Tharos
TWENTY-THREE
Sleep doesn’t come.
I sit against the massive root at the Heartgrove’s edge, watching the woman who should have killed me when she had the chance.
She’s curled on her side a few feet away, her back against the bark, her blades within easy reach.
Her eyes are closed, but I can tell from her breathing that she’s not sleeping either.
The rhythm is wrong—too shallow, too controlled. She’s thinking.
About what she almost did. About what I told her. About the thing that’s still pulsing at the center of this cathedral of bone and root, waiting for another opportunity to strike.
The King is quiet now. Pushed back, contained, nursing whatever passes for wounds in an entity that’s more will than flesh. But I can feel it watching. Feel its attention like a pressure against the binding, patient and hungry and endlessly, terribly focused.
It spoke to her. Showed her visions of her dead partner trapped in the roots. Offered to release the suffering if she would just drive her blade into my back.
And she refused.
I don’t understand that. Can’t make it fit into any framework I’ve built since the binding claimed me.
People break. They betray. They choose their own survival over abstract concepts like loyalty or trust. I’ve seen it happen more times than I can count—watched wardens before me fall to the King’s whispers, watched hunters become prey, watched allies become weapons in the hands of an entity that knows exactly how to exploit weakness.
But Xela stood with a blade in her hand and the King’s voice in her skull, and she chose to trust me instead.
The thought won’t stop circling. Won’t let me rest.
I watch her shift, adjusting her position against the root. The wound on her arm has stopped bleeding, but the bandage she wrapped around it is dark with dried blood. She’ll need proper treatment if we survive this. Proper rest. Proper food.
Things I can’t give her. Not here. Not now.
“I can feel you staring.” Her voice cuts through the silence, rough with exhaustion. “It’s unsettling.”
“I’m not staring. I’m watching.”
“What’s the difference?”
“Intent.” I shift against the root, feel the bark press into my scarred back. “Staring suggests fascination. Watching suggests assessment.”
“And which one is it?” She opens her eyes, turns her head to look at me. The phosphorescent light catches her features—the sharp angle of her jaw, the steel-gray of her gaze, the dark hair that’s come loose and falls across her face. “Fascination or assessment?”
Both. I don’t say it.
“Assessment. You took damage in the ravine. The King’s assault added psychological strain. I need to know if you’re still functional.”
“Functional.” She laughs, a harsh sound without humor. “That’s one way to put it.” She pushes herself upright, wincing as the movement pulls at her injured arm. “I’m fine. Or as fine as anyone can be after almost murdering their ally because a tree told them to.”
“You didn’t murder me.”
“I came close.” Her gaze drops to her hands. They’re still stained with blood—the hunters’ blood, the silver-haired woman’s blood, her own blood. “I had the blade raised. I was three steps away. If I hadn’t—” She stops. Shakes her head. “I don’t want to think about what would have happened.”
“The King would have broken free. The forest would have died. Everything within reach would have been consumed.” I keep my voice flat. Factual. “And you would have been the first thing it devoured.”
“Cheerful.”
“Accurate.”
She’s quiet for a moment. The Heartgrove presses close around us, the King’s mass pulsing faintly in my peripheral vision. I can feel it listening. Can feel its attention sharpen at the tension in her voice, the vulnerability in her posture.
“What did you feel?” Her question is soft. Almost hesitant. “When I was standing behind you with the blade raised. Did you know what was happening?”
“I knew the King was attacking. I could feel its focus shift from the binding to another target.” I pause, remembering the moment. The spike of hunger that wasn’t my own. The sense of malicious anticipation. “I didn’t know it was using you. Not until after.”
“Would you have stopped me? If you’d known?”
The question hangs between us. I consider my answer carefully.
“I don’t know. The binding required my full attention. If I’d split my focus to deal with a physical threat...” I let the silence fill in what I’m not saying. “The King might have broken through. We might both be dead.”
“So you trusted me.” A flicker crosses her expression. “Without knowing. Without any guarantee.”
“I had no choice.”
“There’s a choice. There’s choosing to fight alone. Choosing to seal yourself away from everyone so no one can get close enough to betray you.” Her eyes bore into mine. “You’ve made that choice for most of your life. Why not now?”
Because of you. The thought surfaces before I can stop it. Because you make the isolation feel like a wound instead of a shield.
I don’t say that. Can’t say that. Instead, I turn the question back on her.
“Why did you stop? You could have ended everything. Freed your partner from her suffering—or what the King told you was her suffering. Why didn’t you?”
“I told you. Cyrilla wouldn’t have wanted—”
“That’s what you told the King. I’m asking what stopped you.
” I lean forward, closing some of the distance between us.
“Not the logic. Not the rationalization. In that moment, with the blade in your hand and the voice in your head promising everything you’ve wanted for five years—what made you lower the steel? ”