Chapter 87
Burn
Iwake to the sound of a loud, unapologetic snore vibrating far too close to my ear.
When I turn my head slowly I find Arven stretched beside me on the narrow bed, one arm bent awkwardly beneath his head, burgundy hair fallen forward to obscure half his face.
In sleep he looks younger, the habitual calculation erased from his features, the tension that normally binds him loosened into something almost boyish.
There is soot faintly smudged along his temple, and the rise and fall of his chest is deep and unguarded in a way I have never seen.
A laugh escapes me before I can stop it. The sound is small, but it is enough. His eyes open at once, the softness vanishing as instinct snaps back into place.
“You snore,” I inform him.
“You drool,” he replies without missing a beat, his voice rough with sleep. He reaches up and, with an almost careless familiarity, brushes his thumb across the corner of my mouth where warmth lingers. “It is undignified.”
My face heats, though I cannot quite suppress my smile.
For a moment neither of us moves. We simply look at each other in the quiet morning light, the air between us oddly gentle after everything that has happened.
He clears his throat first, as if remembering himself, and sits upright, running a hand through his hair to push it back from his face.
“The healer says you are pregnant,” he says, the words careful now. “And that your injuries require time.”
I nod slowly, the knowledge still fragile inside me, still difficult to hold without breaking.
He studies me, and this time there is no sarcasm in him, no edge meant to test.
“I know you do not feel well,” he continues. “I know you are weak and tired and in pain.” He pauses, searching for the right phrasing as though it costs him something to speak so plainly. “But you cannot stay in Veynar.”
“There is nowhere safe,” I say quietly.
He draws in a deep breath, shoulders lifting before he exhales.
“Alarna is safe,” he says at last. “If we can reach it, it is likely the safest place in existence at the moment.”
“If we can reach it,” I repeat.
“How would we even get there?” I ask, pushing myself up a little higher against the pillows despite the pull along my side. “Isn’t it crawling with undead?”
“It is a risk,” he admits without softening it. “But Vaelor ships can move undetected once they reach open water. They know how to vanish.”
“Vaelor ships?” I repeat, trying to follow the thread of it. “Why would a Vaelor ship breach undead waters just to take me to Alarna?”
“Us,” he corrects quietly.
The word shifts something inside my chest.
“For one, Eravic Vaelor’s father serves on Alarna’s royal council,” he continues, as though that alone should explain everything. “For two, he owes me a favor or two.”
I do not hide my surprise. “You know him?”
He nods, then continues. “For three, Eravic is quite taken with you.”Heat rises to my face before I can stop it, which only deepens the faint amusement in his expression.
“Most of all, he has others he intends to move to safety, mainly the elderly and the sick. Those who will not be able to outrun anything if the Threns advance or if the undead breach farther inland. This is not a favor. It is strategy.”
He speaks of the Threns advancing as though he is not one of them.
He pauses, then exhales as if tiring of half-truths.
“The journey will be dangerous,” he says, and there is no pretense in him now.
“We will have to cross territory that does not forgive weakness. We will have to move quickly and quietly. But if we make it to Alarna, you will be safer than here. That I can promise you.”
“Why are you helping me?” I ask quietly, because the question has been waiting in my throat for weeks.
His expression shifts, irritation covering something more vulnerable. “I will answer all of your questions,” he says, “when you get your head out of your ass and decide to be smart enough to get on the stupid ship.”
The bluntness should sting, but it grounds me more than gentleness would have. He drags a hand through his hair and looks away for a moment before continuing in a lower voice.
“Until then, understand this much. Your family in Alarna loves you. They want you back. You were missing for a long time.” He hesitates, jaw tightening.
“I was told to find you, keep you alive, and bring you home.” His cheeks redden faintly, and he gives a short, humorless laugh.
“I have not done an impressive job of it. You are difficult to track, and even more difficult to control. But I have tried.”
He reaches back and lifts his hair from the nape of his neck, turning just enough for me to see the dark ink of an Alarnan crest etched into his skin. Beneath it, a small inscription.
“Read it,” he says.
My voice trembles slightly as I sound out the phrase. “I’rana marai.”
Memory crashes over me in a rush. Eravic’s letter. The warning written in careful hand. He will carry a phrase. I’rana marai. If he speaks it to you, you will know he was sent by those who remember who you truly are. You must trust him.
The room feels smaller for a moment, my chest too tight to draw a full breath. All this time I believed myself abandoned, discarded, forgotten. Yet somewhere beyond the walls of Veynar there were people who searched, who planned, who waited.
A place that might be safe. A place that might be mine.
“The wards will not open again after the Vaelor ship crosses, will they?” I ask quietly.
He shakes his head. “No. It is woven into the magic itself. A single exception. That exception is you.”
“Then I will wait for Colsar,” I say without hesitation.
Arven lets out a disbelieving breath that almost resembles a laugh.
“If you wait for Colsar, you may never see him again. If he loves you the way you insist he does, he will find you. Men like him do not surrender easily. But if you remain here while Sevrin unravels, or while Mysin tries again, or while hungry Threns slip through reopened ports and aim straight for the golden haired princess who promises heirs, then you are gambling with a life that is no longer yours alone.”
“I do not believe Sevrin would hurt me,” I say, though the words feel thinner than they once did.
“That is delusion,” he replies without hesitation.
He takes my hand then, firmly enough that I feel his warmth against my palm.
“You love your prince. Then act like the woman meant to stand beside him,” he says.
“If you want a future with him, then think the way he would. He would want you and the child safe at any cost. He would trust you to use your instincts instead of your fear.”
Tears slide down my cheeks before I can stop them. “I do not want to do this without him, Arven.”
His expression softens in a way he cannot fully hide. “I know,” he says quietly.
I draw in a careful breath, forcing myself to think rather than feel. “I will return to the palace. I will tell Sevrin everything that was done to me. If he takes action, if he arrests them, if he gives me protection and proves that I matter while I wait, then I will stay.”
“And if he does not?” Arven asks.
“Then I will leave,” I reply, my voice strengthening as the decision takes hold. “And I will not leave quietly. Every servant in that palace will know the King allowed his brother’s pregnant wife to be beaten and carved while he played at war.”
“And if he tries to lock you away?”
“You and I will make plans to meet at the docks on the day of departure, regardless of my decision,” I say calmly. “If I am not there, it means I am in trouble.” I draw in a breath. “At that point, you should find Junis. He can—”
“If you are not there, I will get you myself.” His voice is cold, lethal.
The promise hangs in the air between us.
I draw in a breath. “Fine, that is the plan then.”
I grab his arm, my grip firm. “If I lose my child,” I say, meeting his eyes, “I will return and kill them all.”
For a moment he studies me as though seeing something new. Then he leans forward and presses his lips to the crown of my head, the gesture unexpectedly gentle. “I will burn the bodies, Ashen,” he says.