Chapter One #3
My cheeks heat. I cannot contradict him.
Since the battle, there is an intractable sense of fascination where I am concerned.
The story of how I thwarted the ice giants who otherwise would have happily butchered us all has been told and retold so frequently—each telling, it seems, with additional embellishments—that by the time it reaches the farthest corners of Dyved, I fear they’ll say I felled thirty foes with a single breath.
That I can shoot electric bolts from my eyes and kill an entire army in a blink.
Wind weaver, they whisper when I pass by on the street. Light bringer.
Remnant of Air.
Champion of Caeldera.
I might laugh, if it were not so preposterous. I am no all-powerful deity, worthy of anyone’s worship. I clear my throat hard to dislodge the lump of embarrassment. “The minstrels have a flair for the dramatic. Their accounts of the battle have exaggerated my role to mythic proportions.”
Penn’s expression darkens. “Don’t do that.”
“What?”
“Don’t diminish what you have done for this city. Don’t make yourself smaller to shore up my failings. It is unfair to you, and condescending to me.”
My eyes narrow. “Perhaps the minstrels would not sing songs of my glory if you would show your face among them. Perhaps if their new king were not running himself ragged each day securing the borders, or locked away all night in war councils with his advisers, or sequestered in this chamber pouring power into the wards in his every spare moment, they would see for themselves what you have done for them. How hard you are working to make them safe again. Perhaps then they would sing of you instead of me.”
There is a heavy beat of silence. The very air seems to hold its breath as he gets to his feet. He does not move, does not pace. Just stands there, his hands clenched, his bare chest covered in blood, his face fixed in an expression of such ire, it makes me shiver.
“Is that what you think of me?” he asks finally, voice stark. “That I require songs of glory to remind me of my place in the people’s hearts? Do you see me as so weak, so unsteady, I need heaps of hero worship to carry on in my responsibilities?”
“Just the opposite!” I cry, getting to my feet as well, ignoring the spasms of pain that seize my frame.
“I think you are too strong. You shoulder too much of this burden alone, and will allow no one to help you carry it.” My voice drops lower.
“I think you need to remember there are more reasons to live than revenge. There are still good things in this world, Pendefyre. Good people.”
“Most of them have fled.”
“Some remain. Others will come back in time.”
Or so I hope.
Only half the population remains by my count—some too sickly to make the journey, others simply too stubborn to cede their city to the violence of strangers.
A mass exodus in the aftermath of the battle left the bustling capital but a skeleton of its former self.
Citizens who once felt at ease in the warded shelter of the crater vanished seemingly overnight, piling their carts and wagons with as many belongings as they could, then setting their sights on distant reaches of the Dyvedi plateau, to live in isolation.
And, perhaps, to try to forget the atrocities they witnessed. The friends they lost.
In my most spineless of moments, I have caught myself wishing I could join their ranks.
That I, too, could flee under the cover of darkness and wake to a new vantage entirely—one where things like hope and joy and companionship do not feel so markedly out of reach.
The urge arises, even knowing its futility.
There is no start fresh enough to erase what we have endured. There is no place remote enough to outrun the damage inflicted.
Wherever we go, we carry our scars.
I take a step toward Pendefyre, careful not to move too fast or push too far.
He is still burning with anger, but I can see the effect my words are having on him.
Some of the wrath is ebbing away, leaving in its wake a deep exhaustion from giving too much of himself these past months.
He truly has run himself ragged. His reserves are empty. If I had not arrived when I did…
Just the thought of losing him makes my heart stumble.
“Pendefyre.”
His eyes press closed as I say his name, his expression a war of conflicting emotions.
Taking another step into his space, I reach out to him—slowly, so achingly slowly—and twine his fingers with mine.
They are strong and callused and quite warm.
His whole body shudders beneath my touch, as though his effort to remain stock-still is wearing thin.
But he does not shake me off. No, his hand grips mine like a drowning man grabbing hold of a lifeline amid the rolling swells.
The raw need in his grip, the flagrant urgency in it, makes my eyes sting.
“Come with me now.” I squeeze his hand. At the same time, I send a pulse down the bond—a soothing shot of reassurance. “When was the last time you ate a proper meal? Or rested for more than a few stolen hours on a cot at the barracks?”
I do not wait for him to answer. I merely start walking, tugging him along with me as I make my way out of the chamber, to the lift, and activate the glyph that will bring us down into the throne room.
He does not resist, shadowing my steps in silent compliance.
And though I know he may never admit it aloud, through the bond I can sense the faintest furl of relief that this choice—this one singular choice—has not fallen upon his shoulders.
For they bear far too much already.