30. The Flux Storm
THE FLUX STORM
TALIA
Flux is neither divine nor magical, no matter what Pentarchy propaganda claims. It was produced by the elein and absorbed into rocks and weather systems over millennia. Those gentle beasts are gone. Notice that the land around a spent flux mine is stripped of life. It does not replenish.
LORE TAVIS, ON THE NATURE OF FLUX, UNPUBLISHED
They rode hard for three days. Once they’d cleared the foothills, they made decent time over the open prairie. They didn’t see the wolves again, but howls threaded the nights, near enough that no one slept well.
The hills had been laced with small streams, but the Central Plains were dry. Sorrel had decided to ride with them as far as Heller’s Ridge, and between five people and their horses, water quickly ran low.
The wolves’ howls clung to Talia’s nerves even in daylight. When Lore asked her to look for water with him, it was a relief to step away from camp. The prairie shimmered with flux-dusted blades of grass, bright and endless.
By midday the heat rippled the perfect horizon line. They’d found the faint edge of an ancient road but no sign of water.
Talia pulled the flux stone she’d found from her pocket and sketched its inscriptions as she rode, half to study, half to stay ahead of the intrusive thoughts: Riven under a pile of green cloaks, the ravaged caravan, the look on Holloway’s face when he shot his friend.
Starscript was easier than parsing emotions.
Each translation gave her something clean to focus on.
“You’re enjoying yourself,” Lore said.
“This is all I ever wanted,” she answered, tipping her chin up to feel the sun on her face.
His gaze slid over her—assessing, amused. “A dry prairie? If this is your dream, Talent, you’ve been starving yourself.”
She tried to ignore him, scanning the horizon, but she saw nothing but brown grass and crumbling ruins. When she let herself glance in his direction, Lore was still looking at her.
They were out in the open when the wind died. The whole world went still. Then the sky darkened like a light had switched off. Lore was off his horse and moving toward her when the bolt of flux lightning hit.
It happened so fast, she didn’t have time to scream.
There was a blinding blue flash, and she felt bits of loose hair float around her face.
A metallic taste flooded her mouth. Jonquil was rearing up, shrieking, but Lore already had her reins.
He calmed the horse first and then tugged Talia out of the saddle.
“There was a stone structure back that way,” he yelled over the wind. “If the horse spooks again, let her go. We’re safer on foot.”
They ran, the dry prairie churning to mud under their feet. When Talia tripped, Lore was there at her elbow, pulling her back up. Her pulse jumped. Just from the flux storm. Just the lightning.
The sky filled with blue fire behind them, chased immediately by a peal of thunder. Another strike. Fifty paces to their right the earth fountained up, blue flames licking grass.
Then the cluster of ruins was right in front of them, a few broken walls and a partially collapsed roof.
It wasn’t much, but it was stone. The walls weren’t conductive, and the foundation stones should ground the flux in the air.
They stumbled through an archway as a wall of rain slammed down behind them.
Inside, stone muffled the roar. A few rivulets of water poured in through the broken spots in the ceiling, but it was mostly dry.
Talia braced her back against the wall. She wasn’t used to running, and her lungs were on fire.
Water had soaked through every layer of her blouse and skirt and riding pants, and her braid had come undone.
She was shaking so hard her back kept hitting the wall.
Lore turned to check on the horses, who were shivering just inside the entrance.
“Are we safe now?” she asked.
“From the storm.” He rubbed the horses’ noses, making soothing sounds. Rain poured in silver curtains behind him.
Her brain finally caught up. They needed water. She blinked at the streams running down the stone. Water. She crossed to Jonquil and unhooked three waterskins from her saddle, propping them under the gaps in the roof. When she turned back around, Lore was watching her.
“Good thinking,” he said with that smirk, just half a smile, that made her think he was holding something back.
“What?” she asked, but he shook his head.
They huddled in the back corner of the shelter, shoulder to shoulder, watching the rain fall in sheets outside. Over time, the roar of the rain dimmed to a drumbeat, then staccato tapping, and finally to a soft crush.
When a stretch of time had gone by without a flash of lightning, Lore stood and started gathering bits of wood and grass. Talia frowned when he took one of their precious flux stones out of his saddlebag.
“There’s no point in hoarding flux and freezing to death,” he said. “I do wonder what it will take for you to see yourself as worthy of comfort.”
He stacked his ragged kindling with practiced, efficient movements. She watched his long fingers coax flames from the flux stone, and she didn’t look away fast enough when he caught her staring. The half smile flashed again.
“How did you learn all this?” she asked, desperate to fill the quiet.
The fire flickered to life. “I grew up in the Lower City. On the streets. You figure out how to survive, or you don’t.”
She’d been to the Lower City a few times with Wren, and it was a wretched place. She tried to imagine being a child in that place.
“What was that like?” The words spilled out, and she immediately regretted the question.
He didn’t hesitate. “It was like being small in a world built for bigger people.”
Her throat felt tight. She’d grown up blissfully unaware of the class disparities in Vaelis, but the more she learned, the more uneasy she had felt about what her family’s comforts cost. She was sure that if she reached over to take Lore’s hand right now, she’d feel a surge of bitterness.
At least that’s what she would feel in his place. He must hate her.
He went on in a quieter voice. “I knew of you, of course. Talent Salaren, the Starscript prodigy. They put your essays in the newspapers. I read them whenever I could.”
The fire popped.
“What you wrote about the parallels between fae mythology and orthodox religious rituals led me to Valta, in fact.”
“Ironic, isn’t it? The Starscript prodigy who wasn’t allowed to advance her own research. You had more freedom than I did, then.” She looked up, startled by how her own words came out. “I know it sounds petty compared to—”
He cut her off. “A cage is a cage.” Then he looked up, meeting her eyes. “Even if the bars sparkle.”
She searched his face for mockery, but it wasn’t there. This, right here, was dangerous. He shouldn’t know her so well. This same man had hurt Holloway with blood magic, but she didn’t feel repelled. She felt deeply curious. He was a puzzle she wanted to solve.
She hadn’t noticed when it happened, but they were sitting closer now, leaning into the fire. She was acutely aware of the space between their knees. Her skin prickled as if he was looking at her, but she focused on the fire.
“The other day, you asked why Riven stayed behind,” he said suddenly. “Do you still want to know?”
The question surprised her. “Yes, of course. No one will tell me.”
“He felt guilty for his part in the warrant. It wasn’t random, Talent. Someone was reporting on your work, our meetings.”
The fire crackled between them, and Talia found it hard to breathe. The space felt too small, the ceiling felt too low. Riven had died saving her. Was Riven the reason she needed saving? The contradiction sent her mind spinning, searching for the logic it couldn’t find.
“Dawn and Holloway both knew,” Lore said quietly. “I’m surprised they didn’t tell you.”
Talia’s hands were shaking. She pressed them flat on her thighs. If Holloway had kept this from her, he had a reason. He always tried to protect her, even if he did it wrong sometimes. Lore didn’t say anything on accident, himself. He had a reason too.
“Why are you telling me this?” She concentrated on keeping her voice steady. “I think you want to make me angry. To isolate me from my friends, again.”
She reached over and took his hand, on impulse. She told herself she wanted to read his reaction, but her whole arm tingled when she made contact. His emotions shocked her—he was thrilled. She’d expected defensiveness, maybe anger, but he was genuinely delighted that she’d accused him.
He didn’t pull back. Instead, he slowly threaded his fingers through hers. He was watching her face with a funny expression, like he’d forgotten his script.
“This is what you do,” she said, looking down at their interlaced fingers. “You break people down until they lean on you.”
The noise of pattering rain and crackling fire filled the space, and instead of denying it, he grinned.
“Yes.” He said it with force, like she’d cracked a puzzle. “I do isolate. I provoke. It’s how I test what people are made of. Some crumble. Some sharpen.”
He leaned forward, bringing his other hand over hers. The firelight carved shadows across his face, catching the gold in his eyes.
“You.” His voice dropped low. “You sharpen.”
He said it like he was pleased she’d challenged him. Like he wanted her to do it again. She couldn’t look away from his mouth when he smiled like that. He was looking at her like she was capable. Like he couldn’t wait to see what else she could do.
“That doesn’t make it untrue.” He leaned back from the fire, releasing her hand. “Riven did betray you. Repeatedly. Dawn and Holloway are keeping secrets. And I want you to rely on me. What you do with that information is up to you.”
He wasn’t lying to spare her. He was trusting her with the unfiltered truth, and it almost felt like respect. Some part of her—the part that was tired of being handled gently, tired of being shielded—woke up.
He’s very good at this. She met his eyes, determined not to give in so easily.
“If you want me to rely on you, then stop playing games,” she said firmly. “It’s insulting.”
Her heart raced, and she didn’t know why. She wasn’t sure it mattered whether it was anger or attraction. They felt equally dangerous.
She stood, forcing her legs steady. She had to put distance between them because she was dying to know what he was thinking now, and if she stayed within reach—if she touched him again—
“I need air.” The words came out strangled.
She pushed past him, nearly stumbling in her rush.
The rain had slowed to a fine mist, leaving the whole world clean and sharp. She stopped and leaned her forehead against Jonquil’s neck. The mare’s earthy scent steadied her.
Riven had reported on her, gotten her exiled, then sacrificed himself to buy her escape. He’d cared about her and betrayed her and saved her, all three at once. The contradictions sat there, jagged and hurtful, refusing to add up.
And Holloway had known. He knew how she spiraled when she didn’t have all the information, and he’d let her wonder and grieve without giving her the truth. That almost hurt more.
She heard footsteps, but she didn’t look back.
“I underestimated you,” Lore said. “That’s a first for me.”
She didn’t answer, she couldn’t. She was finding it hard to breathe. She heard him take another step. With Jonquil there, she had nowhere to go. She turned around just as he moved into her space. Their eyes were level.
“You don’t have to like me. But understand, I don’t waste honesty on people who can’t take it.”
She should have pulled away. Instead, she stood there, back pressed against Jonquil’s flank, watching a raindrop trail along his temple.
“I’d like us to be allies, Talent. Maybe even friends. The kind that make each other stronger.” He smelled like amber and smoke, and his chest was nearly touching hers. They were the same height, and if she tipped forward just a little—
She did pull away then, pushing past him and putting the horse between them. “I think we should go back.”
He frowned, just for a second. Then he smiled, like he knew a secret.
“Maybe we should,” he said. “If that’s the thing you want.” Then he moved to clean up the fire.
She could tell he was trying to use her.
He probably had been since she met him. At the same time, he was the only person who treated her questions like the main event instead of a distraction.
Who trusted her to be strong enough to hear the truth instead of some watered-down version of it.
And some part of her responded to his confidence in her like a flame to fresh air.
That was the problem.
Not the fact that he would use her. She could see the pattern of manipulation, and she wasn’t falling for it, exactly. The problem was that even when she saw what he was doing, even when she knew better, she wanted to see how far it would go.
She should have been more afraid of that. Of him. Of herself. But she was curious what would happen if she let herself be sharp.
They didn’t speak on the ride back. Dawn met them at the edge of camp, her eyes flicking over the mud, the bruises, the strange new energy between them.
“He didn’t hurt you, did he?” she asked.
“No.” Talia answered too fast.
Dawn narrowed her eyes. “Be careful, Talia. That one is good at making his choices feel like yours.”
“I can handle myself,” Talia said, swinging off Jonquil and unhooking the waterskins. She’d been able to fill twenty before the storm ended. The water would buy them a couple days, at least.
“That’s what he wants you to think,” Dawn called to her back. “And he likes a challenge.”
Talia tried to focus, but her pulse was still racing, and her hands were shaking again. She told herself it was exhaustion from the storm. The shock of the flux strike. Riven’s betrayal. Anything but the truth.
The truth was, she’d been alone with Lore for hours, soaking in his attention. And gods, if she didn’t want it to happen again.