Chapter 15
Derian
“So, what all have you gotten into in my absence?” I ask Cal while skimming over the fortress reports from the past few weeks.
Three expeditions into the Wastelands while I was away in the Mortal Kingdoms. All three led to fights with Velkai.
Either their numbers are growing, or they are moving towards our land.
Both options are concerning.
“The renovations on the downstairs barracks are mostly complete,” Cal mutters, his focus entirely on his hands as he meticulously sharpens his blade.
I roll my eyes, glancing out the window to see that the women have started their training. Wordlessly, I stand to file away the papers before heading to the door, clapping Cal heavily on the shoulder as he stands after me. “I wanted fun updates. You know, women? Bars? Fights?”
He frowns, following me into the hallway and out of the space I’ve taken over as my office. “I won three sparring matches.”
I stifle my laughter behind a small smile. He’s far too serious for his own good. Gods bless the woman who finally brings him out of that steely shell one day.
Torchlight flickers, casting long shadows on the stone walls as we make our way through the winding corridors towards the courtyard. I breathe in deeply as we step outside, enjoying the fresh spring air. It won’t be this nice for much longer.
“Which ones do you like so far?” Cal asks softly, crossing his arms next to me as he examines the women. He stares at them, watching as if he’s choosing the next warhorse to invest in.
Several are sparring amongst themselves—mostly the Fae. Taric, Rhen, and Parker are all with the Mortals, teaching them how to hold the weapons and where to strike the body to cause the most damage.
Almost accidentally, my eyes lock onto Huntyr from where she stands with Rhen. She’s attempting to shoot an arrow, missing the mark terribly, and Rhen steps in behind her to adjust her hold on the bow.
“Mara’s a strong metal-wielder,” Cal notes, watching as she throws a sword, using her magic to aid it in finding dead center in the chest of a dummy. “Lirael is quite deadly with daggers, though. Sylvana has always been superior in simple hand-to-hand.”
“You’re not mentioning the Mortals,” I notice aloud.
He stares at me, brows furrowing as if he’s trying to decide if I’m joking or not.
“Why would I?” he asks simply. “You know, it’s a shame Elise volunteered. Her powers are useless inoffensive maneuvers. It’ll be a tragedy to see such a rare power killed off.”
We watch as Seraphina drags a Fae male to the sparring arena, demanding she needs a challenge.
And yet, when she launches at him, running full speed before jumping an impossible height and wrapping her thighs around his shoulders, twisting her momentum to bring him to the ground, it hardly looks like he’s a fair match for her.
Huntyr pulls the bow taut again. She doesn’t struggle with the weight of it the way most do when they’re learning, but her aim is still shit.
Sniffing, I slide off my leather jacket and toss it onto the bench beside us.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Cal asks sternly, as if he already knows the answer.
I’m not subtle enough to deny the fact that I’m relishing the opportunity to show off, but this isn’t strictly for the benefit of the women. “I’ve spent weeks away from here, in Bridgemond and then in the Mortal kingdoms. I feel like I’m going to explode.”
Keeping my magic in check has always been a challenge for me. It’s why my parents sent me away to Amberhull as a child. A young boy with that much unruly magic couldn’t be trusted in a castle with important people, as they liked to remind me.
Maturity had brought a certain amount of control to my powers, but still, going too long without ridding myself of some of the buildup often left me on edge.
I lift my hands, fingers flexing as I reach for the sky, for the silver threads of magic that shimmer just beyond Mortal sight. They hum in my veins, an ache, a craving, a call to be wielded. Holding back from that is like trying to cage a hurricane.
Which, technically, I am.
The wind howls as dark clouds gather overhead, rolling in thick and heavy. Strands of hair tear free from their bindings as the women in the yard still, their training momentarily forgotten.
And then, I let go.
Rain comes first. It’s a sudden, violent downpour, and fat droplets hammer the earth in heavy sheets. It soaks through my clothing and drenches the training yard in seconds.
A breath later, lightning splits the sky.
The strike hits just feet from me, the brightness so searing I know it leaves ghostly imprints in the eyes of those who dare to watch. Thunder follows, a booming crack that rumbles through the ground, shaking stone and bone alike.
The Mortals reel. Some scramble backwards while others clutch at their ears, wide-eyed in terror. In complete contrast, the Fae stand steady, smirking as though they’d expected nothing less from me.
“What is he?” someone whispers.
Thalara grins. “Storm-wielder.”
The words settle over the courtyard like an unspoken warning.
With a deep belly-breath, I release my hold on the storm, letting the sky clear and allowing the warmth of spring to bleed back in. The rain slows, then stops. In minutes, the sun is hanging high in a blemishless sky, as though it had never happened at all.
I don’t need to stay and hear what they say. I already know. They’ll marvel over how rare my gift is, how powerful I must be.
Then they’ll remember who I am.
And they’ll realize that my reputation as the deadliest Fae alive isn’t just hyperbole.
It is a title that has been rightfully earned.
I turn on my heel, mud sloshing under my boots. The weight of their stares follows me as I shrug my leather jacket back over tingling skin. The storm’s lingering energy will thrum in my chest for hours.
“Show-off,” Cal mutters.
I give him a lopsided grin. “Let’s go eat.”
But as we walk back toward the fortress, the familiar needling pressure at the back of my neck alerts me to a gaze that hasn’t wavered.
I turn, my eyes finding Huntyr’s.
She stands rooted to her spot, watching me with an unreadable expression. Unlike the others, there’s no fear in her eyes. No wonder. No awe.
Just something cold and sharp.
Something that might even be hatred.
And Gods help me, I want to know why she’s looking at me like that.
I glance at Cal over my shoulder, keeping my voice low. “Huntyr Lachlan.”
He frowns and follows my gaze. She's already turned away, resuming her attempts with the bow, her jaw clenched in what might have been determination.
“What about her?”
I keep my tone casual, but there’s an edge to it. “She’s different from the other Mortals. I want to know why.”
Cal studies her for a moment longer, his fingers tightening briefly on the hilt of his blade. “I'll look into it.”
I nod once, turning away.
Whatever she’s hiding… I’m going to figure it out.