Chapter 35 #3
Going back is worth it to me, to know Draven can choose a life he pleases.
And though I will miss Gray and Marcella more than words can possibly describe, I know I’ll also be keeping them safe with my decision.
Because I will not let Draven marry someone he doesn’t love—thus shackling his whole life—for me.
Which means I will never receive the aid of Tynan Dalmar to secure my freedom against Bathara and the Tani.
Which also means, should I stay in Solaya, I would be a criminal on the run, always looking over my shoulder and covering my tracks.
I know Gray Nightenjoy well enough to know he would follow me into the depths of hell—though he would probably try to reason with the flames before they could burn us.
And Marcella? Marcella barely needs a reason to pick a fight with nobility.
Giving her one—and one I know she would fight tooth and nail to protect—would probably be enough to watch her start her own sort of calamity.
Gods, I love them. I will miss them. But I can’t drag them into my mess, even knowing they would happily plunge into the abyss with me. If I could change anything about what I must do, it’s simply that I wish I could see them one final time, hug them properly, and say goodbye.
Plus, will it truly be so bad to go back? To give the others a chance?
If it’s on my terms, perhaps Casimir and I can come to agree on different arrangements.
Though honestly, I don’t even know what those changes would look like.
If we are going to find a cure for the corruption in the Abdites’ lakt?, then I should continue entering the Veil.
Not to mention, I wouldn’t want to stop my training—not when I’m truly beginning to see improvements in my magic.
And thinking of getting to see Neilina again fills me with warmth, makes me happy.
If I feel that way about the only person I truly got to know in Casimir’s home, whose to say I can’t feel that way about the others?
You should consider giving this place a chance, she had mused to me. I think you might find it’ll grow on you—if you let it.
I lift my chin, my decision made. “I will.”
“You swear it?”
“I do.”
His eyes hold mine, and shimmering blue whirls around his forearm. “Will you swear it with your magic?”
I don’t even glance down at the radiant blues caressing his arm in glowing tendrils. “I will, so long as you swear to uphold your end of the agreement, in turn.”
He dips his chin—once and concisely. “I will.”
With his amber, glowing eyes locked to the icy storm of amethyst riddling my own, we clasp forearms, a jolt of something powerful and consuming invading my senses.
I gasp at the overwhelming sensation. Gritting my teeth, I call on the essence of my magic and my magic alone, and I allow it to join Casimir’s with the force of something unbreakable.
Once finished, I draw back my hand and examine the small blue mark now twisting along the flesh just below my thumb, near the inner part of my palm.
It sparkles almost like a rune would. “It’s pretty,” I muse.
“I’m beginning to collect these sorts of marks like a merchant does his trinkets.
” As if on instinct, my eyes find the place on my finger where the blood droplet had once been, now diminished and faded thanks to Draven’s missive to King Alastair.
Casimir hums, something visibly shifting in his eyes as he inspects his own mark for only a moment. “And what is your second condition?”
I almost laugh at the absurdity of it, following the seriousness of my first. “I need you to fetch me a piece of parchment.”
He blinks. “Come again?”
“Parchment,” I repeat. “I need a piece. A quill would be ideal, too, but given our current surroundings…” I trail off, my gaze doing a dramatic sweep of the dimming rebellion. The Restorationist’s numbers are dwindling, unable to withstand the brute force of trained and generational magic.
“Why do you need parchment?” There is a slight wrinkle bunching his nose.
“Why do most people need parchment? I need to write something.”
He makes a face, but still, he turns on his heels, glancing around.
“Let me see…ah, as I thought.” He bends down to where the rough man with kind eyes lays decapitated on the ground.
Attached around his body is a worn brown belt, sheaths woven into the sides.
On his left hip is a slender buckled pocket, which Casimir flips up, pulling out a small rolled up parchment.
He hands it to me, and I arch a brow at him. “I’m not even going to ask how you knew that was there.”
Casimir shrugs. “You asked for parchment, I delivered it to you. Transaction complete.” His eyes sober, growing serious. “Now, we leave in under two minutes. Agreed?”
“Fine,” I concede through a drawn out sigh. “Can I borrow your dagger, then?”
He looks at me as though I just asked him to bring me the moon. “What in the realms of Kala are you planning to do?”
Wordlessly, I just hold out my hand to him, expectation speaking for me through the slits of my eyes. He holds my stare for a beat, then unsheathes a dagger and puts the hilt in my palm.
“Do not make me regret giving you that.”
“We have a newly found agreement, remember?” I taunt, wiggling my thumb. “Why would I try stabbing you now?”
“You tell me,” he deadpans, folding his arms and watching from behind as I bend to my knees and spread the parchment across the ground.
There is inked script already covering the front of it, so I turn the sheet over, thankful to find it empty.
Then, I prick my thumb with the tip of Casimir’s dagger, handing the weapon back to him once finished.
With a look of curiosity, he sheathes the dagger once more and refolds his arms as he watches.
Ignoring the weight of his attention, I glide my thumb across the parchment, using my blood to spell out one sentence. Four words. I blow on the blood, hoping it will help it dry more quickly, then I roll the parchment back up.
“Now what do you plan to do with that?” Casimir asks me, skepticism lacing loudly through his voice.
“Have a little faith, would you?”
“You have less than a minute left.”
“And patience,” I grumble, shooting him a sharp look.
A tiny smile pulls at half of his mouth.
I glance around the room, anxiousness gripping me in a vibrating frenzy. “Come on, come on,” I whisper.
Ten seconds. Twenty seconds.
Nothing.
I turn to face Casimir, pointing down near his hip. “Can I borrow that dagger again?”
He narrows his eyes on me. Still, he unsheathes the dagger once more, handing it back to me at the hilt. Before I can think better of my crazy idea—probably more like a deluded theory—I turn it over in my palm and slice the blade against my forearm, drawing a river of blood.
“What the hell are you doing?” Casimir snaps.
He steps forward, but I hold out my hand, motioning for him to stop. “Wait,” I demand, the hilt of the dagger loose in my palm.
Casimir glances at my wound. “You have cut yourself too deeply. You will lose too much blood if you do not let me help you.”
“Wait,” I say again. “He will come. He always comes for me.”
“Who?” Casimir demands, the word teetering between anger and panic.
I don’t answer him.
Because there, appearing from across the room through a cloud of ash and disintegrating magic, I see my heart wrapped in the wings of a nightmare, inky shadow panthers prowling at his side as he rushes toward me.
I watch him come, in all his glorious, ferocious beauty.
“Him.”