Chapter 56 Sariel #2
Their connection never broke. He felt wrapped in threads, silver and gold, and with his every movement and her every cry, the pleasure pulsed back and forth between them, shared and then magnified.
It added strength to his every thrust. It added desperation to the journeying of his hands.
Through it all, a little voice, easily drowned out amid the pleasure, refused to fall silent.
A mistake, for certain, as his lips pinned her to the bed with the force of his kiss.
A mistake he would gladly make.
Once Sariel was dressed, he slipped out to the night.
In the dark opening of his own tent, he sat upon the grass and stared at the stars.
A dozen different memories warred within him.
The fear of revealing himself fully to a woman who was not Isca.
Of how Faron would react if he found out. Of how Isabelle had arched beneath him.
“Wrong,” he muttered, as if speaking it aloud might convince him. “Wrong, dumb, reckless, foolish, na?ve…”
So many words. For months now, rumors had persisted that Isabelle was bedding either of the Godsight brothers, with some salacious tales insisting both at the same time.
But they were just rumors, and most were unbelieved.
The majority saw Isabelle as pure, and her heart as dedicated solely to the goddess, Leliel.
With victory so close, it was beyond foolish to risk success on a midnight tryst. The satisfaction of flesh could come later, once victory was secured.
Sariel shivered within his tent. He’d put no thought into what future awaited him once they shattered the Astral Kingdom.
Expectations of the past had him assuming he would just drift away afterward, to be forgotten as the remaining human kingdoms squabbled with one another and Isabelle attempted to maintain her protectorate.
The idea that he could remain with her, guide her, perhaps even marry and become…
Sariel clenched his teeth to deny his scream.
His midsection cramped, and he collapsed onto his back as his left arm rose above him, its every muscle locked tight.
Silver fire burned across the unreadable runes, charring through the skin of his forearm.
Blood leaked to his elbow and dripped upon the grass.
Sariel forced himself to breathe through his nostrils as he endured the waves of pain.
No crowns. No thrones. I will hold no crowns, no thrones. Not with her. Not with anyone.
The pain faded. The silver fire wafted away as smoke, leaving behind only blackened skin that would take a long time to heal, especially for him. Sariel pulled his sleeve back down to hide it as he waited for his heartbeat to settle.
“You knew this was a mistake,” he told himself in a shaking voice.
He had to fix this, immediately. He had no future with Isabelle, not with her destined to be queen. Letting her believe so, for even a moment, was wrong.
Once fully recovered, Sariel strode back through the camp, quiet and dark.
Dawn was far enough away that even those responsible for preparing the morning meal still slept.
He made for Isabelle’s tent, his every step careful.
Being seen returning could be problematic.
When he reached the closed flaps, he hesitated.
Telling her this would not be easy… but she knew of his vow.
She knew his limitations. She would understand. He had to trust she would understand.
The way it must be , he told himself, and ducked inside.
Her bed was empty.
“Isabelle?” he whispered, looking about. Nothing. Silence.
Sariel slipped back out, telling himself to remain calm. Maybe she needed to relieve herself. He made his way in that direction, stopping halfway toward the latrine trench to address a guard sitting bored at one of the little crossroads through the rows of tents.
“Have you seen Queen Isabelle?” he asked.
“The queen?” the soldier replied. “No. Why?”
“Nothing,” he said, continuing. “It’s nothing.”
He thought to wake Faron, but what would he say? What excuse could he offer for sneaking into Isabelle’s tent in the dead of night?
Calm down , he told himself, but he made for the main road nonetheless.
The camp was enormous, and surrounded by loyal soldiers.
There was no reason to panic. No reason to assume the worst. He pulsed a bit of radiance into his eyes, brightening the night.
A speck of a familiar golden aura in the distance filled his stomach with iron.
His hurried pace became a run, and then a sprint.
He reached the main road leading toward Racliffe, and the farthest extent of the camp.
Nearby were the temporary stables, and from within them burst a speckled horse.
Aylah held the reins, sitting tall and stiff in the saddle.
Lying bound and unconscious behind her was Queen Isabelle.
“Aylah!” he cried out. His sister tugged on the reins, turning the horse aside so she could face him. Their eyes met.
“I’m sorry, Sariel,” she shouted back. “But this must be done.”
A kick of her heels, and the horse galloped away, chased only by his futile screams.