Chapter 18 Lingering Chill
Lingering Chill
The Kelvasari pressed on. They couldn’t afford not to. With every passing day, the Cycle of Dark drew closer. The weather was shifting. The sun wasn’t as bright as before, and the Moores took on a grayish pallor even in the light.
Several days after the varkhound attack, the company came across a group of traveling merchants.
They came with their wagons rattling and hopeful eyes, twenty souls asking to march beneath the Kelvasari’s protection.
Just far enough. Just to Stonewake, at least. From there, they could make the rest of the journey to Maradryn.
Resh heard them out, then cut their pleas with steel.
The Kelvasari’s supplies were already thin, the road perilous enough with rift anomalies, Cycle Drift, and varkhounds on the hunt.
The company was no caravan, but a fortress in motion—pushing at a relentless pace—and no fortress opened its gates to strangers on the eve of Dark.
Zarrek inclined his head in agreement, his voice low. “The risk outweighs the gain.”
Thessia bristled. “What are a few more? They have coin, trade.”
Resh turned his gaze on her, unyielding. “Coin won’t shield against the Dark. I cannot waste my men’s lives on mouths that cannot fight. When the night falls, we will need every blade, every spell, every shield to protect those already within these ranks.”
Her mouth curved in defiance. “And yet you took me in.”
“Yes,” Resh said, voice even as iron. “Because every one of your warriors can carry their weight. That is the only bargain I make.”
Zarrek grunted. “Got enough to deal with. Bad weather, rotting supplies, and now these rift anomalies. Wardens can’t predict anything anymore. Last thing any of us need is more bodies to dig graves for.”
Thessia couldn’t argue, and so the Kelvasari and the Riven Blades pressed on, marching through the Moores toward the Wette, their horses and boots flattening the rain-soaked grasslands beneath their number.
Their Riftwardens remained on high alert, testing the air with magic, using their dowsing rods to try to predict a coming tear.
But even Wardens could only do so much. Most rifts appeared without warning, spewing forth monsters and other things from the bowels of Elendria.
Even with constant patrols, runes, wards, and shields, the company was vulnerable.
Especially now that Auryn was settled in one of the wagons while the horses pulled carts of supplies behind them.
The arrangement slowed them down, but it was the safest way to transport her.
The smaller cartwheels weren’t meant for the mud found in the Moores, and when it rained, the wheels hardly turned and slipped into the smallest ditch.
Every time they had to stop to rip the wood and steel from muck, they lost hours.
Still, they pushed. The Kelvasari did not complain—most prayed for Auryn’s recovery, others out of deference to their Commander’s orders.
Those that prayed did so with zeal. Resh kept finding small tributes tucked away in parts of the wagon during stops.
Broken coins, feathers, rare beads, and even food. Gifts for the one they called Sokar.
Resh didn’t know how to stop this foolishness.
It had started as a single thread, unwinding when Auryn had stopped the river.
But after she’d closed the rift with nothing but her shining light and her bare hands, the thread had turned into a tangled mass of cords—impossible to untangle.
He didn’t know where to start. Wasn’t certain if he should.
His Kelvasari carried hope with their prayers and tributes.
It bolstered them—a thing much needed in a journey this harsh and unforgiving.
But such worship was dangerous. Risky. Auryn was attracting far too much attention for all the wrong reasons.
She was not the Sokar. Not the prophet spoken of in Doctrine.
She was starlight. A treasure to be protected, not a symbol to be claimed.
And she was so fragile. More so than any of these soldiers could imagine. Every time he looked at her pale face and heard her unsteady breathing, he quaked inside for how close he’d come to losing her.
He sat with her as often as he could. During the day, he, Thessia, and Zarrek took turns checking on her in the wagon.
Then, at night when travel stopped and the companies rested, Resh allowed himself to be with her in the Commander’s tent.
On those nights, he kept his worry at bay with journaling, reports, and inventories.
Planning the route, checking bestiaries to remind himself of the threats ahead.
When—inevitably—he found himself wandering to her side to watch her sleep, he allowed himself to stroke her hair.
He told her stories of the Gliders, of those who had grown wings and taken to the sky.
Of all those on the Surface, their culture tugged at him the most. He hoped to one day return to those cliffs and skies.
Hoped to ride the winds as the Skycleaver once again.
Auryn did not wake to tell him he was being soft.
Did not chide him for daring to think of the skies when his duty grounded him to the tunnels deep beneath the earth.
Instead, she lay so still his heart ached.
Gray. Wan. Hardly breathing. The starry freckles on her cheeks and nose were still dimmed. Nearly invisible now.
He referenced his tomes tirelessly. Her condition heavily resembled a mage’s mana depletion.
Zarrek agreed, but something didn’t fit.
Her unnatural stillness, the way her normally glowing skin was dimmed and quiet.
This was no simple backlash. It was more.
But, neither he nor Zarrek had the knowledge to explain it.
Ten days into their journey, Auryn finally awakened. It was night, and Resh had just brought in his supper to eat beside her when she stirred. He nearly dropped his tray in his haste to get to her, and just as he settled on the bed, calling her name, she opened her eyes.
Her brow furrowed. Lips parted.
“Water,” she rasped, groggy and disoriented.
Relief melted through him. His hand cupped her cheek without thought, thumb trembling against her skin as his voice broke in a whisper—
“Sweetfire…”
He hadn’t meant to say it. The word tore from him, bare and aching, like a flower unfurling out of season into frost.
“You’re awake.”
Her gaze fluttered—unfocused, dazed—until it found him.
And then—quietly, with a ghost of a smile, “Kailorien.”
Her fingers lifted toward his collar. Weak. Uncertain. Searching.
She found his earring.
Squeezed it.
Squeezed his heart along with the stone.
“I heard your voice…in the dark…I tried to find you...”
He caught her hand. Held it to his chest.
“And now you have,” he said, his voice hoarse.
He moved with efficiency, supporting her as he reached for a flask of spring water.
“Careful,” he cautioned. “Drink slowly.”
She sipped, blinking between swallows. Sip by sip, her breath steadied.
“Thank you,” she breathed, leaning into him without a hint of hesitation. He closed his eyes for a moment. Let himself believe she was finally here, finally safe.
Her gaze wandered the dim tent. She blinked again, coming back to herself.
Then her tongue flicked across her lips—and he forgot how to breathe.
In a heartbeat, her silver eyes caught his.
He reeled.
Days had passed, and he’d nearly forgotten the miracle that was her gaze alone.
It pulled on his very soul like a gravity well of newborn stars—drawing him into its depths with no hope of salvation.
Ethereal. Carrying the clarity and wisdom of the night sky.
Even her pupils—like shadows drawn beneath a gossamer shade—glowed with a light that wasn’t magic—it was her.
Resh swallowed thickly, struggling to take a breath of air.
“Why do you do that?” she asked.
Her voice.
He’d yearned for it, too.
Soft. Lilting. Delicate as a blooming bud, yet—at the right times—strong as a gale in a storm.
“Do what?” he asked, so lost his voice seemed to be someone else’s.
“You look at my lips,” she tilted her head. “Your gaze. It lingers. Sometimes too long…” She took a breath. “…and sometimes not long enough.”
Resh tilted for a moment, trapped between gifting her with truth and shrinking from it.
He squeezed her hand.
“Does my gaze trouble you?”
She shook her head. “No. It makes my heart race.”
The tips of his ears burned—like some boy hearing a compliment for the first time. As though he hadn’t been alive for centuries. As though he wasn’t Resh’Agar.
He cleared his throat.
“How are you feeling now?” he managed.
“Better,” she nodded, unbothered by his discomfort and oblivious to the chaos she was causing in his thoughts. “I hear the sorrow of the clouds. Still raining?”
“Yes. Still.”
“Good. The river won’t be lonely then.”
He let that comment pass without clinging to it. Keeping pace with the drift of her thoughts was like chasing river light—impossible, but he never tired of the thrill.
“Not with you here to speak to it,” he teased. “You’ve been asleep so long…” he trailed off, suddenly uncomfortable with the degree to which his voice softened, betrayed the truth of things.
It’s not the Voids-damned river that missed her. Nor the horses, nor the men.
It’s me. I’m pining like a fool while she looks at me like just another one of the creatures helplessly lost within her orbit.
Auryn touched his forearm with her hand.
“I was sleeping, but I still missed the way your shadow dances when you speak in half-truths,” she smiled.
Resh stared at her. Lost for words. And thoughts.
And logic.
Just lost.
He shifted his weight on the bed.
“I have some clean clothes and water for a bath,” he said, his voice still too hoarse for his liking. “Tell me if you wish to—”
“I woke because the shadows watch,” she cut in, her tone hardening so fast that he reeled. “They move closer now. Hunting.”