Chapter 39
Chapter Thirty-Nine
The day draws toward its ending, and even though I feel like I haven't accomplished nearly enough, I still have plenty of things I'm eager to talk to Reave about.
If only he were here.
He left before dawn with plans to visit a garrison on the outskirts of the kingdom, to speak face to face with some of his more trusted, higher-ranking soldiers—soldiers with firsthand knowledge regarding some of the more concerning rumors we've been hearing out of Dralsk.
He reassured me he'd be back by dinner, acting as though this was a routine mission.
And maybe it is, for him.
But none of it feels routine to me.
Especially not the missing him part.
When evening passes and he still hasn't returned, I try not to think about all the things that could be making him late.
I force myself to eat something, even though food has lost all taste.
I bathe and dress slowly, taking more time than necessary with both, and then skim through multiple books without absorbing a word of any of them.
I tinker with a few bits and bobbles I've been collecting and piling on a shelf in Reave's room, using them to create a replica of one of the kites we watched during the Sun Harvest Feast, and I leave it on his desk for him to find.
I'm still not tired after all of this—and he's still not home—so I take one of my books and head to the coliseum, climbing the winding stairs up to the roof.
It's become one of our favorite places to slip away to.
Many of the conversations Reave and I have shared these past few days, about politics and otherwise, have taken place up here.
So many conversations, in fact, that I've been salvaging cushions and other things from the old seats and viewing boxes down below and hauling them up the stairs, using them to create a cozier sitting area.
It usually calms me down, just being up here. Especially on nights like this, when the sky is clear and I can count the stars and lose myself in constellations, distracting myself with the stories they tell.
After a quick search, I spot a familiar one: seven stars arranged in a loose, tilted arc over four others. Faint and easy to miss, if you don't know where to look for it.
In Halvgate, we called it the Lightkeeper.
Its story goes like this: A long time ago, there lived a woman who spent her entire life walking the roads between the kingdoms, carrying a lantern.
Not a queen, not a warrior, not a mercenary hired for any real purpose—just a woman who had seen darkness starting to spread, and who one day took it upon herself to light a lantern instead of cursing that darkness.
Her name changes depending on who's telling the tale. In the version I first learned, she had no name at all. Just the woman who carries the light.
And she carried it through floods and famines and long, brutal winters.
She carried it through wars and sickness and the slow despair that settles in your bones when you've endured too much for too long.
Other carriers had taken similar pilgrimages before her.
All of them, eventually, put their lanterns down.
She didn't.
The gods noticed, it's said. They admired her persistence, and offered her a reward in return—power, long life, a warrior's strength, a dragon's magic.
She said no to all of it.
Baffled, they asked what she wanted instead.
Only to keep doing what I am already doing, she told them.
And to be sure, when I am gone, that something of me might remain—a sign, a story, to help others understand what I have learned: that light can only reach so far on its own.
That the spreading of it is not a grand act, but a daily choice, made quietly, again and again, to keep going when it would be easier to put the lantern down and let the flame go out.
So the gods placed her in the sky as an eternal reminder.
Seven stars, curved around a small square of four others. The shape of a woman carrying a flame, leaning over to protect it from the wind and the rain.
I used to find it every spring when I was a girl, lying on my back in the cold grass outside our house.
My mother taught me where to look. I haven't searched for it in years, and it's so faint tonight that I nearly missed it.
But once I find it, I can't seem to pry my gaze away—until I hear footsteps coming up the stairs.
“I had a feeling I'd find you here.”
Relief floods through me at the sound of Reave's voice, such a massive, dizzying wave of it that my legs wobble slightly as I stand. I try to keep that shakiness from slipping into my voice as I swallow and say, “You're late.”
He cants his head. “You were worried about me?”
“Are you honestly surprised?”
“I am forever surprised by you,” he replies, the corners of his mouth lifting. But the smile doesn't quite reach his eyes, and he doesn't fully look at me before walking over to the edge of the roof, his attention shifting to his city.
“Was I right to be worried?” I ask, following him. “What happened during your visit? Were you able to speak with the ones you needed to?”
He nods. The movement is heavy, as is his gaze—which still hasn't left the distant city.
He's looking at it as though trying to memorize its rooftops and spires and lantern-lit streets, as if he's counting all the people quietly settling in for the night.
As if he's afraid these things might not be standing much longer.
Fear twists like a knot in my throat, but I force myself to ask, “What did you learn?”
“That the worst of the rumors are true,” he says, his voice oddly hushed even though we're entirely alone up here.
“Queen Meira has been dethroned. Dead, according to some, a prisoner in other accounts—but whatever her status, it seems Dralsk has a new ruler.
Or will, very soon, assuming he survives until his own crowning.
It's all a violent mess, though, so who knows.”
It's a testament to how much has changed over the last month or so, the way this news makes my stomach drop. All these political machinations that once seemed so far away are suddenly very close and very real, drawing in like a noose around my neck.
“Any chance this new ruler is ultimately more reasonable than Meira was?” I ask.
“I wouldn't count on it.”
I take a deep breath.
“He'll be looking to make a statement of some kind,” Reave continues, his voice still low. “Something to prove himself to his new subjects. We'll need to brace for that.”
I think back to the conversation with the emissaries from Gault, and the pit in my stomach widens. “I don't want to think about how they plan to make that statement.”
“Nor do I.” He sighs, turning his back to the world below and finally, truly looking at me. His eyes brighten a bit as he does, like a man who's just caught sight of the shore after months at sea.
My heart skips several beats as I finally realize just how worried I've been. Just how badly I needed to see him. Talk to him. No one has ever looked at me the way he does. If something were to happen…
“I missed you,” I blurt out. “I've been practicing magic most of the day, and all I could think about was how I wanted to talk to you, to tell you everything that's happened with it.”
He holds out his hand. “I missed you, too.”
I take his hand, letting him pull me into a deep kiss.
Everything else melts away for a minute, save for the pounding in my chest and the heat of his touch as it moves to my waist, sliding under the heavy tunic I wear—the tunic I didn't bother to put anything underneath after I bathed.
He draws in a sharp breath at this discovery, his caresses turning hungrier, more urgent—only to catch himself in the next moment, pausing with one hand clutching my hip and the other cupping my breast.
Still holding back as if he's afraid he might hurt me.
I arch a brow. “You're still not convinced this is a good idea, I take it?”
He leans his forehead against mine. “Do you remember when I told you it would be better if you continued to find me insufferable?”
“Yes.”
“I stand by that.”
“I still do find you insufferable, if it helps.”
He gives me a small smile, arms circling around my waist, gathering me closer. His lips hover just above mine for a moment before he gives in again, both of us melting into each other once more, his hands resuming their exploration of my bare skin with slower, more deliberate touches.
“You must really enjoy kissing insufferable men,” he mumbles when I finally pull away to catch my breath.
I mirror his smile before turning back to the railing, bracing a hand against it; we've kissed several times now, and I swear I'm still unbalanced by it every time. “Nothing makes me happier,” I tell him.
“Nothing? Are you sure? Because you seemed exceptionally happy the other night, when my hand was between your legs.”
My entire body burns at the memory. He moves to stand behind me, one of his hands curving around my hip, fingers brushing suggestively over the same places he claimed the other night. Even with clothing separating me from his touch, the heat continues to build until I'm lightheaded.
“Fine,” I amend in a breathy little voice. “Some things might make me happier than simply kissing you.”
He presses his lips to the curve of my neck—right next to the fading mark he left with his teeth—gently tasting and sucking for a few pounding heartbeats before he says, “I think it's important that we discover what those things are.”
“Let's add it to the list of things we need to figure out, then.”
“That list is getting very long, isn't it?”
“I trust we'll start crossing things off very soon.”
“I'd rather not be just another item on your to-do list. That makes it considerably less romantic, doesn't it?”
“It's called being organized and efficient, Reave.”
His mouth drops back to my neck, muffling the laugh that spills out of him and sending pleasant vibrations coursing through me, all the way down to the tips of my toes.