Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
Roremar
He had to suck up his fucking pride, that was for sure. Roremar forced himself to remember the woman who had been killed, the blood splashed across her skin, and the hollow look in her eyes as he prowled the Lyra Temple Academy the following afternoon.
A cool breeze wafted through the arches lining the zig-zagging walkway that connected the sparring ring to the main halls, moss crawling over the stone exterior.
Echoes of conversations from students who were done with lessons for the day tangled on the air, gossiping about the brutal death that to them, was only another bout of crime in Lyra’s history.
Ahead, a pair of grand wings were carved into the dark wood doors leading inside the Academy.
Roremar had been to most of the Constellation Isles, and Lyra was the only one that consistently included the Angel in their artistry.
Despite the fact that the twelve-pointed star and serpent backed the island’s sigil, as he strode purposefully toward the doors, Roremar appreciated the fullness the symbol conveyed.
Starsearchers were more than just their fucking Fate ties, though some seemed reluctant to acknowledge that.
A growl rumbled through his chest at the notion.
Sweat clung to his skin, his wavy hair disheveled after a few hours of sparring lessons. He couldn’t wait to get home, rip off his thin tunic, and dive straight into the ocean.
But he couldn’t head there yet.
He had business first.
Or…maybe he could come back later. Or not at all. If he was serious, did he truly think this was a good idea? In fact, as the events at Fortuna yesterday morning swam through his memory and he paused in his tracks, he was positive it wasn’t.
As if the Fates knew he was a step away from abandoning his plan, the winged door flew open, and Emmeline stood before him.
A halo of afternoon sunlight streamed through the windows lining the corridor, framing her.
Chestnut waves swayed around her slim shoulders as she halted and her hazel eyes widened, one hand flexing against the wood, silver rings sparkling.
“What are you doing here?” Roremar asked.
And spirits, what was she wearing? Sure, mystlight kept the temple halls warm enough, but the sage sleeves cascading past her hands were sheer chiffon. He doubted the bodice or skirt were any warmer despite the thick embroidery accenting the waist. Hadn’t she ever heard of a cloak?
Even as he wondered it, a breeze spiraled down the walkway.
The wind got aggressive sometimes at the Academy given that they were at the highest point in the isle’s hills and didn’t have any land to block them.
He used to sit on the balcony of his dormitory for hours on the stormiest nights and watch the jungle sway beneath the gusts, something both terrifying and placating about the strength of the world and his small position within it.
“Looking for you,” Emmeline answered, and Roremar’s gaze snapped up to hers. He hadn’t realized his eyes had still been dragging over her body.
“For me?” Roremar echoed. Why was his voice so thick?
Emmeline’s brows rose as if to say were you not looking for me? And though she was correct, he didn’t want to admit it. Didn’t like the way something in him sparked at the fact that she predicted him, paired with those three words: Looking for you.
Roremar sighed, nodding over her shoulder. “We should go inside.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s cold out here,” he said, tone conveying the obviously he kept himself from tacking on the end.
“I’m fine,” she insisted, despite the pink tinging her cheeks and the tip of her nose.
“So fucking stubborn,” Roremar muttered as a few straggling students passed them on the walkway, hiking back for dinner. He dropped his voice. “We should at least go somewhere private.”
“That’s why I came out here.” Emmeline gestured to the arena behind him, and Roremar had to admit she had a point.
He’d sent his last session of the day—the group of sixth-year boys preparing for their rituals—back inside as soon as they were done, staying to finish cleaning up himself.
The training circuit was now empty and pristine, and a flush of pride straightened his spine at the sight.
Without answering, Roremar stepped aside to let Emmeline go first. He followed her sauntering steps back down the walkway and across the arena. She didn’t seem to mind that the hem of her skirt dragged through the dirt, though the rest of her clothing was as immaculate as he kept his blades.
She was so composed all the damn time, but those smudges of dirt made him suspect it was an act. Like she didn’t truly care about being so perfect. So why did she try? What would it be like to puncture that facade?
He doubted she let herself be that vulnerable often, if ever.
Did she even know how freeing that could be?
Roremar may have had his life ironed into neat rows now, but his reputation—as aggravating as it was—hadn’t written itself.
He had snuck into enemy camps. Stolen plans, artifacts, and even soldiers.
As much as the name made his teeth grind, there was a liberty to it. Back then, he didn’t have to be anyone in particular.
They stopped at the furthest edge of the ring where the willowing branches of cypher trees—the magical conduits that grew all throughout warrior land and channeled ether straight from the earth to fuel their magic—draped lazily over the waist-high stone wall.
Some of the verdant leaves on the surrounding trees had begun to fall, most still clinging to life, like they were reluctant to let summer go.
Emmeline brushed aside the withered white buds and greenery that dusted the wall and lifted herself onto it, her spine stiff as a broadsword. She fiddled with that tarnished opal ring again, the rest of the silver jewelry decorating her fingers, wrists, and neck seeming much less abused.
Roremar waited her out, their determination warring until she finally cracked the silence. “How did your first day of training go?”
His lips pursed. That wasn’t the question he’d expected.
Not after their interaction at Fortuna. “It was good,” he said slowly, trying to figure her out.
“Their last instructor was clearly knowledgeable. Some take to sparring more naturally than others, but that’s to be expected.
I’m hoping to expand the repertoire a bit from a younger age—get them handling a wider range of weapons in their first or second years rather than fourth when they usually do. ”
Spirits knew the number of times something other than a triple-blade or a broadsword had saved his life.
“Good,” Emmeline answered, nodding. Her voice was distant, like she was listening but not fully there.
“They’re good children. The older ones get a bit rowdy as they wait to take their final exams and prepare for their Fatorum Revelus next summer.
All that pent up magic. But I’m sure they’ll be happy to have a capable instructor who’s truly trying to expand their skillset. ”
“Capable?” Roremar repeated, brows raising.
“I meant it as a complement,” Emmeline clarified.
“That’s why I’m surprised,” he said, and dammit he laughed. “Didn’t think you had it in you to complement me.”
“I suppose I’m feeling generous today, but I can return to insults if you prefer.
” Her chin tilted up. Even propped on the wall, she was shorter than him.
The freckles across her nose popped in the sunlight streaming through the branches, the beams hitting the back of Roremar’s neck, his entire body heating.
“Don’t stop on my account.” He waved a hand, swiveling to lean a hip against the wall and crossing his arms. “If you’d like to comment on my rugged good looks or the impressive status I achieved at such a young age, I’ll gladly listen.”
Emmeline blinked, fixing him with an overly dramatic, concerned stare.
“What?” Roremar asked, flicking a glance over his shoulder.
“I’m worried,” Emmeline said stoically.
Roremar narrowed his eyes. “About?”
“What happened that your ego is so deflated today, you need me to stroke it?”
She was quick witted; he couldn’t deny that. And while she maintained that composure consistently, she had a mettle to her. An admirable steel backbone that would be useful in this partnership.
“You want to stroke something?” Roremar feigned a scandalized scoff, whispering, “Miss DeLeoste, please, we’re at the Academy.”
“As if you never spoke of such things when you were a student here.”
“I wouldn’t dare,” he lied. “I was a perfect student.”
Emmeline crossed one ankle over the other. “Other than stealing from Miss Bethany.”
Roremar couldn’t stop himself from laughing. “Other than a few forays in the kitchens after hours, yes.” He paused. “And the time when I snuck in with a friend and a couple of girls to get drunk at the top of the stargazing tower. But we weren’t technically students anymore at the time.”
“You what?” Her jaw popped open, a disbelieving gasp escaping her.
“We couldn’t help it. It was the summer of our Fatorum, and we wanted one last night to celebrate.”
“You must have been awfully unstealthy to have gotten caught.”
“Please, Miss DeLeoste. Show me some respect. It wasn’t my break in that got us caught. It was how much noise the girl and I made after the others left.”
Emmeline was stunned into silence. Roremar couldn’t help the rush of pride that shot through him at rendering her quiet. This argumentative, headstrong opponent.
But when she crossed her arms to match his, her chin lifting again—this time in a stubborn set—he was unexpectedly sad.
He never allowed himself to have much fun anymore—not until last night, and he saw how that ended—and he realized he was enjoying bickering with her.
It was a fair challenge, much more thrilling than getting so intoxicated he fell asleep at the Mezz.
“So are we going to do this?” Emmeline asked.