22. Archer
Archer
Saige doesn’t talk to me the next day. Or the one after that.
The silence stretches on between us, prickling my skin, leaving my mind open to the dark thoughts and memories that rise to the surface without warning.
I got what I wanted, didn’t I? Peace and quiet.
For the bookbinder to give up on coaxing me out of my shell.
As we pass through the tranquil forest, I feel anything but. I hear Saige offering Grim food, her soft voice drifting through the trees like a song that’s just out of reach. And I’m jealous. Jealous of a fucking dog.
She was right, I was an asshole. But she has no idea what she was doing to me, how unraveled I felt by her closeness, how much I wanted her.
And I can’t afford to want. Not when Malevron is out there, inching closer towards bringing war down upon us all.
For two hundred years, he has been my focus, destroying him has been my end goal.
I cannot be distracted now, not with the Confluence within reach, and certainly not by the mortal bookbinder charged with restoring it.
It took all my willpower to walk away from her, reminding myself of all the reasons why I can’t cross that line with her.
She is bound to me by the bargain, and so long as that’s the case, there is a power imbalance between us.
It’s not fair to her. It’s not right. I cannot take from her, not when I have nothing to give in return.
I am broken shards of darkness. I can’t be the reason her light is snuffed out.
And I can’t care about another person only to lose them.
Or be betrayed by them. Again, I remind myself of her vicious words, “You think I would ever want an Azkari? Let alone one that bears that brand…” For a brief moment, she’d forgotten how disgusted she is by me, but she’ll remember before long.
So, the cold shoulder she’s giving me is for the best. That’s what I tell myself. What I’ll keep telling myself.
And yet… I almost kissed her.
Against all reason, I nearly crashed my mouth to hers.
Saige rides ahead of me now, her hips swaying in the saddle, her head tilted down as she speaks to Grim trotting alongside her. I still don’t know what it is about her that draws me in, that gets under my skin so thoroughly.
The silence I thought I wanted is miserable, though.
Perhaps I don’t want her to give up on me after all.
Swallowing my pride, I urge my horse into a canter, catching up with Saige easily and guiding my mount next to hers.
She glances at me, but looks away quickly, training her gaze on the trail ahead.
I hate that such a small slight bothers me, hurts, even.
But I’m well aware it’s my own doing, that I may have left the remaining scraps of my common decency back in Gravereach.
I open and close my mouth several times, the words of apology on my tongue inadequate and awkward.
This is not who I am. I am not some bumbling fool who can’t form a sentence in front of a pretty mortal.
And yet… I will Saige to speak first. I wish that she’d fill this thick silence with her ceaseless questions and oversharing.
But the mortal bookbinder is as stubborn as I am.
She doesn’t meet my gaze again, and we are trapped in a standoff of my own making.
I’m so caught up in her that I don’t notice the other silence, the unnatural quiet that presses against my eardrums like a physical weight, predatory and patient.
Wrong. Everything about this is wrong. I tense, realizing the birds have stopped singing and my stallion’s ears flatten.
Shadow flickers across the sunlight on the path.
My hand finds my sword hilt before the thought fully forms—instinct honed over centuries screaming danger.
The branches don’t just creak—they groan under coordinated weight.
I catch movement in my periphery, but it’s too late to shout a warning to Saige—
Something—someone—drops onto her horse with a thud and she cries out in shock, flailing as she tries to bat the attacker away.
Her horse screams, rearing violently and I leap from my stallion’s back on instinct, landing in a crouch.
My blade already drawn as I lunge for her, but she’s already falling, and I’m three strides too far away—
But suddenly, there are multiple attackers plummeting from the canopy—snapping twigs, rustling leaves as they descend upon us. In the chaos, my heart stops as Saige is thrown from her saddle, hitting the ground hard.
A roar rips from my throat in fury, in fear for her.
My flames burst into being, racing up the steel of my blade as it carves through the air and slices clean through the neck of an attacker.
The twisted silver scar on his neck catches the light as his head goes flying and ice floods my veins despite the flames coating my blade.
Malevron.
My own brand flares hot beneath my collar, recognizing its kin—a sickening resonance that makes my jaw clench.
Brandishing my sword, I position myself between the enemy and Saige, who is keeled over in the dirt.
My chest tightens at the sight of her hurt.
There are seven threats in front of me. Seven lives to end before they’re within five feet of Saige.
I grip my blade, relishing its weight and the fire that courses through it at my command. Then, I swing.
Blood mist hangs in the air, coating my tongue with copper.
I can taste their imminent deaths. The second attacker advances.
My flames reflect in his eyes—black ribbons dancing across his terror.
I’m the nightmare in his final moments, and he is dead within seconds, silenced before he can scream, his throat slashed open wide.
I don’t wait to watch him fall. The second lunges with a broadsword borne of Morzanmyre’s forges, but I sidestep and wedge my flaming blade between his ribs, the rest of him catching alight with onyx fire as I wrench the weapon free.
His screams echo through the canopy as his comrades surround me.
As blood spills, the trees seem to lean inward, shadows deepening. Malevron’s poisonous influence is spreading, corrupting even the forest.
A glimpse at Saige tells me she’s recovering, and a surge of relief rushes through me before I size up the rest of my opponents, the scent of burning flesh and hair mingling with the fresh scents of pine and moss.
“Get him!” one of the branded assailants shouts, rushing forward, thrusting his blade at me.
I deflect his attack easily with my blade and catch him by the throat, lifting him bodily from the ground and snapping his neck with a flick of my wrist and casting him aside.
Blood sprays as I plunge my steel into the next of Malevron’s men.
No more than foot soldiers. All of them. He should know better than that.
I’m smiling, I realize, like the sick bastard I am, cutting them down one by one, toying with them just a little before I end them for good. It’s easy to lose myself in the rhythm of violence, in the blaze of my obsidian flames. I keep myself between the enemy and Saige—it’s pure instinct now.
A blade catches me on the shoulder and hot pain blooms in its wake, warm blood soaking my shirt.
It catches me off-guard for a second, but ultimately the wound only spurs me on.
It’s been a long time since I fought like this, ambushed and outnumbered, without setting the whole unit ablaze.
The Azkari nature of me enjoys it, revels in the violence, and longs to send Malevron a message.
Somewhere out of my line of sight, Grim is growling and barking, hopefully mauling the shit out of the enemy.
I grab my next opponent by the front of his jerkin and haul him into the air, his eyes going wide, his feet kicking the air beneath him.
Dread coils low in my gut as I try to understand Malevron’s seemingly clumsy maneuver.
“What was the plan?” I hiss at the branded servant. “Eight lackeys against the Black Flame? You didn’t think you could win, did you?”
He makes a strangled noise as I heat his lungs from within. Flames licking through his insides.
“What was that?” I growl.
“Nine…” he pants, sweat pouring from his hairline his bloodshot eyes flicking to the side. “Nine soldiers of Malevron.”
Footsteps sound nearby and with the man’s vest still in my fist, I whirl around. Saige is gone. The place where she fell is empty, leaves scattered from a struggle. Her satchel gapes open in the dirt, contents spilled—she didn’t go easily.
“No,” I breathe, rage fueling the flames in my blood.
The man in my grip smiles through charred lips. They won. Despite dying, they still won. I move my hand to his throat, letting the heat travel through my fingers and scorch his flesh with fire. “Where is she? Where did they take her—”
And then I hear it. The ratcheting of a crossbow’s gears as the bolt is fitted to the winch.
Still holding my captive, I pivot slowly, to find the ninth member of Malevron’s band of hunters.
The bolt gleams silver in the filtered light.
Barbed. Probably poisoned. Aimed right at my heart.
He’s a ruddy-faced middle-aged man, his ragged beard is filthy, and his eyes are full of loathing.
Distantly, I wonder what lies the Silver-Tongued Deceiver fed these men to bring them here.
The hatred in his eyes is pure, righteous.
Whatever Malevron told him, he believes it completely.