Chapter 25
Twenty-Five
Lory
An unusually gray sky announced the Tears of the Gods as Lory crossed the training yard, an annual period of a few days that justified the drainpipes on roofs and the gutters on the streets, and which most of Dunai’s population looked forward to with yearning hearts.
As a child, Lory had danced on the streets until her clothes and hair were soaked, and Evven had rolled in the mud like some of the goats the farmers at the outskirts of Dunai kept in small enclosures.
The event was still a few days out, but if she peeked over the walls enclosing the Ward, she’d find colorful streamers in the marketplaces and people bustling about, spending more than they could afford on something nice to gift a family member.
It was the time of the year Lory wished Evven was still around to surprise him with a piece of candy she’d stolen from a market stand or to share a loaf of sweet bread they’d bought from the money she snuck from an inattentive nobleman’s pocket.
It was a time she’d hoped to spend with Khayrivven, no matter how naive that thought.
He’d made it clear no one could know something was going on between them, and she’d thought that meant he would shut her out when he was playing the role of the captain, but that simple word still wouldn’t stop ringing in her head: no.
He didn’t love her, and pathetic as it might have made her, Lory’s chest ached every morning she tried not to watch him eat breakfast on the dais.
When she laughed at Thal’s jokes and Hadrian and Anees’s bickering without feeling it.
She couldn’t help it—a yawning abyss had opened up inside of her, and she stood at its edge, staring the darkness in the eye as best she could.
But there was no escaping Khayrivven. He was there every day for the meals, his eyes meeting hers as if he felt her attention in the rare moments she allowed herself to look.
There for the endless hours of practice, when he bested her with blade and stealth.
And every time, that fire flared inside his gaze, summoning her like a moth to the light, like a thirsting woman to a stream.
Every day, Lory stood her ground. “You said no,” she reminded him in her head every single time, careful to keep her thoughts directed only at him, and the life guttering in his gaze was a punch to her chest—every single day.
As she strode up to the training parcours, Lory was convinced it would be the same thing today; the dark fire in his eyes promised as much as he nodded in greeting before gesturing at Eira, Brycon, and Thal, who’d been assigned to join their session for the afternoon.
For a heartbeat, Lory allowed the abyss to swallow her whole. “You said no.”
The fire guttered.
Lory trudged to Thal’s side, not particularly caring what they’d do. Throw knives, climb walls, jump from mock roof to mock roof. There was little she hadn’t done, little she didn’t already excel at, while Khayrivven personally oversaw her training.
When she dared lift her gaze to the captain, his expression seemed to be saying, I’m sorry.
Lory shook her head.
“Do I need to be worried?” Thal asked in a whisper that Lory knew Khayrivven picked up easily.
“About what?” She turned toward him, admiring the new brown square on Thal’s uniform.
“About Falcrest being in an even shittier mood than yesterday?”
Beside them, Brycon and Eira shifted on their feet, apparently as uncomfortable under Khayrivven’s scrutiny as everyone else.
“He’s always in a shitty mood,” she said without keeping her voice down.
Thal grinned. “Maybe he needs to get laid.”
Lory almost coughed up the breath she’d taken, forcing a nod. “It’s been said to work miracles.”
“Maybe you should get laid too, then,” Thal added with a grin, and Lory almost choked again. But she forced a grin. “Maybe I’ll find myself a cute fresh thornling and celebrate the Tears of the Gods with him.”
A dark chuckle floated on a wind, and Lory knew Khayrivven was standing right behind her.
The ire in his thundercloud eyes when he pinned her with them was one for the centuries.
“If you spend time on a battlefield discussing who needs to get laid, you’ll forfeit your useless life before you can take down even one enemy. ”
Lory held his stare, withstanding the silent accusation. The memory of when he’d said he didn’t want to share her.
“You said no,” she merely repeated in her mind, watching the ire gutter. “And you can’t have it both ways.”
So much anger swirled inside her veins these days that she barely made it from one class to the other without needing to calm her magic.
It was a crutch, though. One that shielded her aching heart, one that helped her pretend the glowing thread that had tied itself to her chest wasn’t always there, idle and observant, like a piece of the captain himself.
Lory shoved the thought aside. It was easier to be upset with him than to examine from up close what had happened.
“Apologies, sir.” Her words came out clipped, and Thal repeated them, his eyes darting between the captain and her, while Brycon and Eira remained at attention a few steps to the side.
“That’s three extra rounds for both of you,” Khayrivven said in that dead, cold tone Lory knew was his shield, and it killed her—killed her—not to know what was going on inside that head.
Why hadn’t the gods reversed her ability, made her able to read his thoughts instead of sending hers into his head, making her spill over and over again how she felt for him?
Oh, she was pathetic all right.
“Start at the wall”—Khayrivven pointed at the highest of the facades—“then continue over the three gaps there”—he gestured at the mock roofs with the widest gaps—“then make the leap to that wall. All of you. Now.”
Biting her tongue, Lory started running, followed by the others, who hadn’t had the honor of individual classes with the Veiled Hand.
As she climbed, leaped, climbed, leaped, Lory fell into a familiar rhythm. Thal was a few paces behind her, following her lead, as did Brycon and Eira, the two of them slightly slower and less assured with their handholds and footholds.
About halfway through her second round, Khayrivven called Lory to the side, a practice sword in his hand and the conflict of the ages warring on his expression. Panting, she stopped two paces from him, bending over and bracing her hands on her knees as she caught her breath.
“I’m sorry.” Khayrivven had used those words before, and Lory had ignored them, telling herself it would be easier to pretend nothing had ever happened.
But every breath was agony when he looked at her the way he did now, so she kept her head down, refusing to meet his gaze.
“No, I’m sorry, Khayrivven. I’m sorry I told you what I did.
I’m sorry, I asked you if you felt the same.
If I had never expected more than what this was, I would never have been—” Disappointed, she amended, but only to herself.
Devastated. Heartbroken. Because, despite never having put a label on their relationship, Lory had somehow believed that what they had was special.
“Now, if you don’t mind, don’t look at me like that, or someone will notice.” Out loud, she said, “Yes, Hand Falcrest?”
“I will speak to you tonight,” he murmured as he handed her a bag filled with rocks she hadn’t noticed in his hands.
“Put this on your belt,” he said with his full voice.
“The extra weight will take all that excess energy off your hands, and you won’t need to worry about finding a fresh thornling to help you with that. ”
She wasn’t sure she was imagining the edge of jealousy in his tone, and she didn’t dare examine it more closely.
So Lory took the bag, slung it through her belt, and ran.
Saying her body was aching that night would have been an understatement.
Every bone weighed about triple its usual weight, and the rocks had left bruises on Lory’s hip where they’d bounced against her flesh and bones with every step.
If Khayrivven had intended to punish her for keeping her distance, he’d thoroughly succeeded.
Only, Lory knew better than anyone that he’d never do that.
He’d kept in character, set an example for the new thornlings about what happened when someone made jokes during training, kept the facade of the ruthless captain.
And had used that moment of handing her the bag to try to soften the blow of his rejection.
Not that he needed to. At least Lory told herself that as she forced a wince out of her expression while she climbed the stairs to her room after dinner.
Khayrivven hadn’t been in his usual spot for long, leaving the meal early and rushing from the mess hall after the Master of Whispers without a look back.
At least, that saved her from the throb in her chest whenever she glanced at him and found his gaze already waiting.
With a sigh, she threw open the door to her room, allowing the wince and a groan to finally escape the moment she shut the door behind her—and stopped dead as she found herself face to face with the Veiled Hand.
“I have nothing to say to you.” Speaking those words hurt more than she dared to admit, and inside her chest, a spark of gold protested so loudly she could barely hear him as he said, “I wish I could explain, Lory. I wish I could find the words—”
“You’ve already said you’re sorry, Khayrivven.
” Of its own volition, her hand lifted and placed itself on his chest as Khayrivven took a casual step closer.
His warmth seeped through his uniform, heating her palm, and for a heartbeat, she felt alive, the wildfire in his eyes almost convincing her he’d never spoken that one little word. No.
An entire universe of emotions burned in those storm-gray irises, ready to be unleashed upon the world.
Tell me why, Khayrivven. Why are you so scared to admit—
“Because I don’t, and I can’t.” He answered her thoughts, showing her once more how little control she had over her new power.