Chapter 19
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Falling asleep was easier than I’d thought.
Nocturnal sleep cycles are a byproduct of living in Caligo. It began as a superstition that too much movement during daylight hours would lead the Sols right to us. Over time, it morphed into an ideological rebellion against the sun itself and what it represents.
Despite my near-constant fatigue, I often spend far too many daylight hours awake, and I’d feared trying to swap my sleeping cycle would trigger another insomnia episode. Instead, I was out within minutes of my cheek pressing against Gabe’s shoulder.
Staying asleep, however, is a different issue.
Gabe is fully out, not even stirring as I startle upright and wriggle away from his side, unsure if minutes or hours have passed.
The star-riddled sky above does little to help.
It could be midnight or four in the morning.
Not a trace of yesterday’s storm remains as I blink up at the inky aerial landscape.
Constellations blur into shapes and faces the longer I stare, my mind running rampant with how yesterday’s highlight reel must’ve been received back in Caligo.
Chancellor Bren is likely in an uproar over his son’s deception. I imagine he’s ordered the production team to delete as much of the footage as possible, but surely they can’t erase him entirely from all ten of our cameras.
And Gabe’s wife . . . How is she handling the news of her husband’s abrupt departure? If Gabe’s to be believed—and I think he is—perhaps she’s relieved to not keep up the act of being Caligo’s favorite couple. Or maybe she’s annoyed by the uproar his actions have caused.
I can hear the gossip now . . .
“Did you hear that the chancellor’s son is risking his life and his marriage to participate in the Hunt with his throwaway?”
“I know! His poor wife.”
“His poor children!”
“I can’t fathom why Gabe Bren would give up everything for a Tier Three rat, of all people! Do you think they’ve been having an affair?”
It’s exactly what his father had wanted to avoid—hearing dozens of folks uttering both our names in the same breath. Even if Gabe survives the Hunt, his public persona might not.
The man I thought I knew wouldn’t have risked it.
Maybe the shock of me being drafted would’ve upset him, but he’d ultimately choose his duty to his constituents over any echoes of feelings he has for me.
The Gabe I knew lived by the motto: Caligo first, above all.
Has that truly changed? Or will a delayed sharp regret hit him as soon as he wakes?
Now that I’ve dismissed his advances, will he remember I’m not worth the risk?
The pads of my thumbs rub at my closed lids like I can erase all the painful questions, accusing whispers, and disappointed faces from my mind if I press hard enough. When that doesn’t work, I stand, surrendering any lingering hope of blissful unconsciousness reclaiming me.
There’s no other movement in the meadow to suggest any of the others have woken yet as I leave Gabe and carefully pad over to the opposite tree line ahead, scanning the moonlit ground to avoid snapping loose twigs.
I round the thick trunk of what I think is some sort of pine tree, using its privacy to relieve myself.
With only the chirping insects as company, I slowly trot towards the creek, intent on washing off and rehydrating before the day ahead.
The stream’s current sweeps gently across the rocks as if it, too, is groggily waking from slumber.
After a few drinks, I succumb to its lure, easing the entire lower half of my body beneath its surface.
It’s deeper than I thought, forcing me to stand on tiptoes to keep my chin above water.
Latching onto a boulder protruding from the shore as an anchor, I dip my head into the stream.
There’s a warmth near the surface that contrasts with the chill at my toes.
The sensory juxtaposition relieves some of the mounting pressure on the right side of my skull.
Not entirely, but enough to ease the stiff tension from my neck and shoulders.
A shadow glides past overhead when I resurface. A small bird, from the looks of it. Thoughts returning to Demi’s tale of her aunt’s survival, I wonder whether this could be one of the creatures that offered Jacqueline guidance when she needed it most.
I wipe away the droplets coating my lashes and haul myself back onto the creek’s shore. Once the laces of my boots are double knotted, I set out in the direction of the sweeping shadow, not stopping until the dense thicket becomes sparser and something round catches me underfoot, rolling my ankle.
“Burning pits,” I curse, trance broken as I balance on my good foot.
I bend over to inspect the culprit and find a misshapen peach, along with dozens more scattered along the grass.
A peach tree looms overhead, its branches weighed down by the fuzzy reddish-yellow fruit.
Did the bird lead me here, as if it sensed the growing hunger I’d yet to acknowledge, or is my happening upon this tree a lucky coincidence?
If luck exists, I’m certain I’d be its primary allergen, so I doubt that’s it. But the bird I’d spotted—if it was, in fact, a bird at all—wasn’t lit by golden light like those from Demi’s story.
My stomach groans as if to say, “Who cares?” It doesn’t matter what brought me here. Food is food. I’d be a fool to not to get my fill while I still can.
I pluck a peach for myself, pleased to feel its skin slightly soft to the touch.
I lift it to my lips, yearning to see if its flavor matches its indulgently sweet fragrance.
My teeth sink into the fruit’s supple skin.
Its juices swim along my tongue and down my throat, awakening my taste buds with pure euphoria.
It’s criminal that I’d ever considered any of the peaches from Caligo edible before now.
I devour it faster than I should, making a sticky mess of my face and hands.
I tug on the branch, grabbing as many peaches as my hands can hold, which turns out to be four.
If only I’d thought to bring my knapsack along.
I pivot, intending to head back towards our temporary camp, then pause as a streak of near-white yellow along the distant horizon catches my eye.
Blue hour is upon us. Not only that, but it’s nearly dawn. I’d been so enraptured by my pursuit of the bird’s shadow and my subsequent hunger that I hadn’t noticed the incremental brightening of the sky.
I really should head back.
But my feet have other plans.
They carry me past the peach tree and up a grassy incline with impressive speed.
And when I trip halfway up the hill, I drop the peaches before scrambling back to standing, jogging faster in obedience with the irrational urgency.
It isn’t like the dreamlike trance from minutes prior.
Every part of me is fully alert and aching to fill this acute, intrusive hunger—one that cannot be satisfied by the consumption of food, any more than a stomach is satisfied by sight alone.
Whatever it takes.
My parents asked me to find a way to survive, and this is it: my chance to no longer be a burden.
I continue to climb. The tree line gives way to a grassy ridge, sparsely populated with boulders and a few bushes bathed in a violet hue not unlike in the halls of Caligo. There’s little else between me and the calamitous horizon.
“Orelle?” A masculine voice calls my name in harmony with the wind as I crest the hilltop.
Pinpricks of heat spread across my neck, down my spine. I slow to a halt, yet make no move to turn around to confirm what I already know.
Kalden has found me.
But I don’t want to be found. Not now, when I’m minutes away from experiencing the one thing I should fear more than the Sols—the one thing that’s plagued countless nightmares, and maybe a few dreams.
“Orelle,” Kalden says again, striding up the hill to stand at my side, his smoky bergamot scent washing over me.
“What?” I snap, eyes refusing to move from the view in front of me. I don’t want to miss a single detail or second.
In my peripheral vision, I sense his searing gaze switching between me and the skyline. I catch the curt nod of his chin, like he’s decided on an unspoken question.
I expect his fingers to take hold of my arms and drag me to the shady cover of the forest at our backs. Or all the way back to camp, to where I left my helmet. Surely, he won’t stand idly by and let me expose far more of myself to the impending daylight than what we discussed during training.
And yet, he says nothing. Does nothing.
I hold still, in case any movement will break whatever it is that’s convincing him to not interfere in what’s about to become my greatest act of treason. His treason, too, since his helmet is notably absent.
Deep indigo brightens to a more vibrant hue as a beacon of golden light ascends over the inky landscape. Rich oranges and yellows bleed from a near-white orb in the center, spotlighting the sky and stealing my breath.
“Is that . . . ?”
“It is,” Kalden confirms.
The orb grows brighter and brighter. Inviting me forward. Painting the sky in colors far richer than those found in the murky underground of Caligo.
I take a few shaky steps, reaching out a gloved hand like I can scoop up this view—this devastatingly beautiful and unquestionably egregious view—and pocket it alongside my most cherished memories.
The light becomes overwhelming, violating my senses.
My eyes shut of their own accord, unable to handle its purity.
Golden orbs dance behind closed lids, and there’s an audible shift in nature’s ballad—birdsongs and gargled calls from unnamed creatures.
A rush of heat licks my exposed skin like a sinful kiss trailing across my forehead, cheeks, and lips. My treacherous pores devour it.
Bit by bit, I open my eyes.