one hand. His dark hair fell in front of his eyes and tiny snowflakes started to fall from the graying heavens like a dusting of frost.
“No.” Atlas sheathed his weapon, he would not be caught without again. “I’m merely saving my energy for whatever dangers await us in the Marzena.”
He nodded toward Caedian, whose scowl only continued to deepen. “Make the necessary preparations. You’re coming with us.”
Caedian cocked his head to the side, his breath misting before him in an icy fog. “Why do I feel like you’re trying to get rid of me?”
“I’m planning, because contrary to popular belief, I have every intention of ruling Prava one day.
And since we’re bringing Everinne along with us, I want to make every effort to ensure her safety.
” Atlas rounded on Veros then, pointing one finger in his direction.
“And before you say anything, if you don’t think she should come with us, then you can be the one to tell her she has to stay behind. ”
Veros lifted both hands in defeat and took a step back. “Point taken, Your Highness.”
Atlas pinned Caedian with a look, quietly daring his captain to contradict him. He might be the prince of pleasure, he might smoke and drink and carouse into the early morning hours, but he was still the fucking prince. One day, he would wear the crown. One day, all of Prava would belong to him.
“Fine,” Caedian grumbled, then raised one hand in warning. “But if you pull another stunt like you did the other night, trust you won’t be able to take a piss without someone watching you.”
Atlas smirked. “Fair enough.”
Maybe his captain was coming around after all.
He waited until Caedian stalked off, until the door leading from the training grounds back to the palace slammed in his wake, before blowing out a long, low breath.
Veros raked a hand through his dark swath of hair, scattering bits of snow. Then he leveled Atlas with a look, one that spoke of raw emotion, one that requested the promise of necessary truths.
“How bad was it?” he asked, his gaze flicking to his boots before meeting Atlas’s gaze and holding.
“Pretty fucking bad.” Atlas rolled his neck, wincing when it cracked.
Even though he was fully healed, his body felt as though he’d been slammed into the trunk of a tree, then tossed to the ground and left for dead.
“And I’ll be honest, for a minute, I didn’t think I was going to make it out of that hut alive. ”
“And yet,” Veros ventured, his voice barely above a whisper.
“And yet, I did. But I wasn’t alone.” Atlas stalked toward the overhang where two heavy workbenches were shoved together and a spread of practice weapons were at their disposal.
He gripped the ledge of the wooden table and let his palms rest against its rough surface.
Tension coiled between his shoulder blades, and he blew out another breath, his nails digging lightly into the grain as Veros appeared in his line of sight once more. “There was a wolf.”
“A wolf?” Veros repeated.
“Yes.” The image of the beast was clearly visible in his mind.
Sleek black fur, eyes the color of slate, and vicious jaws capable of ripping muscles and crushing bones.
Which was exactly what it did to the baukvist .
Atlas had never seen a wolf of that size before, and the way it tore the fleshflayers to shreds, the way its piercing howl overpowered their screeches of pain, was like something out of a forgotten folktale.
Yet what stuck in his mind the most was the way the wolf stared him down, like it knew him.
“In fact, it was eerily similar to the painting of one hanging on my bedroom wall.”
“The black wolf.” Veros nodded slowly, setting his sword on the table, and shoving his hands into his pockets.
He ran a hand through his hair, dusting away the half-melted flakes of snow.
“Wolves have always been symbolic of Prava, they’re commemorated throughout the whole palace.
The black wolf, however, has always been the most elusive, yet he chose to help you in your time of need. ”
“Suppose I owe him a debt?” Atlas mused out loud, though after the wolf had ravaged the baukvist , he’d sauntered off into the forest without looking back.
“Perhaps.” Veros angled his head and rubbed his knuckles along his jaw. “Perhaps not. Only time will tell.”
Time. The only constant.
Atlas faced the training courtyard, where guards and soldiers were paired off, the falling snow slightly obscuring their shadowy outlines.
He watched as they moved in expert form, precise and steady despite the gusting wind and thickening snowfall.
His thoughts drifted from their mindful footwork to that of the Deszvila Forest, to when he’d told Everinne to run, to the moment he realized the threat was not to her life, but to his own.
Veros leaned against one of the benches and folded his arms over his chest. For a moment, he said nothing, and they stared at the training grounds in companionable silence. Atlas could hear his friend’s mind working, and the weight of their next discussion weighed on him like a cloak of iron.
“There’s something else,” Veros finally said, kicking one ankle over the other. “Something you’re not telling me.”
“Yes.” Atlas didn’t even hesitate. He knew what concern continued to prod at the back of his mind, just like he knew that whatever he was about to admit would ultimately be his undoing.
“The forest, the baukvist , none of it seemed threatened by Everinne. It was almost like…it recognized her. Or remembered her.”