Chapter 24
Chapter Twenty-Four
Neve
What an utterly horrible day.
Neve sat on a low bench as the field nonnae sewed a long gash along his left shoulder blade.
Somehow, a saloes had managed to sneak up on him and land a solid blow with an axe as they retreated.
It had slid in between his pieces of armor.
Luckily, the wound was not terribly deep, but it would remind him of its presence each and every time he moved.
Flyka paced to his right, her expression darkening each time he grunted in pain.
The Haunt was beating herself up over his injury.
Neve hissed as the nonnae sewed the deepest part of the cut.
He had chosen to not indulge in any pain relief.
Every time the needle threaded through his skin, it was a reminder of the mistake he had made.
Turning his back to the enemy. It could have cost him his life, and now Flyka was blaming herself for it.
“This wasn’t your fault.”
She glared at him but said nothing as she continued to pace the length of the round tent.
The fire popped in the woodstove, breaking up the silence that had settled over them.
The nonnae worked swiftly and efficiently.
He felt a gentle tug and then the healer dropped her needle and remaining thread into the bowl of hot water sitting on the bench to his right.
“That was the last one, Reillov.” The nonnae rinsed off her hands in the water and quickly packed up her belongings. “Take care with your shoulder. It’s in a vulnerable place. You could tear your stitches with any number of movements.”
“Sei,” he replied. Neve had no doubt that she would be sewing him up again within the next few days.
The healer slung her satchel over her shoulder and picked up the bowl of bloodied water. She paused near the door and eyed Flyka. “Make sure you come by my tent tonight, too, valles. I can smell the blood on you, and it’s not human.”
Neve narrowed his eyes at his friend. Flyka practically growled at the nonnae before she left the tent. He rolled his shoulder, testing out his mobility. While the wound ached, the stitches held.
Good enough.
He inhaled deeply, scenting the air. Pain and fresh blood.
Bloody Haunt.
“How badly are you hurt?” he asked softly. Flyka was used to demands and barking orders. Being gentle always threw her off-center.
She blinked at him. “Just a few cuts and bruises.”
All lies.
No one bled that much from a few cuts.
He took a moment to really look his friend over. Her normally white skin was flushed and seemed almost gray. Big black circles shadowed beneath her eyes, and her lips were pinched.
Stupid vallos. He should have looked at her closer.
Neve rose to his feet and stared down at his friend. “I need you to visit with the healer, please.”
She bristled. “I’m fine.”
Being soft was not going to persuade her this time, it seemed. “You will visit the nonnae. Now.” A command he was not the least bit sorry to utter. If she would not take care of herself, he would do it for her.
Flyka straightened at his tone. She crossed her arms and met his gaze with a challenge of her own. “I am not to leave your side, Reillov. It is my duty to protect you at all costs.”
“Your health is not qovving negotiable, Flyka. You will visit the healer immediately, my Haunt.”
He almost never reminded Flyka of her station. They had grown up together. She was one of his best friends, but in this instance, he would not back down.
She gritted her teeth, fangs bared. “As you command, Reillov,” she all but spat. Flyka stomped out of the tent, leaving him completely alone.
Neve frowned at the tent flap. The stubborn valles was going to get herself killed one of these days if she did not learn to start caring for herself.
Rotating his arm, Neve slowly strolled around the empty tent, thinking about the day and savoring the rare moment of time alone.
Today had not gone as they had planned. After weeks of snowfall, the humans were at a disadvantage.
The Loriian army had been creating tunnels through the snow to reach the saloes camp.
They should have been able to sneak in and take the whole camp.
Except the humans had somehow gained more support.
He sneered at the rug, pausing to massage a sore knot in his right shoulder.
The bloody Asteran monarchy had hired mercenaries—a mixture of humans, halflings, and eastern Fierrans. That was the problem. Fierrans were known for their explosives. The mercenaries had buried giants in the snow, the tunnels becoming icy graves.
When Olwen had discovered what they were up against, their army had made a tactical retreat. It could have been a bloodier day, but the loss still haunted Neve. He had dug in the snow for hours trying to save some lives.
Some giants survived. Others had suffocated.
Neve shook, and a roar built in his throat. He wanted to scream all the outrage, pain, and loss to the sky. But he swallowed it down. His men could not see the king losing his composure. They had to be smart. They could not let emotion get the best of them.
But it was easier said than done.
Even now, he could taste blood in his mouth. The smell seemed permanently stuck to his skin.
He ignored the food on the table in the middle of the room and instead grabbed a cup. Neve poured some warm wine into it before tossing it back. He swished it around in his mouth before spitting it back into the cup. It took away some of the taste from his mouth.
All in all, today was a blow.
Moving forward would be a challenge.
He ran a hand down his face and set the cup on the table before moving toward his bed at the back of the tent.
It was a little cozy nook that should have been perfect for sleeping.
Yet, true rest evaded him. His body demanded that he fall into the plush furs and soft sleeping mats, but his mind whispered that the nightmares would come for him first.
Too long, he stared at the bed taunting him.
Eventually, he turned away, gazing down at himself. While he was bare chested, he still had his war leathers and boots on. Blood—both human and giant—splattered his chest. It was dry and somehow sticky. He needed a bath.
An undeniably female scream pierced the air.
Neve stiffened.
It was one of absolute pain and rage. One that spoke to the own suffering in his soul.
Shouts and raised voices followed.
Neve found himself grabbing his sword and marching toward the tent flap. He plunged out into the cold. His guards eyed him but said nothing as his eyes adjusted to the darkness and flickering fires. He observed his camp, searching for the source of the outburst.
He lifted his hand to block the light from the large bonfire and spotted a large group gathering. One of his warriors shifted, giving Neve a glimpse of a halfling holding a sword that was almost as big as she was.
There were no halflings in his army.
This one must be from Mizar.
In truth, he had not come across many of them. Prejudice ran deep among his people. The only place you found halflings were along the Loriian-Asteran border where the two peoples mixed.
“Do you know what is happening?” he asked his guards.
“Only that the young one touched the halfling, and she didn’t take too kindly to it, Reillov.”
Neve’s lip curled. This was a situation he could take care of himself. No one touched a valles without her permission.
He prowled around the fire, his warriors parting for him.
The circle of warriors opened up, giving him a clear view of the scene.
The halfling held a long sword, her arms straining to keep it pointed at the giant lying on the ground. She was a mess.
The hem of her dress had been ripped clean off, and she wore no shoes.
Claw marks slashed through the garment. He dragged his gaze upward.
The bodice had been torn as well as the sleeve, leaving part of her corset and the slope of her breast exposed.
Sadness swiftly followed by anger filled his mind as he spotted the nasty bite on her shoulder that leaked sluggish deep-red blood down her collarbone, staining the cream corset.
The breeze picked up, bringing with it a flurry of snowflakes and a scent . . .
He stiffened and then inhaled deeply.
Spicy ginger. Amber. And something sweet.
“Niliave.” A whispered prayer and a curse.
The halfling’s attention snapped from the giant lying on the ground to Neve.
A shock rolled through him as a familiar pair of green-blue human eyes locked onto his own.
All the air fled from his lungs. It was not possible.
The moment stretched on between them. She wore shimmering blue skin and faded black hair. It was his Lia but not . . .
The giant on the ground shifted, breaking the moment.
Dahlia’s focus turned to the vallos, and Neve hated him for it.
Only he deserved her gaze.
“Don’t touch me,” she hissed at the warrior who held out his hands in surrender. She backed away from the male, the sword still slightly pointed down.
A growl rumbled in his chest as he locked onto the vallos. “Did you do this?” he snarled, taking a step toward the young giant.
The male’s eyes widened, and he shook his head frantically. “No, Reillov. She was wandering through the camp, and I could smell blood. I only touched her arm, and she lost it. I would never harm a valles like that.”
Neve inhaled deeply and only found truth in the young vallos’ feelings.
His vision dipped when he glanced back at Lia.
While she had disguised herself as a halfling, she was wholly human.
His human.
Something dark and predatory rose to the surface the longer he stared at her.
Rage that someone had dared touch her.
Desire to run his lips along her skin.
Hate that she’d betrayed him.
Disbelief that she dared point the sword at him.
Hurt that she would gaze at him with such impassion.
Need to take care of her.
Shock that someone would brand her. With their teeth.
Anger that he felt anything toward the saloes.