30. Cato
Cato
“Aryn!” The scream tears out of me, no better than the shriek of a wounded, cornered animal.
I lunge to stop him, but my fingers only graze the back of his coat. He’s already sprinting away, making as much noise as possible—kicking snow, slamming into branches, fucking taunting an entire group to follow him.
Alone.
I charge after him, boots pounding in the snow and heart hammering so hard I’m sure it’s about to explode. Ronan’s arms slam around my chest from behind, yanking me back with so much force my feet leave the ground for a second.
“Cato, stop.”
“No!” I shout, thrashing against his hold. “Let me go! Let me go!”
I elbow him in the ribs, then again even harder. He grunts but doesn’t release me, then roars as my foot kicks back into his shin. His grip loosens, but before I can fight my way free, he doubles down.
“Cato, you have to fucking stop!” Ronan growls in my ear as he struggles to hold me. “If you follow him, you’ll both be killed.”
“I don’t care! He’s mine! He’s fucking mine!” Tears blur my vision, pure panic and rage giving me the strength to fight. “He can’t be out there by himself!”
The sounds of the Viskari grow louder for a moment, but then the shouts and thunder of running feet veer in another direction.
It’s working. Aryn is drawing them away.
And he’s fucking alone.
I twist violently, almost breaking free as I clip his chin with my shoulder, but Ronan holds steady and slams the front of my body against the rocks. “Cato, listen to me!”
My eyes burn until they overflow, tears streaking my cheeks in freezing rivers. “No! Let go of me!” I choke out, thrashing harder. “I can’t… he can’t! Just let me go to him!”
“They’ll kill you,” Ronan growls.
“Then let them!” I bellow. “If it means living without him, let me fucking die!”
The words pour out of me and the realization hits like a hammer to the chest.
I love him.
I’m in love with him.
Not the hesitant, confused version I’ve been carrying, or the kind you feel with a friend that’s become family, but the real kind. The terrifying, all-consuming kind. And I might never get the chance to tell him.
Ronan spins me around and slaps my cheek hard enough to cut through the panic. For a second, everything goes quiet, and through the silent forest I catch the edges of those voices moving further away.
“You’re a fucking coward!” I bellow as I swing at him with everything I have. My fist connects with his jaw, and Ronan staggers but doesn’t go down. I lunge again, snarling, but he dodges and pushes me back against the rocks with an arm barred across my throat.
“Enough!” Ronan barks, a line of blood dripping from his lip. “He knew what he was doing, Cato. If you run after him now, you make it pointless. What do you think will happen if he knows you’re in danger?”
I’m breathing like I’ve run for miles, chest heaving and tears freezing on my cheeks. I don’t answer, only try to shove him off me.
“Aryn is smart,” he continues. “He’s a damn good warrior, and he knows the terrain.
He said he could lose them, and we have to trust him.
But the longer we stand here fighting amongst ourselves, the more we risk one of them hearing us.
If they realize we’ve split up, they will come back to hunt for us.
Getting behind those walls”—he jabs a finger at Maelithryne in the distance—“is the only way we go forward. It is the only way he knows where to find you. You want him to come back to you? Then you have to be there when he does.”
The fight drains out of me slowly, leaving only a hollow void and a heart that doesn’t know how to hold this kind of hurt.
“He’s injured,” I argue, hating the way my voice breaks.
“He’s bleeding and fucking exhausted, and he’s…
” I trail off, fighting the suffocating lump in my throat as Ronan’s grip on me loosens. “I can’t lose him,” I whisper.
Cameron steps closer, cheeks flushed and tears clinging to his lashes.
He shoots his mate a glance that makes Ronan scoff, but he obediently releases me.
“You won’t lose him,” Cameron says. “He’s counting on you being there, Cato.
Don’t make him go through all of this to find out you aren’t where he expected you to be. ”
None of us are in any condition to fight.
We’re filthy, exhausted, and terrified, but we’re still standing because of Aryn.
I swallow hard, jaw clenched so tight it hurts, and cast one more glance in the direction he ran.
His single set of footprints looks so lonely, so fucking vulnerable, as it disappears between the trees.
I could follow.
I could fight.
But Ronan’s words linger in my head. If Aryn saw me in danger, he’d run to my side in an instant, self-preservation be damned.
Maybe I’d be able to help him.
Maybe I’d fuck it all up.
“Fine,” I rasp, feeling as though I’m severing a limb as I tear my eyes away. “Let’s go.”
The forest is a blur of pain and snow as we start running again. My legs are like lead, but I push harder than I ever have in my life. Every step away from Aryn feels like a knife twisting deeper into my chest. I keep looking back, hoping—praying—I’ll see him burst through the trees behind us.
He never does.
For the next two hours, we don’t even stop for a drink of water. A low-hanging mist settles in our path, and the air is so thin every inhale takes effort. The terrain is difficult, steep and icy beneath our feet, but we don’t dare search for the road.
Maelithryne appears slowly, giving us glimpses of stone walls and billowing smoke as we get closer. When my legs are ready to give out, we crest a steep hill. We stop as one, panting for breath and staring ahead.
We made it.
The outer walls are tall, built with stone and reinforced with dark timber, connecting to the cliffs like they’re built into the side of the mountain.
Purple banners snap in the wind, and even from here, we can see the shadows of archers keeping watch.
The main gate is massive—easily twenty feet tall and twice as wide.
Two enormous lanterns flank the opening, burning with orange flames that feel like an invitation and warning all at once.
It’s sturdy and time-worn, like a place that refuses to fall out of pure, stubborn will.
We stagger out of the forest, weaving through old, decaying stumps where trees once stood. They’ve been cut back from the entrance, allowing the guards to see anyone approaching from far away.
There’s nowhere to hide.
Seemingly endless stone stairs rise to the gates. Aryn told me they forged the road as a protection—narrow enough to force an army into neat little rows with no shadows to cover them.
There’s movement above on the wall, and voices call out that are merely buzzing from here.
I reach into my pocket and clutch the sigil ring so hard the metal bites into my palm, then drag myself up the stairs.
Sweat pours down my spine, at odds with the frigid air of this place, and my lungs feel like they might give out at any moment.
The gates open, forming a sliver of light between the massive doors.
Guards swarm out, marching to meet us on the path.
Ronan and I lead the way shoulder-to-shoulder, hands visible and weapons sheathed.
A dozen of them make their way down the stairs as we continue upward, mostly Dreven like Aryn, with deep red skin and tails on alert behind them.
We stop when they do, our groups standing only ten feet apart. The guard in front speaks in rolling Elyrian, and Ronan answers, gesturing at our group and the forest beyond. After a few minutes of back and forth, he turns to me.
“Show them the ring.”
The guards tense as I reach into my pocket, but I’m careful to move slowly as I present the ring. It swings back and forth like a pendulum, and the closest guard tilts his head, gesturing at it like he’s asking permission to look closer.
“Yes,” I insist, nodding. “Please.”
A few of the guards shoot each other strange glances, but the one in front steps closer and takes the chain from my hand.
It’s my last piece of Aryn, and I fight my instinct to hold on to it.
He doesn’t go far. He just stands there, holding the ring up to the light and twisting it in different directions.
Clear relief flashes on Ronan’s face as the guard asks him a few more questions. The others look skeptical, but when the one holding the chain says something abruptly over his shoulder, they snap to attention.
The group turns toward the gates, and I panic.
“Wait!” I lunge forward and wrap my fingers around the ring, tugging it back toward my body. “Please. Please.”
His brows flick together before Ronan rushes to say something. The guard’s emerald cat-like eyes don’t leave mine as he listens, and finally, he dips his chin. He releases the chain, and I hold it to my chest with a shaky breath.
“We need to follow them,” Ronan explains.
“Do they know anything about the Viskari?” I demand. “Has Aryn been here? What—”
“Cato, for once in your fucking life, I need you to sit back and shut up,” Ronan says, pleading with his eyes. “Let me handle this.”
A hand lands on my shoulder, and Taryn gives me a cautious smile. “I know what you’re going through,” she says softly before nodding at Cameron. “Both of us do. We’ve had to be separated from our mates, and we understand how awful you feel right now. But you’re too tired to fight anymore.”
I squeeze the ring tighter, then meet the guard’s curious eyes again. “Come,” he says in a thick, guttural accent.
My mouth drops open as I realize I can understand him. “You know our language?”
His lips pull back in a slight smirk as he lifts his hand in a twirling gesture. “Come,” he repeats. The guards turn and march back toward the gate, and after a bewildered glance at Ronan, we follow. The gates are even more impressive up close, and the guards shout orders as we pass.
“They’re organizing a search party,” Ronan explains. “It sounds like the Viskari is a common problem for people seeking sanctuary here. He’s also demanding they find someone named Brihn. A leader, from the sound of it.”
We’re led through the winding streets of Maelithryne in tense silence.
The village is thriving and alive, even if I can’t appreciate its beauty right now.
Narrow cobblestone paths snake between tightly packed buildings, in far better condition than those in the trading post. Every so often, lanterns hang from iron hooks in a primitive version of streetlights.
The scent of burning fires and roasting food drifts from open doorways, making my empty stomach twist into painful knots.
Like the guards, most of the occupants here are Dreven, though I notice others sprinkled in.
There’s an Anunian like Ronan, a few Cavese like Xeni, and even a small cluster of Drüinae like Nyx.
They stare as we pass—some openly, others with cautious glances from windows or behind market stalls, but none of them appear afraid.
The guards keep us in a tight formation, swords held ready.
We’re brought to a large stone building, and the guards usher us inside.
After so long in the cold, the heat from the massive hearth hits like a wall.
A long wooden table sits in the center, already loaded with a few pitchers of water.
Two more Dreven follow us inside, setting places with loaves of dark bread and bowls of stew.
Four guards remain inside the room, standing watch near the walls.
They don’t speak, but their eyes never leave us as they gesture for us to sit.
I drop into a chair and stare at the stew, reminding myself that Aryn is out there alone and hungry.
Starving myself doesn’t do any favors, though, so I force myself to eat.
After an entire day and night on the road, we’re starving and devour it with the table manners of wolves.
For a few minutes, the only sounds are spoons scraping bowls and quiet chewing.
The door opens again, and a tall, lean Dreven steps inside.
He’s striking, with deep red skin a few shades darker than Aryn’s and golden-copper eyes that catch the firelight like polished metal.
His dark hair is shaved on the sides and pulled into a high, intricate braid that falls down his back, with thin silver rings woven into the strands.
The thick, fur-lined coat he wears makes him appear larger, but he’s several inches shorter than me, even if he carries himself with authority.
He speaks without preamble, his English fluent but carrying a thick, rolling accent. “Which one of you carries the ring?”
I push my chair back and stand, legs shaky from exhaustion and nerves, as I pull out the chain.
His eyes lock onto the metal as it dangles from my fingers, then he takes it carefully.
For a long moment, he says nothing. He simply turns the ring slowly in the firelight, studying every etched mark and worn edge.
His golden-copper eyes lift and lock onto mine as his voice drops into something dangerous. “Where did you get my father’s sigil?”