Chapter 3
3
S kylar’s eyelids fluttered, struggling against the weight of exhaustion. Even the muted evening light seeping through her lashes sent sharp pains through her head. A low groan escaped her parched lips as she squeezed her eyes shut again.
What happened?
The question floated hazily in her mind, accompanied by a rising tide of panic. Memories of the battle crashed over her—blood and screams and the overwhelming presence of the Gryphon. Skylar’s heart raced, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps that seemed deafening in the quiet room.
Wait. This wasn’t her war tent.
Forcing her eyes open, Skylar blinked rapidly, willing the world into focus. Motes of dust danced in weak sunlight that filtered through gaps in rough-hewn wooden walls. The familiar scent of pine and yarrow filled her nostrils, grounding her. A small cabin. One of the temporary structures at the edge of their war camp, her mind supplied hazily.
Her gaze darted around the room, taking in every detail. Her armor lay neatly stacked in the corner, cleaned of blood and grime. The sight of metal plates gleaming dully through supple black leather sent a chill down her spine. Memories flashed behind her eyes—the sickening give of flesh beneath talons, the crack of bones shattering, the gurgling screams of the dying.
So much death. So much destruction.
She shook her head, trying to dislodge the images, only to wince as pain lanced through her body. As the discomfort subsided, Skylar became acutely aware of something else—her clothes. She was dressed in her undergarments, her wig intact, the bindings across her chest uncomfortably tight and damp with sweat.
Thank the gods.
Relief flooded through her, quickly followed by a wave of shame. How could she feel relieved when so many had died? They hadn’t even had a chance to run or surrender.
With trembling fingers, Skylar reached for the chest bandages, loosening them just enough to take a full breath. The fabric was stiff with dried blood and caked with dirt, the acrid smell making her stomach churn. She ignored the angry red lines crisscrossing her skin, focusing instead on the simple act of breathing.
In. Out. In. Out.
Each breath was a reminder that she was still here, still human—at least for now. The thought sent a chill through her. How much longer could she maintain this charade? How many more times could she summon the Gryphon before losing herself completely?
Just a few more weeks, she reminded herself. Her mother’s pregnancy was progressing well, and soon she could finally be free of this burden. After nearly twenty-five years of deception, mere weeks felt like nothing—and everything.
The creak of the door startled Skylar from her reverie. Her muscles coiled, body tensing in preparation for a fight. But it was only an old woman who shuffled into the room, each step accompanied by the soft rustle of fabric and the groan of floorboards. The woman’s face was round and kind, weathered by time and the elements. Her eyes, Skylar noticed with a start, were milky white—unseeing.
“Ah, you’re awake,” the woman said, her voice warm and gravelly. “I thought I heard movement. How are you feeling, child?”
Skylar opened her mouth to respond, but no words came out. How could she possibly describe the maelstrom of emotions raging within her? The guilt, the shame, the bone-deep weariness that seemed to seep into her very soul?
“I’m… alive,” she replied, her voice low and strained.
The old woman chuckled, the sound incongruously cheerful in the somber atmosphere. “That you are, child. And a good thing too. I’ve been tending to you since someone brought you in yesterday evening.”
Yesterday? Skylar’s mind reeled. How much had changed in that time?
“I’ve been out for so long?” she asked, unable to keep the disbelief from her voice.
“Indeed you have. Gave me quite a scare, you did.” The old woman busied herself with placing two water basins and a pile of washcloths next to Skylar. The gentle clinking of pottery against wood seemed unnaturally loud in the quiet room.
A new fear gripped Skylar’s heart. “Who brought me here?” she asked, dreading the answer. How many had seen her in this vulnerable state? Did they know her secret?
“Oh, a young man,” the old woman replied, her unseeing eyes crinkling at the corners. “Carried you all the way himself, he did. Quite the strong one, that lad.”
Oh no.
Skylar’s heart skipped a beat. There was only a single person who would dare to carry a Duke, a cursed one at that. And it was the only person she didn’t want to see her like this. “How… how did he look?” she asked, then winced at her slip. “I mean, did he say anything?”
The old woman’s lips quirked in amusement, deepening the wrinkles around her mouth. “He was quite insistent that I treat you and not let anyone else in. An interesting character, that one.”
Arye. It had to be. The thought of him carrying her, protecting her even in her weakest moment, sent a confusing mix of warmth and dread spreading through her chest. She allowed herself a small smile, remembering the day they first met. She had been so young, barely four years, hardly able to utter formal greetings, introduced as the new Anathemark heir during Arye’s birthday banquet.
Desperate to push thoughts of Arye aside, Skylar cast about for a change of subject. Her gaze fell on the old woman’s worn hands, callused and stained with herb residue. Something nagged at her mind—a fleeting image of this same figure weaving between rows of wounded soldiers. The camp’s outskirts.
“I think I’ve seen you around the camp before,” Skylar said, latching onto the recollection. “You’ve been helping our men, haven’t you?”
The woman nodded, a fond smile creasing her weathered face. “That I have. It does my old heart good to see all you young ones fighting so hard to protect us oldsters. Though I suppose ‘young ones’ includes that special friend of yours too, doesn’t it?”
Skylar felt her cheeks heat at the woman’s knowing tone. “He’s not my—” The words died in her throat as memories flooded back. Arye’s smile. His steady presence. The way he calls her name. “I mean, yes, it does.”
There was no need to deny it. Arye was special. He always had been.
A warm chuckle filled the room. “Oh, to be young again. Now, let’s get you cleaned up a bit, shall we? You’ve been through quite an ordeal.”
Before Skylar could protest, the woman had produced a damp cloth and was gently wiping her face. The coolness felt heavenly against her skin, soothing away some of the aches and pains. Skylar found herself leaning into the touch, savoring the simple comfort.
“There now,” the old woman murmured. “That’s better. Next, let’s see about those wounds of yours. We should change the bandages.”
Panic surged through Skylar, her heart leaping into her throat. “No!” she exclaimed, perhaps too forcefully. The woman’s hand froze, her body tensing in surprise. Skylar took a deep breath, striving to keep her voice steady. “I mean… that won’t be necessary. Thank you.”
The old woman’s brow furrowed, but she nodded slowly. “As you wish, child. But you’ll need fresh bandages soon, or you may develop an infection.”
Skylar’s mind raced. She couldn’t risk anyone discovering her secret, not even a kind elderly woman. But the thought of keeping the filthy bindings on for much longer made her insides crawl. She could feel the grime against her skin, imagined she could smell the beginnings of decay.
“Do you… do you have any clean linen?” she asked hesitantly. “I can change the bandages myself.”
The old woman’s face softened into a smile. “Of course, child. Let me fetch some for you.” She moved with surprising sureness for one who couldn’t see, her hands confidently finding a nearby drawer and retrieving a stack of fresh linen.
“Here you are,” the old woman said, holding out the fabric. “I’ll give you some privacy to change. Just call if you need anything.”
As the door closed behind the woman, Skylar let out a shaky breath. The sudden silence in the room was oppressive, broken only by the distant sounds of the camp—muffled voices, the clang of metal, the occasional whinny of a horse. She began tearing the linen into strips, her movements mechanical as her mind wandered.
How many had died yesterday? How many lives had she ended with her own hands—or rather, with the Gryphon’s talons? The faces of the fallen swam before her eyes, accusatory and pleading.
She remembered Billy’s young face, twisted in pain, heard his agonized cries. Had he survived? If only she had summoned the Gryphon earlier, could she have saved more of her own soldiers?
A bitter laugh caught in her throat. Earlier? She had hoped to never summon the Gryphon at all, clinging to the possibility of a longer life. What a fool she’d been. Had she known it would come to this anyway, she would have called forth that cursed beast at the first sign of danger, sparing her men the slaughter.
All of them had families. Hope. Dreams. A life.
They were ready to sacrifice it for their kingdom, while she had selfishly clung to her own.
Anger bubbled up inside her, hot and caustic. Anger at the King for forcing her hand, at the enemy for pushing them to such extremes, at herself for her weakness—both in hoping to avoid her duty and in being unable to resist when the command came. She yanked at the bindings with more force than necessary, hissing as the fabric scraped against her raw skin.
“Damn it all,” she muttered, blinking back tears of frustration and pain. “Damn this war, damn this curse, damn everything!”
A soft knock at the door made her freeze. “Child, are you okay?” the old woman called, her voice laced with concern.
Skylar swallowed hard, forcing a friendly tone. “Yes, thank you. I’m almost done.”
She inhaled deeply, steadying herself. Just a little longer and then… freedom. The thought was both exhilarating and terrifying.
With trembling hands, she removed her wig, revealing her long silver mane twisted into a messy braid. The instant relief was almost overwhelming. She quickly undid the braid, letting her hair fall loose down her back. She ran her fingers through the tangled strands, wincing as they caught on knots and snarls.
“This won’t do,” she muttered, eyeing the wig critically. Bloody stains marred the silver-white strands, a grim reminder of the battle. She’d need to replace it with her spare when she returned to her tent.
Gingerly, she began to unwrap the old chest bandages. Each layer revealed more damage—angry red welts, patches of raw skin, places where the fabric had stuck to half-healed wounds. Skylar bit her lip to keep from crying out as she peeled away the last of the bindings tasting copper as her teeth broke the skin.
The sight of her bare chest, crisscrossed with marks and bruises, brought a lump to her throat. How long had she been living like this? How much more could her body take?
She reached for one of the washcloths, dipping it into the first basin of water. Gently, she began to clean her battered skin, starting at her shoulders and working her way down. She hissed softly as she touched particularly tender areas, gritting her teeth against the pain. By the time she finished cleansing her entire body, the once-clear water in both basins had changed into a disgusting muddy brown.
She patted herself dry with a clean washcloth, wincing at the sight of fresh blood spotting the fabric. With practiced movements, she began wrapping the new bindings around her chest. The clean fabric was a relief against her freshly washed skin, but it still chafed against her raw wounds and tender bruises.
As she finished adjusting the bindings, another knock sounded at the door.
“Oh, dear me,” the old woman’s voice carried through the wood, tinged with amusement. “My memory isn’t what it used to be. That young man who brought you in—he’s waiting to speak with you. In his tent.”