Chapter 4
JO
Inside my billet, I unbuckle the armor from my torso, shoulders sagging with relief.
I drop it by the door for the stewards to pick up for cleaning in the morning, then I strip off the mud-and-blood-soaked leathers, throwing them on top of the metal.
Goosebumps immediately erupt across my naked flesh.
A long string of mangi stones wraps my body, a single chain connected to the loop about my neck, hanging between my breasts before it splits into two strings again under my sternum.
It sits right over the scar I have from being shot with an arrow, over the place my magic resides, before meeting at my spine.
The gyve took some trial and error to perfect, but it has enough give that I can fight in it, while still buffering my magic and the tether connected to it.
Usually hidden beneath my clothes, the complex swirl of stones weighs little more than an apple would in my palm but is somehow heavier than the iron plate I strap to my chest every day.
The shame over wearing it never abates, knowing my people view such collars as a symbol of repression.
How am I supposed to lead with strength and dignity when the Bond hangs over my head?
I need the stones to prevent the Bond from forcing me into Acker’s presence, or he into mine. To protect my mind. And my heart.
I’m grateful for the small amount of clean water in my wash basin and I do my best to clean up before getting re-dressed in fatigues. The cot in the corner calls to me like the fabled sirens of the gulf. I want sleep desperately, but I know the horrors that await if I give in.
I’ve been running from my nightmares for a long time. Since Kenta. Dreams where Kai slits Acker’s throat and I have to watch the life drain from his dark and loathing eyes. Dreams where Acker’s trying to kill me, and I wake gasping for breath, clawing at the imaginary hands around my throat.
The worst, however, are the good dreams.
Like the unearthed memories of my stolen childhood, or of my time in Alaha with Kai and Messer. When I’m forced to relive the time I spent with Acker. In the boat, on land … in a soft bed and clean sheets.
Good or bad—I don’t want any of them.
A chill seems to seep into my bones and I wrap myself in a coat before sinking into my desk chair. I finger a match free from the box lying on top of the table, strike it on the wooden surface, and use it to light the oil lamp, bathing the war map spread out before me in an orange glow.
I switch my attention to the stack of parchment and the letter I’ve left half-written, but the thought of formulating whole sentences feels too daunting at the moment. Instead, I slide the book from the top of the pile of texts I have stacked, and flip to the page I left off on—Queen Asa.
The last known light wielder is not a subject I wish to delve into tonight.
I thought if I learned as much as I could from the previous queen of Maile that I could, I don’t know, learn from her mistakes, but every time I read the tales of her impetuous reign, I only find parts of myself in bits and pieces of her story.
As much as I tell myself I’m not vindictive or cruel, I’m not so sure that’s how my actions will be perceived in history.
Given the chance, I’d go back and make different choices.
After leaving Alaha with Acker, I should have said fuck Kai and the rebellion when we arrived on land.
Instead of going to the palace in Kenta, I should have begged Acker to come to Maile with me.
Then he could have seen how different things can be without hindering magic underneath his father’s tyrannical rule. Maybe things would be different.
I try to give myself grace, remind myself that I was young and naive and distrustful of …
nearly everyone, Acker included. And it’s not as if he’s ever come for me, or sent a single message with a bird.
I vacillate between being angry at him as much as at myself.
If he truly loved me the way I thought he did, then he would have never married Irina.
I slam the book shut, leaning forward onto the table and propping my chin on my fist in sheer determination to keep my head up.
The map stares back at me—taunting almost. I run my eyes along the marked embankments tucked between the hillsides.
The Strou warriors have crammed themselves onto many of the rocky ledges, square pegs marking their known locations.
I’ve been told in some areas those spaces are no more than a foot or two wide.
They’re cocky to hide in plain sight. Always having a view of us while knowing we can’t meet them on their ground.
Too high. Too exposed.
Sam told me stories of yearlong battles, wars that went on for decades, and I pray to the gods I’ll never have to see the like in my lifetime.
I’m desperate for this war to end, and it’s yet to get started.
Not really, anyway. Frustration has me swiping my arm out, knocking the pieces down, and scattering them across the ground.
Steps sound outside my billet. Soldiers filing in from the battlefield. I expected war to be loud, and it is in the heat of battle, but after? The hushed quiet is painful.
My head feels so heavy.
I lay it down on the crook of my arm and close my eyes, listening to the steady march of the dogwatch as they come in for the night. It’s comforting, somehow. Like the waves of the ocean. And after a while, I can almost smell the saltwater. Taste it in the air.
It’s one of the worst dreams of all. The kind that brings to the surface the emotions I work to shove deep inside of me every waking moment. Where my unconscious refuses to let me escape the true desires of my heart.
One of the best ones.
You’re going to miss this, Acker says.
It takes all of my effort to look up at him. Like hell.
He smiles up at the sky, eyes still closed, and I watch a droplet of water make its way down the column of his throat.
We’ve just taken an afternoon swim and he somehow convinced me to lay down on the deck with him.
He’s obsessed with my sleeping habits for some reason.
With my cheek pressed to the inside of his bicep, I close my eyes and accept my fate.
You will, he insists. His thumb runs lazy circles on the back of my upper arm.
It feels so good.
A day will come when you won’t kill a man at all.
Confusion penetrates my drowsiness. What did you just say?
All of a sudden the gentle rocking of the boat comes to a stop. You’ll wonder what’s wrong with you, he continues, voice a balm to my soul. Because how could you miss the feeling of sliding your blade into another man’s flesh?
Something’s not right.
I open my eyes and find him staring at me. Dark eyes, soft and sleepy in the daylight. We’re both terrible people, Jovie, he says, fingers dancing in my hair. It’s okay to admit it.
After a moment of confused consideration, I think … maybe he’s right. As I relax further into his side, I allow myself to succumb to the warmth of his body and the sleep pulling at my eyelids.
Then something snaps me awake.
“The fuck, B!”
I blink up at Messer as I regain a sense of my surroundings. I’m in my billet, sitting at my desk, dagger in hand stabbed just a hair width from Messer’s fingers that are flat on the table.
Not on a boat in the middle of the ocean.
Removing the dagger from the desk’s surface, I set it aside as I sit up, wiping the drool from my cheek. “Why are you sneaking up on me?”
“You nearly took my finger off,” he says, inspecting his hand with an offended expression.
I wave away his worry. “I’m sure it would have grown back the next time you shifted or something.”
He looks at me in abject horror. “That’s not how it works.”
How would I know? I don’t transform into a winged creature in my downtime.
I inspect his half-dressed state. “I’m glad you found pants this time.”
“Swiped them from a poor fellow a couple of spots over. He’ll be a sad chap once he wakes up though.”
I definitely don’t want to know if the chap was wearing them at the time Messer stole them or not. “Why are you here? You’re not due to report in for another week.” His expression turns more serious, causing the hair on the back of my neck to stand on end. “What is it?”
It takes him a moment to speak, but the beat is just long enough for me to already know what he’s going to say. “Kai sent word this morning. I flew straight here.”
My stomach flips and I swallow around the nausea. “Roison is ready to invade Kenta?”
He nods, solemn. “Yes.”
It was only a matter of time, but it doesn’t make the news any easier to digest.
Messer senses my dismay, moving closer. “B—”
I stand to evade his grasp, bending down to pick up the wooden pieces I knocked off the desk earlier. “Need a place to crash?” I ask him as I try to gather them all up in one swipe and fail.
He sighs before kneeling down to help. “I could use a night to rest before flying back.”
After all the markers are collected, I scatter them across the map and slip back into my chair. “Take the bed. I have some letters to respond to.”
He leans against the table. “You need to sleep, too. You look like shit.”
I glare at him. “You look like shit.”
He looks down at his bare torso, which—objectively—is nice, before narrowing his gaze at me. “We’re friends, B. We don’t lie to each other.”
My eyes snag on the V carved below his collarbone, the scar stark against the rest of his unblemished skin before I slap him in the stomach to get him to move. “If I don’t write to my mother at least once a day, she will send the cavalry to find me.”
It works to loosen the tension around his mouth. “I don’t doubt it.”
“Stay for the night,” I urge him. “Rest.”
He takes a breath, inspecting my billet. “Sure you couldn’t find better use for me here?”
Messer hates being landlocked, but his guilt over not following me into battle bothers him more. Despite my continual insistence that I’m fine without him, he mentions it every time he reports back to me.
“Drake would give me hell if I took you from his crew.”
“He always puts me on head duty.”
“For good reason, I’m sure,” I say with a genuine smile. “Please return the pants before you leave in the morning.”
He rolls his eyes, grinning. “As you wish, your—”
I throw one of the wooden pegs at his face “Don’t you dare.”
His laughter fills the billet and he flops belly first onto my cot, burying his face in my bedding with a groan of satisfaction.