Chapter 39
GRAESON
Graeson ducked and rolled under the broken branch that was barreled toward him. His movements were slower than normal, his muscles still sore from the recent transformation and strain on his body.
Moris prepared another strike, his leather wings flaring behind him. But when his eyes locked onto Graeson’s, Moris halted. "Gray?"
Heaving, Graeson narrowed his gaze. "Moris?" he said cautiously.
If this was a trick, Graeson was in trouble.
His body needed time to recuperate, and he had no weapon.
The last time he saw his scimitars, they were strapped to Ellie’s back.
He hadn’t thought to take them when he had left the two women.
He hadn’t thought about a lot of things in those fleeting moments after the attack.
He rolled his hands into tight fists and shifted his stance, readying for the next attack.
But it didn’t come. The branch fell to the ground, and Moris dropped to his knees, his wings tucking behind him.
"I-I’m so sorry," Moris sputtered, voice shaking. His head fell into his palms, and sobs rocked his body. "I had no choice. I—" Moris choked on his words, the tears overwhelming him.
Graeson stood and took a hesitant step forward, still unsure whether he could trust Moris. Once upon a time, Graeson had called Moris a friend—or at least an acquaintance. Now, he didn’t know what to make of the man kneeling before him. "What do you mean you had no choice?"
"Domitius," Moris blurted in between sobs, "he made me. He—he can command people."
"Domitius is dead," Graeson bit out.
Moris snapped his head up. "What? You killed him?"
Graeson bit down on his tongue, but nodded. He remembered the bull king’s body falling alongside the guard’s, whose feathered wings erupting into flames.
"I thought I would never get out of there," Moris said, already on his feet and stumbling forward, his wings beating behind him and lifting him onto his toes.
He grabbed Graeson by the shoulders and dug his fingers into the sore muscles.
Graeson tried to shift away, but Moris only held on tighter, his strength surprising even Graeson.
"I should be dead," Moris said with a wild look in his eyes.
"I was nearly dead, but then they did this.
They made me into a monster. And when I saw you, I had no choice.
When the order came…" He shook his head, anguish and disbelief coloring his brown cheeks.
"I thought I was going to kill you, Gray. "
Graeson pursed his lips. Part of him wanted to believe Moris, but another part of him distrusted him. Too much had happened within the past twenty-four hours that Graeson didn’t know what to believe.
"Let go of me, Moris," he ordered, his words clipped.
Moris dropped his gaze to where his fingers were piercing Graeson’s skin. He quickly snatched his hands back and flew back several yards, stumbling when he landed. He threw up his hands, and a few of his fingertips were red.
Graeson looked at his shoulder. Deep crescents marked his flesh. Some spots had been torn open.
"See? I can’t control myself. I can’t—" Moris’ eyes went wide as he stared at the blood dripping down Graeson’s chest. "Are you fucking naked?"
Graeson began to speak but halted, the back of his neck prickling. He held up a single finger to Moris, who froze, wings twitching. Before Graeson could search the woods for the source, though, Moris hissed and arched backward, his features twisting in agony.
"What the—" Moris gritted out through clenched teeth. He spun around, reaching toward his back.
At the sight of the bejeweled dagger, Graeson’s lips twitched. He would recognize that dagger anywhere. He looked beyond Moris’ flailing form and spotted the two silhouettes creeping toward them.
Kalisandre strolled forward, pulling out Graeson’s scimitars from her back. Her brown hair whipped across her face as a gust of wind rolled in.
Gods, they look good on—
"Wait!" Graeson stepped in front of Moris, shielding him as he spotted Ellie rearing her hand back, her throwing knife at the ready. "He doesn’t mean us any harm."
While Graeson might not have trusted Moris entirely yet, as far as he could tell, whatever command had poisoned Moris before had faded.
"He was working with Domitius!" Kallie said, her hands flexing over the twin hilts. Her gaze was a storm, the sea within a torrent.
"I-I don’t want to hurt you." Moris made to step forward but halted when both women shifted their stances, readying to attack. His wings folded back. "I didn’t want to hurt you," he clarified. "That wasn’t me."
"You just said you can’t control yourself," Ellie retorted.
"I—" Moris looked around, frantic. He rubbed his hands across his head. "I can, but not when…when I’m triggered."
"Triggered?" Kallie asked, confused.
Moris nodded. "Yes. It’s like some spark gets ignited within me. One moment I’m fine, but then the next…" He shook his head, terror burning in his eyes.
"That doesn’t make me want to trust you. Quite the opposite, in fact," Ellie said. Her braid was nearly undone, and random pieces fell over her shoulder, giving her a wild look.
A low growl came from the opposite direction. When Graeson turned, he found two red eyes locked on Moris.
Moris stumbled and muttered a curse.
"Nyrri," Graeson warned. Dani would kill him if she found out Moris was alive and Graeson let him die. To all three of them, he said calmly, "If he wanted to kill me, he would have already."
And he probably could have easily. Graeson left that last part out, unwilling to admit to his weakened state.
"I’ll tell you everything I know. I promise," Moris said, hands up. "You can even tie me up."
Ellie narrowed her gaze, but Graeson noticed how the muscles in her raised arm softened before she lowered her weapon.
"You trust him?" Kalisandre asked, weapons still raised.
Trust might have been too strong of a word, but then Graeson thought of Barinthian’s warning about the war having only begun. If that was true, and if Moris knew something, they had to use him to their advantage.
"Dani would want him alive, and he might prove useful."
Kallie pursed her lips. Her gaze flicked across them, still hesitant. But as if deciding to trust Graeson, she called out, "Ellie?"
Ellie pointed her knife at Moris. "Come on, flyboy. Let’s have a chat."
"With you? Alone?" Moris asked, glancing at Graeson, fear shining in his eyes.
An amused grin ticked at the corner of Graeson’s mouth. He might have saved Moris from death, but he would not save him from Ellie’s wrath. He was still pissed off at Moris for using his power on them.
As if sensing this, Moris let his head fall, defeat washing over him. He dragged his feet across the ground, his wings almost touching the dirt as he reluctantly followed Ellie.
"And you," Ellie called out before disappearing into the woods, pointing her knife over her shoulder at Graeson, "put some clothes on. You’re burning my eyes."
Graeson rolled his eyes. He had nearly forgotten he was completely nude in the middle of the woods. "I would if I had some."
"Nyrri," Kalisandre called, and the drakonis came forward, his bag strapped to her saddle.
Graeson nodded in gratitude, grabbed a pair of trousers from the bag, and quickly pulled them on. As he did, a whistle sounded. Nyrri nudged him with her snout before heading after Ellie.
Alone with Kalisandre, his throat seized up. He could have sworn he saw a flicker of fear in those sea-blue eyes.
"Are you hurt?" she asked after a moment.
Graeson swallowed, unable to lie to her. Not only did his body hurt, the pain only marginally subsiding, his heart hurt, too. "I’ve been better. Are you all right?"
"I’ve been better," she said with a weak smile, never looking away from him.
Graeson looked her up and down, taking in her recent wounds. The bandage on her arm was already stained red, blood having seeped through the center. She stood with her hip cocked, carefully avoiding placing too much weight on her injured leg.
He tried not to let the guilt rise in his throat, but knew he had failed when his voice came out hoarse. "You should be resting."
"I will," she said with a shrug, making no motion to move.
He swallowed, realizing he couldn’t avoid it any longer. Graeson didn’t know where to begin, didn’t know what to say. So much had happened in the brief span of twelve hours. "Kalisandre, I—"
His scimitars dropped to the ground with a clatter, cutting him off. In the blink of an eye, Kalisandre was hobbling over to him, tears rolling down her cheeks. Heart in his lungs, Graeson met her half-way. She barreled into his chest, her arms wrapping around his waist.
His eyes grew wide, but the shock was brief. He wrapped her in his arms, inhaling her. Graeson shoved his face into her thick, brunette hair, the smell of burnt lavender drenching him. He didn’t know how she felt about him, but he needed his friend. He needed her.
"I’m so sorry, Graeson," Kalisandre whispered, nestling against him and tucking her chin in the crook of his neck.
And as she squeezed him tighter, Graeson finally broke. His tears soaked her beautiful, knotted locks. He didn’t know how long they stood like that or how Kalisandre stayed standing with him leaning against her. He was just thankful she didn’t let go.
His mother was dead. His mother, to whom he had said only a few words before she was taken from him again. Whose chest he had driven a blade through.
Graeson recalled the way Lysanthia had looked up at him. Not with anger or sorrow, but with acceptance.
His sobs rocked his body harder.
Kalisandre didn’t speak. She didn’t say it was going to be fine. She didn’t say it wasn’t his fault, nor did she try to take the blame like she was prone to doing. In silence, she embraced him, allowing him the space he needed to process his emotions and grief. Giving him as much time as he needed.
And while grief, Graeson knew, was not something one could get over in a matter of minutes or days or even months, he was thankful for the time she granted him. Because, if Barinthian was right, they would need to be on the move sooner rather than later.
When he finally loosened his grip some time later, he didn’t let go of Kalisandre completely. He didn’t think he could. If he did, he would probably collapse, his weight too much to bear on his own.
With the pad of his thumb, he wiped away the moisture from Kalisandre’s cheeks. "How did you find me?" he asked, his voice hoarse and throat raw.
Her cheeks flushed. "I just…I had a feeling."
"A feeling?"
She nodded, chewing at the bottom of her lip. "I didn’t understand it at first—I still don’t, but it’s like…like there’s a thread connecting me to you. I think, no matter where you go or how far apart we are, I’d be able to find you."
A question sat in the center of her bunched brows. And for a moment, Graeson didn’t think she would ask it, but she did. "It’s the bond, isn’t it?"
Graeson brushed a piece of hair behind her ear. "I’ve been told it’s an even greater pull when a bond has been accepted."
Something flashed across her expression. Before he could identify it, she looked away. "Did you…did you bury her?"
Graeson shook his head.
"Do you need help?"
He closed his eyes, unsure how to explain that his father had visited him in wolf-form and had taken his mother. "It’s…complicated."
"More complicated than being a dragon?" she quipped.
The corner of his mouth ticked up. "Surprisingly, yes."
She cocked her head to the side. "Did you know you could do that?" she asked, her face contorted as if she believed it was possible for him to keep such a secret from her.
"No. I had no idea. At times, I have felt odd in my own skin, but I never imagined…" Graeson shivered as he thought of the instances when he would be in cramped places and his panic would surge. Now though? Now, the voice inside his head was silent, as if his body was finally at peace with itself.
Kalisandre dragged her gaze across him as if she was searching for scales or talons, as if the dragon would appear at any moment. "Did it hurt?"
Graeson chuffed a laugh. "Like nothing else."
He hesitated to say more. He wasn’t sure how to describe what the transformation felt like, nor did he believe it would help either of them. His silence gave him away, though.
"What is it?"
"It’s—" He swallowed the rest of the sentence as Barinthian’s words echoed in his mind.
Lean on the one you call yours. You may feel like a monster, but running from her will only make it worse. Let her be your humanity.
"I think we should sit down," he said.
When she nodded, Graeson wrapped an arm around her waist and guided her over to a fallen tree.
He helped her sit down, careful of her injury.
Then he sat beside her. A gentle breeze skated across them, though it did little to rid his skin of the beading sweat.
He wiped his palm on his trousers, his leg bouncing beneath it.
Her hand fell on his, and she squeezed it. The light pressure momentarily calmed the rapid beating of his heart. The nervous tremor in his hands subsided slightly.
"Whatever it is, you can tell me, Graeson," she whispered. "I’m not going anywhere."
He pulled his gaze away from their hands to look up at her.
Maybe he was wrong before. Maybe she hadn’t been afraid of him, but for him.
Exhaling a slow breath, Graeson let his shoulders drop, the tension within them easing just a fraction.
Then he told her everything: what Myra had told him after the council meeting, what his mother had said about freeing himself, his father showing up and taking Lysanthia.
He confessed it all, not bothering to hold back, not fearing that she would think differently of him.
Because he finally understood that if he didn’t lean on her, if he didn’t tell her the truth, then it would only tear him apart.