Chapter 6
Six
Water presses in on all sides, stinging my eyes and flooding my nose and mouth. I claw at the liquid, desperate for air, but my sodden shift tangles around my thrashing limbs. Silvery bubbles stream from my lips as a silent scream tears out of me.
My lungs burn, and spots dance across my vision as the need to breathe becomes an overwhelming compulsion. Water rushes into my mouth as I gasp reflexively. It fills my throat, choking me. I convulse, my body rebelling against the intrusion.
Strong arms wrap around my waist, hauling me upward. We break the surface in a spray of droplets. I sputter and cough, expelling lake water, sucking in desperate gulps of air. Falcen drags me toward the shore, my feet barely touching the lake bottom.
He deposits me on the rocky bank, none too gently. I collapse to my hands and knees, still hacking up water between ragged breaths. Shivers wrack my body, from cold and lingering terror.
“You can’t swim,” Falcen says flatly. It’s not a question.
I shake my head mutely. Humiliation spears through me, as hot as my earlier indignation. I keep my eyes fixed on the water dripping from my hair onto the stones beneath.
Falcen crouches down. He grips my chin, forcing my head up. His eyes, blue as the well water of my home, search mine.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“What does it matter? You wouldn’t have listened,” I reply, wincing at the chafed feeling in my throat.
That, and I didn’t want to show further weakness to this man. I haven’t known Falcen long, but it’s obvious he cannot stand the feeble, and I’m reluctant to make this trip more difficult than it already is.
Falcen’s mouth thins. I assume it means he’s considering his options and might shout at me again. But then he exhales heavily and releases my chin. “You’re right. I wouldn’t have.”
He rises and extends a hand. I eye it warily before placing my much smaller one in his. Falcen pulls me to my feet.
I stand in his shadow, dripping and shivering, my shift leaving very little to the imagination. But for once, Falcen doesn’t give me the once-over in that judgmental way that sets my teeth on edge.
Instead, he turns away, striding toward where he left his pack. He rummages through it, pulling out a length of rough-spun fabric. Falcen tosses it to me.
“Dry off and change into my spare clothes. They won’t entirely fit, but we’re close to town, and we can get you proper garments once we’re there.”
I catch the tunic and breeches reflexively, both dyed black.
“Thank you,” I mutter, the words feeling foreign on my tongue. Gratitude is the last thing I want to offer him right now.
Falcen just grunts in acknowledgment, already preoccupied with checking and cleaning his battered armor. I turn my back to him and begin peeling off my soaked undergarments, fumbling with the clinging fabric.
As I pat dry my clammy skin, I reflect on the severity in Falcen’s gaze as he pulled me from the water.
If I didn’t know better, I’d say he almost looked worried.
But then I shake my head, wet clumps of hair sticking to my cheeks. Falcen, concerned for my well-being? Unlikely. I’m just a barely formed Soulren, after all. A burden he’s saddled with.
Still, as I shrug into his dry clothes and he steps into his ripped, sweat-soaked ones with a deep frown, I can’t quite shake the memory of his arms around me and the strength in them as he lifted me from the lake as if I weighed nothing at all.
I tell myself it means nothing. That it was just a reflexive action, saving me and providing me with dry clothes. But some small, treacherous part murmurs that maybe, just maybe, there’s more to Falcen Reaves than the cold, ruthless exterior he presents to the realm.
I finish dressing and straighten, my chin lifted. “I’m ready. Let’s go.”
Falcen looks me over, his survey inscrutable as he takes in the baggy tunic ending at my thighs and the breeches I had to roll up almost half a dozen times before I could expose my feet.
He gives a sharp nod, finishes buckling his chest plate, then throws his cloak over his shoulders and strides away from the lake.
After slipping on my sandals, I scurry after him, holding my very loose waistband as I do.
Luckily, the town Falcen had in mind is a two-hour walk.
Right about the time my stomach begins growling loudly, we reach the gates of Brimhall, the iron bars etched with strange, shimmering glyphs that must be powered through a Soulren’s siphon.
As we pass through, the air becomes dense with unfamiliar scents.
Spices I can’t name, the tang of metal from a nearby forge, and an underlying sweetness that must be soul-infused crops.
Smoke from countless chimneys mingles with the earthy stench of animals and people pressed close together.
Streets paved with smooth, dark stones wind between buildings that tower over anything in my village.
Some structures gleam with soul-magicked reinforcements, their windows shining with an inner light that has nothing to do with candles or lanterns.
Grandmother says the first mages tore open their souls to push back the Void three decades ago, yet the lords of Vehloria quickly saw more than salvation in that sacrifice.
They saw a resource to be harvested, packaged, and sold to the highest bidder.
Every flickering streetlamp and self-warming hearth functions as a parasite, drinking the magick of Soulren until they go insane, and even then, they’ll be tied down and used until they’re husks.
Prosperity in Vehloria is built on a foundation of stolen breath, a cycle of consumption that leaves the practitioners withered while the elite grow fat on the tithe.
People hurry past in a dizzying array of colors and styles.
Falcen moves like a jagged shard of coal through a world of stolen gold.
Merchants call out their wares, their voices competing with the clang of a blacksmith’s hammer and the rumble of cart wheels on cobblestones.
I catch glimpses of soul-magick at work everywhere.
In the shimmering fabrics of a weaver’s stall, in the unnaturally perfect produce at a green grocer’s stand.
Street musicians coax melodies from bizarre instruments that glisten beneath their fingers.
Falcen’s hand brushes mine as we navigate the crowded marketplace, his touch like a torch against my skin. He looks at the opulent displays with a sneer that suggests he knows exactly which lives were shortened to power the fountain in the square.
“Keep your head down,” he mutters under his breath, pulling me closer until I can smell freshwater and old blood clinging to his skin. “This place eats girls like you for breakfast, and I’m not in the mood for a rescue.”
“I’m sure I’d be quite indigestible,” I retort, though I eye everyone we pass warily.
He doesn’t laugh, but his hold on my arm softens just enough to feel like a heated caress instead of restraint.
We move deeper into the narrow streets surrounded by timber-framed buildings with steeply pitched thatched roofs and away from the prying eyes of those who would see my magickal flashes as nothing more than a fresh battery to be bought and sold.
A group of children races by, laughing as they chase a ball that hovers just out of reach, propelled by what must be soul-resonance. Their carefree play is such a stark contrast to the grim-faced Soulren experiences I’ve encountered that it makes my chest ache.
As we move deeper into Brimhall, I notice the shadows between buildings seem darker, the alleys more ominous. Beneath the bustling surface of the town is an undercurrent of tension, like the furtive glances and conversations that stop abruptly as we pass.
I steal a glance at him, his expression unreadable as he throws his hood up and focuses on steering us through the throng.
Once we’re in the central square, Falcen breaks his silence.
“We need supplies before resuming our journey to the academy,” he says tersely.
I nod, too drained for anything further. I hope this also means we get to rest somewhere with a bed.
We reach a quieter side street lined with stalls selling everything from charmed trinkets to enchanted blades. Even my amateur eye can tell most are fake.
Falcen approaches a stall draped in fabrics of every hue, from deep crimson to vibrant turquoise. The vendor, a wiry man with a salt-and-pepper beard, looks up from his wares and freezes as he takes in Falcen standing on the other side of the cracked wooden table.
“I need clothes for the girl,” Falcen says without preamble. “A tunic, trousers, cloak, boots, and gloves. Dark colors, sturdy make. And I need them now.”
The vendor’s throat bobs. “O-of course, Resonant. Right away.”
He scurries to the back of his stall, rummaging through piles of folded garments.
I stand awkwardly to the side, acutely aware of the stares we’re attracting, and not simply because I’m dressed inappropriately. Townspeople give us a wide berth, their eyes flickering nervously to Falcen’s cloak, where his Elite insignia glimmers with a soft iridescence every time he moves.
Hushed voices follow in our wake, speculative and fearful.
“Is that a Void-walker?”
“What’s he doing here?”
I wince. Calling a Soulren a Void-walker isn’t meant as a compliment.
Falcen leans against the stall post, arms crossed, his very unaffected presence seeming to hover over the narrow space.
The vendor returns, his arms laden with a selection of dark garments. He lays them out on the table with shaking hands, smoothing the fabric with more care than necessary.
“These should fit the young miss,” he says. “Finest quality, I assure you.”
Falcen picks up a tunic, rubbing the fabric between his fingers. It’s a deep, inky black, the weave tight and sturdy. He nods approvingly and sets it aside, moving on to inspect the rest with the same meticulous attention.