23. Spilled Truths
Spilled Truths
A sudden mental tug had my heart stopping. Faint but unmistakable. Thatcher.
The distance between Draknavor and Bellarium made our bond feel stretched thin, like a thread pulled taut to the point of nearly breaking.
We couldn't share thoughts or feelings across such vast distance, but this—this simple pull—was our way of checking on each other.
A question with only one meaning: Are you alive?
I closed my eyes. The tug came again, a little stronger this time. More insistent. He was worried.
I reached back along that invisible tether, giving a single, firm pull in response. I'm here.
That was all we could manage—this most basic form of communication, reduced to the simplest binary. Alive or not. Safe or not.
The bond went still for a moment, then I felt one last gentle tug. Acknowledgment. Relief, perhaps. Then nothing. The connection receded to its usual background presence, barely perceptible but always there.
I swung my legs over the side of the bed and stood, testing my weight on the newly healed limb.
It held without pain, without weakness. I walked to the window.
Beyond the glass, Draknavor stretched in all its terrible beauty—black sand beaches meeting the sea, obsidian cliffs rising against the scarlet sky.
You killed someone.
The memory played with perfect clarity—the star-blade leaving my fingers, its arc through forest air, the impact as it struck his chest. His wide eyes as he realized he was about to die.
I pressed my palm against the cool glass, anchoring myself against the strange hollowness inside. Where was the guilt? The horror? The part of me that should have been shattered by taking a life? Instead, I found only emptiness.
"What am I becoming?" I whispered to my reflection, half-expecting it to answer with a voice not my own. The mirror revealed a woman I both recognized and didn't—eyes hollowed by fever and resolve, skin bearing the lingering flush of Miria's healing magic, jaw set with determination.
Twenty-six years of identity had eroded in mere weeks, revealing a harder core—like the tide stripping away sand to expose the bedrock that had always existed underneath.
I stood in borrowed clothes, remade by divine magic, questioning which version of myself was real—the villager who had laughed with friends by firelight, or the killer who now wore her skin.
Xül's shirt fell to mid-thigh, reminding me of my current state of undress. Someone had left clothes on the table—soft, more practical than anything in my wardrobe. I grabbed the trousers, slipping them on. Too long, too loose. I rolled the cuffs and cinched a belt tight around my waist.
Barefoot, I padded through the palace corridors.
I followed the scent of salt and sea until I emerged through the front gates.
The sun hung low on the horizon, bloated and red, casting long shadows across the black sand.
In the distance, I could see Marx’s distinctive prowl unmistakable even from here, her silhouette sharp against the bleeding sky .
"Interesting fashion choice," Marx said as I approached. "Did you mug a scarecrow on your way here?"
I snorted.
She finally looked at me properly, taking in my borrowed clothes with a raised eyebrow. "So. You finally decided to rejoin the land of the living."
"Disappointed?" I challenged.
"Devastated. I had plans for your room." Her tone was dry as dust, but relief crept into her eyes.
We started walking along the waterline, waves lapping at our feet, filling the momentary depressions in the obsidian sand.
"The trial," I said eventually. "After the beacon. Tell me what happened."
Marx kicked at a piece of driftwood, sending it tumbling into the surf. "Not much to tell. Kyren and I made it through, then waited. And waited." Her voice took on an edge. "The domain was coming apart—sky cracking like an egg, ground trying to swallow itself. Real end-of-the-world shit."
"How long did you wait?" I asked, conscious of the debt I owed them.
"Long enough to assume you were both dead." Her voice was carefully neutral. "Then your brother appeared, dragging you like a sack of grain. You looked..." She paused, searching for words. "Bad. Really bad."
"But we made it." I felt for the ragged edges of memory, finding only darkness.
"Barely. Last ones through. The portal was already collapsing when—" She stopped abruptly, shooting me a sideways glance. "When Xül showed up."
My stomach tightened. "And?"
"He took one look at you, tore reality a new hole back to Draknavor, and summoned those soul things to carry you through.
" She paused, watching my face. "Funny thing, though.
The second we were back here, he dismissed them.
Grabbed you himself. Didn't say a word to anyone, just stormed off toward the palace with you in his arms. Very dramatic. "
I frowned, uncertain how to process this information. "I'm his mentee. If I die, it reflects poorly on him."
"Uh-huh." Marx's tone suggested she wasn't buying it. "Is that why you're wearing his clothes?"
"I woke up like this. End of story."
"Right. And the fact that you smell like him?" Her gaze was merciless.
I hadn't noticed until she mentioned it, but she was right. The deep wood scent with its hint of citrus clung to the fabric, to my skin. "It's his shirt."
"Look, I'm all for dangerous liaisons. Gods know I've had my share. But this? This is suicide with extra steps."
"Nothing is happening between us." I met her gaze directly, willing her to believe me.
"Yet."
"Ever." The word came out harsh. "He's arrogant, controlling, and being around him makes me want to commit violence."
"Sounds like foreplay to me."
"Marx."
"I'm serious." Her dark eyes held mine, no trace of humor in them now. "He's your mentor, you're mortal, and oh yes, the entire divine realm would literally kill you both for violating divine law."
"You're being dramatic."
"Is that so?" She resumed walking. "You're keeping enough secrets without adding 'fucking a deity' to the list."
The reminder of my other secrets made me wince. "Speaking of which..."
"Your blood. The wards." She didn't look at me, focusing instead on the horizon.
It wasn't a question. I stopped walking, trying to find words that weren't lies but weren't the truth either. "Marx?—"
"Save it." She held up a hand. "That thing nearly killed us because you couldn't—wouldn't—use your blood for the wards."
"I know." The admission was like swallowing glass.
"It looked like you'd rather die than bleed. If so, that's your prerogative, I suppose." Her voice was careful, controlled.
"It won't happen again," I promised, meaning it.
"How can you guarantee that?"
I met her gaze directly. "Because I'll make sure it doesn't."
She studied me for a long moment, eyes narrowing. "That's not an answer."
"It's the only one I can give you." I held my ground, refusing to look away.
The waves filled the silence between us, their rhythm hypnotic. Finally, Marx sighed, the sound almost lost beneath the surf. "Fine. But if we die because of whatever you're hiding, I'm cursing your ghost. Extensively. Creatively. For eternity."
"Fair."
"It's not like I'm a stranger to secrets myself," she said, resuming our walk along the shoreline.
I studied her profile as we moved—the sharp angles of her face, the curve of her jaw, the perpetual tension in her shoulders. "Yeah?"
She kicked at a shell, sending it skittering across the sand. "My parents were... devoted. Obsessively devoted." She laughed, but there was no humor in it, only a brittle edge that spoke of old wounds. "Our whole village was, actually. One of those places where the priests reside year-round."
"Sounds suffocating."
"That's a kind word for it." She shrugged.
"My mother would wake us at dawn for prayers.
First light was for Olinthar, of course.
Then offerings to Davina before breakfast. Midday devotions to Pyralia.
Evening songs for Syrena." Her fingers tightened on the wood until I heard it crack.
"Every moment of every day, scheduled around worship. "
"When did you realize you had powers?" I asked, genuinely curious about the woman who had saved my life.
"I didn't. Not at first. I was maybe seven when things started happening. Little things. The neighbor's dog that always barked at me got sick. The boy who pulled my hair fell down the temple steps. My father's favorite prayer beads snapped during morning devotions."
"Creepy."
"I thought they were coincidences. Until they started adding up." She stopped walking. "My mother was the first to put it together. Found me crying after I'd gotten angry at my younger brother and he'd broken out in boils. She locked me in the cellar."
My chest tightened. "Marx?—"
"Three days," she continued, voice flat, drained of emotion.
"To 'pray the corruption out of me.' When that didn't work, they tried other methods.
Holy water burns, by the way, when they force you to drink enough of it.
" Her smile was a terrible thing. "They didn't think I'd been blessed.
They thought I'd been cursed. And you know, I suppose they weren't wrong. "
I felt sick. "They tortured you."
"They tried to save me. At least, that's what they told themselves. That's not the type of gift anyone would want for their child."
"What did you do?"
"I ran." She resumed walking, her stride aggressive, kicking up sand with each step. "I was eleven. Middle of the night, stole food from the temple kitchens."
"Eleven. Gods, Marx."
"I learned fast. How to hide, how to steal, how to make people leave me alone." She glanced at me, a shadow passing over her face. "That last one was easiest. Turns out, when you can make someone's teeth fall out just by glaring at them, they tend to give you space."
"Where did you go?"