Chapter Seven
Sore, soaked, battered and bruised, I peel myself out of my clinging, wet clothing and wring the drenched layers over the tub.
As I drape them on an empty towel rack, my gaze travels through the window.
Eve and Cyran have claimed the north lawn following my lesson with Ryc despite the heavy downpour of rain.
They dance—dodging, striking, weaving, whirling.
Both moving with the expected speed and flourish of the fae, neither as fast as Ryc, but Eve significantly faster than Cyran.
She skirts his advances effortlessly, but he—the ever towering stalwart of a creature he is—deflects every returned assault with measured strength and control.
It’s a skilled dance, the way fae fight.
There’s no rawness, no need, no desperation.
They’re not trying to survive. Only hone. It’s too controlled, too flawless and pristine. It’s a game to them, a means to fan their feathers and demand attention.
I’ve spent too many nights trapped with Kassil for combat to ever be a game.
I’ve faced too many Life Bringers who didn’t think twice about returning me to the hells.
When I fight, it’s for survival. To avoid punishment for failure.
It’s messy and boundaries are blurred. There’s no honor, respect, or tact involved.
When it comes to it, I will never hesitate to do what I must to survive.
I heave a tired sigh, turning on the water to the tub.
Despite my reluctance to the idea, I have to admit, I learned a number of things today with Ryc.
First, he’s fast.
Faster than he has any right being considering his size.
Speed was one of the few things I had over the majority of demons. Their hulking frames too slow to land most blows against me.
But Ryc… he’s somehow faster than me.
Considerably faster.
His blinding speed left me reeling more often than I’d care to admit.
And while I’ve no innate, nor formal combat training, I still fought Ryc with everything I had. It wasn’t enough. He bested me at every turn. Yet another pride-tarnishing defeat to a Life Bringer under my belt.
Second, another surprising facet, Ryc is an excellent tutor.
He’s annoyingly patient, kind, and understanding. Not once did he raise his voice, despite me raising mine. Nor did he lash back, despite my antagonistic comments and colorful curses.
He never lost his temper.
I wish I could say the same.
Instead, he made me his priority.
Despite me wanting to burn the world.
I don’t know how to handle that.
And now, only after the fact—after the realization—it leaves me humbled in a way I didn’t expect.
As I sink into the bath, the hot water seeps into every muscle, every bone, and perhaps even my essence. The tight tension and soreness melts away, turning me into nothing more than a limp mass. I will remain here until the water goes cold.
Hair thrown over the side of the tub, my head falls back, and I stare at the ceiling, heaving a heavily contented sigh. Oraphia skirts into the edges of my vision, giving me a small smile as she heads toward the shelving with the washcloths. She snags an amber glass bottle and returns tubside.
“Almond and rose oil, my lady,” she says, uncorking the thin bottle in her hands.
She tips it, allowing three drops to plunge into the water.
Immediately the warm, floral scent blooms, rising with the steam.
“I’ve a fire going. The balcony doors are ajar to let in a touch of air before it gets too chill. ”
Forever the mother hen.
“Thank you, Oraphia,” I grant quietly, keeping my stare upon the ceiling.
“Of course, Lady Ves,” she chimes.
She reaches for the streaming faucet, giving the silver handle a swift swivel. With a soft musical hum trailing in her wake, she retreats to the bedroom proper. It’s an unfamiliar melody, but it settles into the essence of my being as I close my eyes.
The call of sleep finds me.
And I listen.
The humming, the faint sounds of the fire, and the warmth of the water fade away as I teeter on the cusp of consciousness.
Sharp tapping upon metal has my eyes snapping open and swinging toward the source. The white raven sits on the ledge of the tub near my feet. It stares, assessing me with a tilted head.
Not possible.
It cannot be the same creature.
Straightening its head, it points its beak in my direction, revealing the missing eye.
It is the same creature.
Alive and well.
“You died,” I whisper, sitting upright.
I glance over my shoulder, toward the door. The last thing I need is for Oraphia to return and find me talking to a bird. I neither hear nor see Oraphia and turn back to the raven.
“I watched you die,” I add, giving the creature a narrow-eyed stare.
It lets out a low warble, bobbing its head.
Is it agreeing with me or is this coincidence?
“Where did you go?” I ask.
Silence.
“How are you alive?”
Again, nothing.
Coincidence then.
While I’ve encountered wilder things than a sentient or speaking raven, I’m not of the capacity to handle such a thing right now.
It leaps, startling me, and in a low swoop, it flies into the bedroom, out of sight. Ice cold water pours over the side of the tub as I turn, soaking the tile. Scrambling from the tub, I snag a towel as I rush out of the bathing room.
“Oraphia—” I stop short, wrapping the towel around my dripping body.
The bedroom proper is empty.
She’s nowhere to be found.
The raven’s cry rings through the room, drawing my attention toward the balcony. Through the doors, it stares at me, perched upon the railing.
“What in the nine hells are you?” I ask, stepping into the cool afternoon air.
Again, it doesn’t answer.
And the strange quiet of the city grows evident.
Usually there’s sound—the river, distant voices, laughter, bells tolling.
Stranger still, the north lawn lies empty. Eve and Cyran nowhere in sight. They couldn’t have finished their sparring already, could they?
The cold, wet stone beneath my feet reminds me I am in fact, not dreaming. The raven continues to stare, shifting its weight as I approach. Both wariness and curiosity gleam in its eye.
I’m sure we share the same stare—the same state of mind.
It doesn’t feel or look like a call creature.
There’s no sign of decaying flesh, no hint of necromancy crawling over my skin. It doesn’t look haggard or tired. Nor is it sluggish—it took flight with ease.
As I draw close, it warbles again and I halt in my step, taking it as a warning. It swings its beak up, peering overhead, and, curious, I follow its gaze.
The sky, while darkened with emptied rainclouds, isn’t what it should be. Jagged streaks of dark gray tear through the clouds as if claws were dragged through fabric. Within the dark, hundreds of glowing orbs drift and float.
Silver, blue, red…
Souls.
My eyes grow wide.
The veil.
This is the veil.
My stomach falls into the pits of the hells and my racing mind along with it.
The veil wasn’t simply weakened.
How in the gods’ names has Vaelyn let—
The tiniest vibration in my chest halts me faster and harder than a sudden wall. My thoughts stop, my breathing stops, and I wait.
It couldn’t be.
Every muscle winds tight with anticipation.
Another vibration, hardly more noticeable than the first.
An innate?
I clasp my trembling fingers over my heart, forcing myself to take shallow breaths.
Whatever it is… it isn’t my shadows.
No.
It’s faint… cold… distant.
Like it’s trying to reach me and somehow can’t. Or perhaps it’s waking. Either way, it’s unfamiliar. Reminiscent of my shadows, yet radically different. It feels broader, larger than my shadows had.
I hesitate to test the theory.
But unfurl my fingers and open a palm anyway.
Reaching inward, in the same way I would reach for my shadows, a sparkling tingle dances across my fingertips. I gasp, destroying the brief connection.
Heart-pounding silence stretches on before the vibration returns—a glacial, glittering thing—and it buries itself into the base of my skull. Unlike my shadows, there isn’t a demand to kill. No desire to feed and sow death. No mischievous, demonic beck and call.
But there is anger.
It floods my chest, squeezing my lungs, and threatens to crush my heart. It’s a desperate rage I’ve felt once before—when I challenged Netharis, more than ready to find my final death.
Firm hands land upon my shoulders, yanking me backward. Bitter cold seizes my body and I squeeze my eyes shut, gasping for air, needing to feed air-starved lungs. The same breath is knocked from me as pain streaks up my right side, my ears set to ringing.
Lungs burning, I cough, quickly realizing I’ve been thrown to the floor.
Rolling onto my stomach, I force my eyes open and find myself beside the tub, on the soaked tile of the bathing room.
Ice cracks and flakes over my skin, falling to the floor and as the ringing fades, Oraphia’s shrill screaming replaces the piercing sound.
“Raevi! Raevi, I got her!” she shouts. A warm towel lands on my back and hands work their way under my arms. “Stoke the fire!”
I don’t understand.
And gods, does my mind feel groggy.
What in the absolute impshit is happening?
Wasn’t I upon the balcony?
With the raven?
With Oraphia’s firm guidance, I’m pulled to my feet and her concerned brown eyes appear before mine as she wraps the towel tight around me. There’s fear in her stare—what is she scared of?
What did I do?
“Come on,” she urges, swinging behind me. She pushes me forward and my foot lands upon something jagged.
My knee nearly buckles as I recoil and step aside, catching sight of jagged shards of ice upon the tile.
I don’t understand the ice.
Sitting in a tub for far too long doesn’t freeze the water.
“Mind your step,” Oraphia says hastily and returns to commandeering me out of the bathing room.
She’s strangely strong for such a creature.
A human woman… steering me around.
I might laugh were I not so confused.