Chapter 14
Breakfast was not ready by the time Soren left the tent for training.
Not wanting to be late and incur Vane’s anger, she hurried to the clearing where they had trained the day prior.
He was waiting, arms crossed over his broad chest. His gaze flicked over her, catching on a point by her shoulder.
He was looking at her hair, she realized, the silvery strands braided tight and falling nearly to her waist.
“I know, it’s an odd color,” she said, touching it self-consciously. “Not very Misean.”
His mouth bracketed with tension. “A family trait?”
She shook her head. “Not that I know of. If it was, my mother and father were dead before they could tell me much about where it came from.”
Lie. She remembered asking her parents incessantly about her hair and why she didn’t look like them and her siblings. They had glossed over the subject every time she brought it up.
Vane didn’t react to her words the way she thought he would, though. She expected some semblance of pity. Instead, he only said shortly, “Start your exercises. Now.”
Fury rose in the back of her throat like a bad taste. It clouded her thoughts and her reason, making her promptly forget the threats that had been hammered into her mind at the palace.
“I was planning on it, sir,” she quipped, raising a brow and matching his stance, her arms across her chest.
He lowered his chin, a storm in his eyes. “I am trying to help you.”
“You don’t even know my name.”
His dark eyes narrowed. “You didn’t give it, Soren.”
She stiffened, taking a step back. “How do you—”
“Commander Eton told me, believe it or not.”
She blinked. “I didn’t know he bothered to learn it.”
Vane’s mouth twitched, but the amusement quickly faded. “Enlightening as this conversation has been, get on the ground before I make you.”
She reined in the urge to roll her eyes at his dramatics.
It shocked her a bit, this person she became around him.
Fleetingly, she wondered if this was who she might be without a life in shackles.
But the thought was gone quickly, like a passing breeze, and she began her exercises.
Vane remained standing above her, his jaw occasionally twitching between barked orders of ways she could better her form.
When she finally stood to begin running her laps, her vision swam, but she ignored it. Vane ran beside her, his breath even while hers was ragged. Vaguely, she observed others in the camp staring as they ran by.
“Keep up the pace,” he ordered, not at all out of breath.
She blinked hazily, forcing her legs to move faster, even though they felt as though they were made of stiff, heavy iron. By the time they had reached the clearing again, black dots swarmed her vision, and her body began to feel light.
“Soren.”
Vane’s voice sounded far away.
“Sorry…sir,” she slurred just as her legs gave out beneath her.
Instead of the hard, muddy ground she expected to hit, strong arms caught her. A scent enveloped her, one that reminded her of sitting around a blazing campfire, warm and smoky and…
Firelight danced all around her, blazing torches lighting the chamber, where no one would find them. Tonight was theirs alone, no matter what the morning brought.
Strong hands brushed through her hair, and the torches flared.
“Careful. I’m not fire resistant.”
Lips touched her neck, a soft chuckle vibrating against her skin—
With a gasp, Soren opened her eyes. Backlit by the gray sky, Vane’s face hovered above her, his brow creased and his full lips set.
Still half in a haze, she reached up and touched his forehead, a few strands of hair catching on her fingertips.
His lips parted before he pulled away, but she caught it: the moment of vulnerability, when the hard look in his eyes softened just a fraction.
There was something he wasn’t revealing, some card he had yet to play.
“Are you alright?” he asked gruffly, his voice catching just slightly, just enough that she heard it.
She dropped her hand abruptly and tried to sit up, but he pressed a hand on her shoulder, stopping her.
She sighed. “I’m fine. I just missed breakfast.”
Vane shut his eyes briefly and muttered something under his breath, words she could not understand.
“Eejja caileag.”
“What?”
He opened his eyes, and this time, he let her shove away from him. Cold rain had begun to fall, storm clouds thickening above them. The frigid water sluiced down Vane’s face as his mood quickly shifted. His entire body was tense as he stood, crossing his arms.
“You are an idiot.”
She ignored the scathing words and instead scrambled to her feet, still barely reaching his chest. “The language you just spoke, what was it?”
Lightning flashed, reflecting in his onyx eyes. “It doesn’t matter. Next time, if you miss a meal, tell me so I can get you something.”
She snorted, shaking her head. “Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why do you care to help me? Why does it matter if I’ve eaten or not or if I’m strong? Most here would love to see me fail.”
Vane lowered his chin, water running in rivulets down his face. “If you let yourself be what they made you, Soren, you will never rise above their expectations.”
His words took her aback. He spoke as if he knew her struggles, as if he too had once worn shackles of some kind. She wasn’t foolish enough to think all chains were worn on your limbs, but she didn’t ask about what his might be, afraid he would lash out at her.
“Midday meal is probably being handed out soon,” she merely replied. “I shouldn’t miss it too.”
Vane tightened his jaw and looked away from her. “No, you shouldn’t.”
She nodded once then abruptly turned and walked away, her mind whirling as she left him behind in the pouring rain.
Mud and rainwater sloshed around her booted feet, but she hardly noticed it, her mind on what she had seen when she’d fainted.
It had felt just like her dreams, and she was nearly certain whoever’s perspective she was looking in from was the same.
It unnerved her, that the visions were starting to seep closer to her waking hours.
Could it really be some god’s rebellious daughter playing with her mind?
But why?
She pushed the question from her mind as she approached a tent where everyone was sheltering from the rain to eat. She couldn’t afford to be distracted, not now, not as she faced the wolves.
After grabbing one of the last portions of dried meat and hot grain, she sat gingerly on a wooden bench next to Cion, who was soaking wet and wearing a sullen expression.
Without the usual coating of makeup, the princess looked younger.
Still, even as she appeared miserable, there was determination hardening her jaw.
“Not so grand, is it, princess?” Yella said from across the tent.
Cion lifted her head. “Are you done?”
Yella smirked, and Soren had a feeling the girl was just getting started in a fight she did not want to pick.
“Maybe,” Yella said. “I was wondering how you’ve been faring without a servant. Soren was supposed to attend to you, right? I mean, that must be hard, having to wipe your own ass—”
In the blink of an eye, Cion leapt from the bench and tackled Yella to the ground.
The benches tipped over, and people began to shout, some encouraging the fight.
Soren watched with wide eyes, a knot in her throat as the princess hit Yella’s face square in the middle.
Blood streamed from her nose, but she was still smiling, even as Cion reared her shaking hand back for another blow.
“Stronger than I bargained for,” Yella said between broken laughs.
Soren stood slowly, a hand on her throat. Something was wrong. She could feel the dissonant hum of it in the air, like a call beckoning some dark void closer and closer to Cion…
Death, a bodiless voice rasped in Soren’s ear.
She whirled, searching the tent, but turned back just in time to see the two women roll.
Soren caught the flash of silver in Yella’s hand as she pinned Cion to the ground.
Soren yelled the princess’ name, but Cion looked back at her instead of at the dagger in Yella’s hand—
Someone screamed.
The room plunged into a deep darkness, the temperature falling with it. In an instant, the air felt achingly frigid. Gods, she was quite suddenly so, so cold, from the tips of her fingertips to her very center, where her heart beat quick as a desert jackrabbit’s.
Five.
She could feel Yella’s heart slowing, as if the organ was beating in her hand.
Four.
Tiny bodies lay scattered around her on the forest floor, and a woman wailed in agony.
Three.
“Are you afraid of me, Mamma?”
Two.
“Misean whore!”
One.
She was becoming exactly what they wanted.
A killer.
Please, someone whispered, the sound brushing against her very thoughts. Not Yella, but her dragon, Keenie—
In an instant, the room brightened, the only sound the pounding of the rain against the canvas fabric of the tent.
Yella was curled in the corner, rocking herself slowly and muttering under her breath.
Princess Cion sat a few paces away from her, face drained of color.
Her throat had been nicked, but the blood was already drying against the pale skin of her throat.
“What in the gods’ names is happening here?”
Commander Eton’s voice echoed through the tent, and before Soren could even react, Ilav pointed at her. “It was her! She tried to kill the princess with dark magic!”
Rough hands tore at Soren, spinning her around abruptly until she came face to face with cruelly familiar jade green eyes.
“Magic, hmm?” the commander said. He laughed harshly, shaking his head. “Magic doesn’t exist, not anymore. But if you tried to kill the princess—”
“She didn’t.” Cion’s voice shook as she stood. “She didn’t. Yella did. Soren stopped her, I don’t know how…”
Commander Eton shoved Soren back, and someone else grabbed her from behind, though the touch wasn’t as rough.
Vane.