Chapter 24
Roderick Bryson
Roderick laid in an expanse of cool grass, with a sea of stars surrounding him.
As he rose to his bare feet, the grass sunk in, then fell away into the darkness.
The cosmos around him was thick like water, yet he could move and breathe as freely as a fish.
He swam up toward the brightest constellation, the only one he knew by heart: Lupus, the wolf.
With every stroke, Lupus seemed to run from him, bounding effortlessly toward the moon. Its diamond tail swung back and forth, leaving a trail of auroras in its wake. It stopped every few leaps and bounds, looking back at him with sparkling eyes of gold, gauging his progress.
I’m coming! he answered, but only bubbles came from his mouth.
The celestial wolf became smaller and smaller as the space around him became colder and thicker, slowing his every movement.
Please wait! he shouted, swiping at the stream of bubbles.
The wolf paused, then threw its head back and howled. Its coat dissolved into shimmering dust, swirling toward the crescent moon. The dust gathered and ignited into a blinding aura. He shielded his eyes until the light faded to a gentle glow.
Anya, clad in a nebulous purple dress, sat in the curve of the glowing crescent moon, kicking her legs playfully back and forth as she called out different constellations.
Pegasus. Vulpecula. Delphinus. Cygnus.
He was transfixed by her beauty. With her golden hair floating in space, he’d nearly mistaken her for a star herself. She smiled down at him, eyes scrunching behind her spectacles as the joy reached the heights of her soft cheekbones.
She leaned down and extended a hand to him, finally within his reach.
Come. Watch the stars with me. Her tone was a whisper, but carried on like the sweet song of a harp. His anxieties melted away as her alto voice caressed his senses.
The moment his fingers met her claws, manacles clanged around his ankles and yanked him into the inky void.
Please! Let me see her! The ability to breathe in the strange space vanished as he gasped, drawing lungs full of gelatinous muck.
He dropped like a stone as the substance hardened and choked out his cries—but there was still room for the despair that swirled in his chest as Anya faded from his sight.
His eyes sprung open.
I can’t breathe, he thought, clutching his chest. I can’t breathe. Every breath was fast and shallow, taking far more than it gave. Seabirds called from the cross mast, orienting him to here and now.
Come under my wing. Yomira grumbled and lifted her membranous wing, hiding him in plum shadows.
He moved from the spiral of her tail and slid down against her flank.
Her warm scales, bellowing breath and hidden shelter of her wing slowly calmed him.
The Rhodias took time to adjust to. Sleeping by Yomira helped keep his mind from wandering as he fell asleep, but it couldn’t stop the bizarre dreams.
Breathe, he repeated to himself. Just breathe.
Yomira cocked her head, a single ruby eye peering at him. It looks like you’re breathing to me.
He managed a weak chuckle between heaving breaths. “You…you know what I mean.”
After several minutes, he rose to his feet with a grunt, pushing up on Yomira’s wing. She acquiesced, holding it high above him as he stretched. It was time to dust himself off and get on with the day.
The dream with Anya wasn’t a nightmare, per se. But it did scare him. He was charging straight into the dragon’s lair with a defenseless heart.
Dragons? Yomira perked up.
“Do you enjoy eavesdropping?” He raised a brow.
It’s not my fault you don’t know how to close your thoughts. What about dragons?
“Why do you care?” He stretched his lower back with a satisfying pop.
Yomira brought her winged arms to her face, scratching her forehead with the clawed tips. If a wyvern could blush, this was it. She was trying to keep her huffing nares under control but utterly failing.
“Come now, tell me!” He pushed against her wing. She brought them down, looked around as if others could hear, then stared with her carmine eye.
You want an alliance with the Aquillans. My kind want one with the dragons.
He held his tongue and kept his response inside.
Sounds perfectly diplomatic to me. Why are you embarrassed?
She grumbled. It’s a different kind of tie. If they’re like our Great Mother says they once were, I have to choose a mate among them.
“What? Will you stay in Aquillas then?” He held her snout.
Yomira was the only being he didn’t doubt the friendship of this whole time.
He knew better now, but she was always a constant calming presence.
She could pull him out of the darkest of moments.
He hoped she would visit him from time to time, even after all this.
Oh no, no, no, Yomira answered. It’s more of a nuisance—a way to show good faith. She flicked her forked tongue. But it’s nice to know you would miss me.
“Eavesdropping again.” He sighed.
Don’t you have work to do? Yomira gave a good-natured huff, then settled back down onto the deck. I’m going back to sleep.
The stern shifted as Yomira got comfortable, spinning around a few times before wrapping her tail around herself. It was pretty early for her. The sun was barely up. Anya might even still be awake. He could catch her in the galley.
He’d been trying to give her a respectable berth these past few days.
He dove headfirst in many a thing—becoming a noble despite the glaring hatred for his kind, standing up for the Centarians before the imperial court, and boldly going on the evacuation, despite the horrors he had to face.
He didn’t want to kill his chances by overwhelming her.
It was a constant battle to remind himself not to use his relationship with Millicent as a measuring stick.
This required strategy, like observing an ogre before striking at its weakest possible moment.
But in a romantic way, of course.
Dear Divine, I should definitely not say that out loud.
The tinny sound of steel on steel drew his eye to the bow, where Anya and Dame Theresa Fletcher were caught in an energetic spar.
Theresa was a short, but strong human with coils of dark brown hair that bounced with every jab.
The height difference seemed to throw Anya off.
Anya’s parries were stunted and clumsy, a clear consequence of training only with towering palace guards.
Though she seemed to be sparring much more ferociously than she had with him—teeth grit, brows furrowed, and a noticeable sheen on her forehead.
Had she gone easy on him?
“Haha!” Theresa shoved Anya back with a feigned defensive move and darted down the steps. Anya gave chase, navigating the steps and her skirts with ease—and a beaming smile on her face.
Find what makes her smile and do more of it.
Anya was a sight to behold. He wanted to bring that smile all the way to her eyes. He wanted them to glimmer for him.
Perhaps this was the perfect time for a rematch.
“Keeping sharp, I see?” Roderick called.
“Yes, sir!” Theresa hollered back, parrying the Princess with her shortsword.
“Your pupil has exceeded your teaching!” Anya said with a grunt, shoving Theresa back a step. “She puts up a far better fight than you!”
Theresa responded with a jab to the left, but Anya angled her cutlass just enough to twist the sword out of the dame’s hands, sending it clattering to the deck.
“Thank you.” Anya extended a hand to Theresa. “You’re a far more worthy opponent than most. I actually broke a sweat.” Anya’s eyes darted to Roderick, bearing the slightest hint of a smirk. He deflected that thrust of the tongue with a fanged smile.
She wanted to sweat?
He could make her sweat.
“It was an honor, Your Highness. Now, I’ve worked up an appetite. I’m going to breakfast,” Theresa said, rolling her shoulders. “See you down there, sir.” Theresa nodded to Roderick, then made for the lower decks. Anya started to follow.
“If you think Dame Fletcher is good,” he started, relishing the pause in Anya’s step. “You should spar with her teacher.” The whipping wind threatened to undo her bun. And was there a faint scent of blossoms in it? It had to be his imagination. Dry land wasn’t even in sight.
“Wonderful idea. Where is Octavio?” Anya shielded her eyes from the sun, searching in dramatic fashion.
Ouch—but touché.
“You know very well who taught her.” He drew his rapier. “Unless you’re looking for an excuse to tuck tail?”
Anya laughed and tossed her cutlass between her hands. “Never. But if you want a rematch, just say so.”
“I want a rematch. And not only that—” He stepped to her, gingerly holding the face of her blade between his fingers. He lowered his voice to a whisper, “I don’t want you to go easy on me this time.”
“You’re smarter than you look.” Anya chuckled, pulling her blade back. It was a backhanded compliment, but it felt so good.
“High praise. I should like more of it,” he crooned.
“Best me, and you shall have it.”
Anya’s wolfish eyes were positively stunning in the early morning sunlight.
They were also his weakness. He straightened, hoping the slight hitch to his breath didn’t give him away.
If she put this moment together with the distraction her lip-licking had given him during their first spar, he would be done for.
It would take just one feigned kiss, maybe even a perfectly-timed groan, to bring him to his knees.
“Ready?” He stepped back, assuming a defensive position.
“As I’ll ever be.”
Anya started with a feint to the left, drawing a quick parry from him that only met air as she spun to his right, slashing toward his shoulder.
He met it with a quick deflection, catching her eyes widen in surprise.
Yet again, she was underestimating his speed.
Perhaps she thought him a bit drowsy. Though he’d just woke, her spirit had him fired up from basking in its starry glow.
He could tell she was giving it her all, and he loved every second of it.
Octavio was right. Anya wasn’t Millicent.
She was so much more.
The smooth schink of their blades filled the open air, bouncing between the sails as he coaxed her toward the stairs to the lower deck, moving back a few feet with every cut and parry.
Anya’s strength was astounding. She really had been holding back before.
Should he have guessed that sooner? Probably.
She’d thrown a grown man overboard after all.
On the spacious deck and with an opponent of equal height, her swordplay was top notch. She had surely learned under the tutelage of the Captain of the royal guard, Royce Ronaldo—the very man who’d taught the former Commander of the Petorus Knights, his own mentor.
No match should stay equal for long, the Commander had said.
With most of the crew in the galley or topside, the halls of the lower deck were fair game. It was time to tip the scales. He shoved her back with a cross from his rapier and ran for the steps.
“Where are you going?” Anya shouted, swiping her cutlass in an X.
“Come find out!”
Roderick dared to turn his back and raced down the steps. His heart sped the moment he heard the speedy click of her boots rush after him.
He ducked under the shadow of the steps, panting. Not from exhaustion, but exhilaration. Surprise was an essential element of any good sword fight, and Anya deserved nothing less than the best.
She’d caught on. Anya’s labored breaths alerted him to her position down the hall. He fought most unbecoming thoughts that threatened to lower his guard—would she sound the same in the throes of passion? Would she whimper and growl?
Most importantly, would she bite?
He sure hoped so.
A sliver of blonde hair came into view, and he pressed his back flat against the wall under the steps as she passed. Her hair was loosed from its bun, cascading down her shoulders and chest.
Oh she knew. She definitely knew what she did to him.
Her golden tresses nearly served her intended purpose, but before she got too far, he crept toward her, blade at the ready. A little nick on the shoulder and he’d claim victory and hold her to that delicious offer of praise.
Just as he jabbed, she whirled around, her hair a flurry of gold. His blade sliced a thin lock that slid down his rapier to the hilt. Her eyes followed it, jaw agape.
“Oh no—no no no, we’re not done!” Anya cut against his rapier, holding her strength against his. “First blood!”
“Ah, but didn’t Sir Ronaldo always say ‘first touch’?” Roderick slid his rapier up the blade of her cutlass, shifting the angle to force the hilt from her grip.
“How—do you know about that?” Anya groaned. Her arms began to shake. She’d just sparred before this. It was hardly fair. But she wouldn’t want him to go easy on her.
With a smooth twist, her cutlass clattered to the floor.
“We had the same teacher, in a way,” he said. “Now—” He tossed his rapier over her cutlass with a clang and stepped to her, fingering the surviving lock of hair. “The victor’s spoils, please.”
Anya smacked his hand away. “Fine. You win.”
“Not that.”
“I yield.”
“Not that either. The praise, Anya. I crave it.”
“You don’t need it, trust me. Your ego is already overflowing.” Anya chuckled.
And then she smiled. A genuine, beaming smile that he’d earned. He memorized every lift and curve of her lips and cheeks and the smooth outline of each pearly tooth. He never wanted to forget this moment.
The longer he admired Anya, the harder his heart pounded against his ribs, threatening to burst into a far too passionate moment.
It took everything in his power not to pull her into the shadows, prop her against the wall and taste her until she was seeing stars.
But instead, he knelt and handed over her cutlass. He was in this for the long haul.
Anya slid the blade into her scabbard and quietly sauntered toward the galley. Before she rounded the corner, she cast a glance back at him.
“Thank you for the duel, Roderick.”
Roderick.
He smiled. His name on her lips was reward enough.