26. Saige #2
He catches me watching him, and while he doesn’t smile back, something softens in his gaze.
The quiet splash of fish breaking the surface of the shallows severs the moment, and I reach for the laces of my boots, undoing the bow and pushing them off at the heel before rolling the legs of my breeches up to my knee.
The cold water shocks against warm skin, but the mud banks are perfect for wading. With no lines or nets, I gather we’re doing this the old-fashioned way, so I trudge right in, the smooth stones slippery beneath my bare feet, the mud and silt squishing between my toes.
“Biggest catch wins!” Daemos declares like a child rather than the immortal he truly is.
I bark a laugh. “Wins what exactly?”
Daemos considers for a moment. “Dignity? Grace?”
I make a show of looking him up and down. “Then you’d best get fishing. You’re in dire need of both.”
There’s a splash to my left and I find Archer beside me, his own pants rolled up, muffling a snort into his palm. His body is looser, his shirt sleeves pushed up to reveal golden, muscular forearms, his outer layers shucked off and left on the shore. He looks more relaxed than I’ve ever seen him.
“How do you do this exactly?” The tug and resistance of the current against my legs is strangely soothing, water sloshing around my knees with every step.
“You stop scaring all the fish away for starters,” he replies dryly, gaze following where my shadow scatters silver fish in all directions, the ripples distorting the sandy bottom of the riverbed.
“And?”
He bends at the waist, submerging his arms in the water. “You wait.”
“I’m not a particularly patient person…” I mutter, dipping my own arms into the chilly shallows.
“But you’re competitive.”
“Says who?”
He raised a dark arched brow. “You saying you’re not?”
“She’s playing mind games with you brother, don’t let her mess with your focus. We are Azkari, apex predators of Lorevael. If a mortal bests us with a bigger catch I may have to drown myself,” Daemos declares.
“If you don’t, I’ll do it for you,” Archer replies with a shake of his head as the scales flash beneath the surface like silver coins. “Now will you shut up?”
I catch the biggest fish. A bluegill, Daemos tells me right before he throws himself into the shallows in protest.
“It’s a child’s fish! It doesn’t count,” he shouts from the water as I hold the creature up victoriously, its deep blue scales glimmering in the fading light.
“What does that even mean?” I shout back, trudging up the riverbed with my prize, wisteria petals clinging to wet calves.
“That they’re so easy to catch it’s how you teach children to fish!”
“Then why didn’t you catch one?”
There’s a loud splash as Daemos slaps the water. “Because I’m not five years old!”
“Shame,” Archer mutters at my side, holding two smaller trout by their tails. “He could have used that extra grace and dignity.”
Daemos is now floating on his back in the shallows, sulking.
Before I allow myself to feel smug, I turn to Archer. “Is a bluefish actually any good?”
“It’s a decent panfish. Good for frying,” he replies, a muscle twitching in his jaw. “We… We did our fair share of living off the land during the war. Until Malevron poisoned the rivers.”
“Oh.”
“But this isn’t so bad,” he offers, and there’s a slight lift in the corner of his mouth.
“Your compliments are unmatched, General.”
“I aim to please.”
I laugh. “Since when?”
“Fair point.”
It’s maddening that he looks so good with a scowl on his handsome face after days of travel, and all that he’s been through before that.
But by far the most infuriating thing about the Azkari general is that my stomach swoops when I see his glasses perched on his nose and a stick of charcoal between his fingers.
I hate that warmth spreads through my chest as those large hands work a cloth over the dishes, drying them before placing them back with the rest, silver rings gleaming.
And worst of all is when those green eyes meet mine, I feel a rush of heady excitement.
It’s not just anticipation, it’s thicker, heavier…
“What are you thinking?” he asks, a crease forming between his brows.
“I’m not sure you want to know,” I tell him honestly.
Archer is watching me closely, and my skin tingles at his proximity. “Perhaps not.”
“Is something burning?” Archer’s nose is wrinkled in distaste an hour later.
“Shit.” I leap to my feet and nearly scald myself on the handle of the pot as I try to remove the broth from over the fire.
Archer takes it in hand and sets it on a nearby fallen log, peering through the ribbons of steam with a puzzled expression. “Is it meant to look like that?”
I groan as burnt pieces drift to the surface. “Would you believe me if I said yes?”
Archer purses his lips for a moment, looking deep in concentration, before a smile breaks across his face. A smile, not a smirk. And it’s beautiful.
Gods, that smile is lethal. Slightly lopsided, a single dimple, perfectly imperfect. And when he chuckles, the sound is warm and lovely.
“I’ve seen a lot in my five hundred years, Grayson, but never…” He shakes his head, struggling to hold back more laughter. “Never have I seen someone manage to burn broth.”
I brandish the wooden spoon in annoyance. “By all means, show us your culinary brilliance.”
“Gladly, if it means we don’t get food poisoning.” Archer snatches it off me and stalks away.
A prickling sensation crawls along my skin and I tense beneath Daemos’ scrutiny. He’s watching me with open interest.
“What?”
“It’s been a long time since he laughed at anything,” he says with a shrug. “Even before the war.”
Daemos smiles freely—a stark difference between the brothers, but he says nothing, as though he’s waiting for me to fill the silence.
But another chuckle from Archer draws our attention his way.
He’s watching Grim from the corner of his eye as the wolfhound inches closer to the fish, his features softening as he throws him a piece.
With the rest of our catch over the flames, he’s busying himself with seasoning, which seems a rather domestic task for a hardened Azkari warrior.
“You need to be careful,” Daemos says, still watching me.
My stomach bottoms out. “Of what?”
“Do you know what it means? To care for the Black Flame of Lorevael?” he asks slowly, the green of his eyes intensifying. “It is like holding that fire in your bare hands. You might master it, or you might both be consumed. There is no middle ground.”
I inhale sharply, words suddenly failing me.
“For two hundred years I have grieved. My brother has worn many faces over the centuries. I wonder if even he remembers which one is real anymore.”
I shift uneasily. “What are you trying to tell me, Daemos?”
“He doesn’t survive losing the ones he loves, and they don’t survive loving him. No one is whole, by the end. You’ll burn for each other—pray you rise from the ashes rather than scatter on the wind.”
I open my mouth to deny it, but the words falter when I catch Archer watching me across the fire, his usual sharp focus replaced by something softer, something far more dangerous.