Chapter 14
B lack dots spotted her vision as she stared directly into blistering sunlight. Flat on her back, sweat slicked her forehead, and an angry pain stabbed behind her eyes as she blinked and blinked and?—
A shadow blocked out the sun. The tip of sharpened gold tapped her chest, right on the Dragon’s emblem.
“Pay attention,” Thalon scolded, voice cutting as sharp as the sword he held, laced with unease and a hint of frustration. He loomed over her like death.
She couldn’t blame him. Having fallen on her ass nearly ten times in the last hour, she grew increasingly irritated with herself.
Alora blinked, groaning as her hand flattened against her forehead and brushed down her face.
That golden sword tapped again. She wasn’t foolish enough to glare up at him. “Distractions get you killed. In combat, your focus should be on your opponent, not on whatever’s inside your daydream. You know that, starfire.”
I know. Thalon had relentlessly hounded it into her a thousand times. Then a thousand more.
So why couldn’t she stop looking off into the sea of tents? Even when her heart had almost burst in a mound of panic an hour ago and her legs had knocked her to the ground to endure one of Thalon’s blows to her gut, she hadn’t peeled her eyes from the east.
Toward the Raven’s camp.
Why couldn’t she stop imagining a burst of shadow in the corner of her eye … only to turn and see empty space and grass dancing in the breeze?
Something felt wrong. So horribly wrong.
She couldn’t shake the feeling. Her fingertips ached terribly enough that even the mere thought of picking up her spilled sword caused pain to shoot up her wrist.
A sharp jolt shot through her heart. Something pulled at her. Calling to her before her head pivoted in the dirt.
Her mind narrowed as if she could find him inside, searching for him like a tethered connection.
But it was pointless calling to him. He hadn’t answered yet—he wouldn’t now.
The others in the arena hardly watched as Thalon’s eyes softened. He extended his palm, regarding the panicked expression on her face. “Garrik’s been gone for only two hours. You needn’t worry about him.” His throat bobbed slightly. “He’ll return before nightfall.” Even with the forged smile, it was clear he didn’t believe it.
A heartbeat later, Thalon pulled her to her feet and brushed dirt off her unique leathers.
Alora’s stomach nearly hollowed out. “Something is wrong , Thalon. I can feel it.” Worried sapphires raked across the arena, resting on the trees to the east.
Something was very, very wrong.
Garrik still hadn’t returned.
An hour later, Alora lifted her gaze from the book settled across from her and Eldacar and propped her cheek against her fist. She must’ve been turning the pages absentmindedly for some time because the chair beside her scraped against the floor of the library and a warm shoulder bumped into hers, stirring her to look into those kind brown eyes.
Alora blinked down at the parchment, where inked markings of a strange language twisted in her mind’s eye, transforming what should have been simple practice sentences into confusion and frustration. She simply couldn’t focus, couldn’t repeat the words and?—
“Maybe we should train with starfire, instead?” Eldacar suggested with a knowing grin. He carefully closed the book in front of her and returned it to the pile she’d already gone through countless times over the last few weeks.
She turned to him, seeing her anxious expression in the reflection of his glasses.
Nothing other than … worry. Terrible worry.
No smile there—and there wasn’t going to be because she didn’t want to train. Didn’t want to learn any more of the language Garrik spoke. Didn’t want to eat or read or do anything .
Not until Garrik returned.
Alora surveyed every soldier patrolling past their fireside that evening. And each time, her heart stopped until the firelight illuminated their face.
Not him.
It was never him.
Thalon was wrong. The sun had traded the moon for purchase. Nightfall. And Garrik still hadn’t returned.
The growing ache that plagued her heart was unbearable. She had felt something stab at it hours ago, and then, silence ever since.
Alora stood from the dirt. She couldn’t take it anymore.
Fire crackled near her feet as Jade stirred an iron pot, unafraid of the flames. Beside her, Aiden spun a wild tale to Calla, who had joined them for dinner. Some grand adventure on the Cursed Sails—something about an underwater city and a seashell and a female with a fish’s tail.
Alora wasn’t bothered to care. Too tormented by her own thoughts to pay attention.
Only one thing mattered.
She dropped her plate on the pile of discarded dishes, moved toward her tent, and banded her arms around her ribs while her mind raced.
About what had happened in the barn.
About the new ache in her heart .
About Garrik—where he was and what might be happening to him.
‘Are you worried about me, clever girl?’
Tears threatened her eyes. She took another step toward her tent, imagining his words, how they’d fall from his lips. Imagining the profound relief from a simple smile, a simple breath of his true voice.
Alora’s boot dug into the ground, scraping loose stones and dirt. Say it again. Let me hear it again. Let it be real this time.
But Silence. Cold, crushing silence.
She watched darkness scatter around her feet. Slow tendrils that didn’t come from the fire, and almost misstepped when her head whipped up.
By the hitched horses outside of the amber glow?—
A figure emerged from whirling smoke and shadows. A glimmering white hue quietly stepped forward. Ghost’s mane flowed, disturbed by the cool breeze from the north. A shimmer radiated across her forehead, but Alora ignored it because in four more steps …
Muddy-gray irises found her.
And she shuddered.
That something is wrong feeling—it was plastered across his face.
Garrik, half-unbalanced, swung his leg over the saddle and hit the ground with his knees nearly buckling at Ghost’s side, but he recovered by adjusting his armor.
Alora wondered if anyone else had seen how his leg faintly stumbled in his next step before he placed a glove-covered palm on the mare’s forehead.
Alora watched him. Saw his plagued, exhausted eyes.
Their warrior High Prince had returned but … at what cost?
Stroking Ghost’s mane before he dropped his forehead to hers, his lips moved, yet his voice was too low to hear.
Ghost seemed to understand and took a step closer to him, nudging her nose into his chest. Knocking him slightly off center before the corner of his mouth twitched.
The encounter took only seconds before Garrik unbridled her, and star-gilded shadows removed the saddle as she walked into the darkness.
Something inside Alora screamed to draw near at his approach. She extended a wary hand but withdrew it the moment she saw the anguished planes of his face. “Are you okay?” she whispered.
He hesitated.
Pale. So pale .
White knuckled around his sword pommel, muddy-gray eyes scanned his Shadow Order, entirely oblivious to his return. Garrik’s stare was haunting , straining a smile he only used when he adorned his High Prince mask.
Then his voice hoarsely cracked, “Never better.”
The moment Garrik’s tent closed behind him, he released a devastating shield and vomited violently on top of the furs.
He had barely been able to keep it contained as he suffered through the firesite, only enough to allow his Shadow Order to see he had returned. If it were not for them, he would have dawned directly into his tent.
But they needed to see him. Needed to know of his return.
His breath was excruciatingly painful. Everything that touched him, unbearable.
Everything reminded him of?—
Stumbling another step, Garrik vomited again and clutched his abdomen as Smokeshadows billowed from every plane of his body, cleaning the mess.
The walls were caving in—like he was drowning. His armor suffocating, squeezing the pathetic life from his blood.
Garrik mercilessly tore into them. Shredding and tearing with claws forming at his fingers, stemming from that which lurked deep in his soul. The only thing that fought the pain he felt.
Savagery. Who he was Made to be. Who he could never escape.
But his trembling hands could not pull the leathers apart quick enough, so Smokeshadows intervened. They viciously surrounded him, turning his armor into mist until only his tunic and pants remained.
In the corner, his untouched bed for the last ten nights awaited. But his feet were unstable. The floor shook beneath him as the room spun.
It was too much. Everything was too much .
Garrik stumbled, steadied by shadows at his feet and shoulders, until his legs gave out at the edge of his bed. There, his arms draped across the sheets, upper body pressed into the mattress.
Turn over. It was too much.
Turn the fuck over.
There were hands… So many hands?—
Your back—she could ? —
Twisting in pain, Garrik fell to his knees before he retched, hoping this was the last. Hoping the vile feeling would turn to ash and blow away in the wind.
His abdomen twitched, sending excruciating slithers of pain across his muscles.
Black veins marbled from his fingertips as he rammed his eyes closed.
A shower. He needed one— desperately.
And his shadows knew it because without requiring his command, they gathered at the side opposite of his tent and traded his table and chairs for an earth-colored stone structure. But Garrik could not will himself there. He was not ready to disrobe. Was not ready to see …
Garrik mustered any strength he had left—though most had not returned from the Raven’s camp—and pulled himself onto the sheets.
Barely able to flip himself onto his back, strangled groans escaped his lips when black-veined fingers traced over his tunic, which covered fresh blood and scars. Traveling lower and lower and lower, Garrik’s numb fingers collided with metal, stopping at his belt.
He pulled.
And pulled and pulled and pulled.
Pulled until his belt cut off circulation and fastened it. As if that could truly stop anything . As if it could keep the nightmares at bay. Keep her away.
With a mere thought, an opened bottle of amber liquid appeared in his palm by shadow and smoke. But they pulled at his arms as if in protest.
He paid them no mind as he lifted the neck to his mouth and grimaced at the welcome burn. Swallowing deep until it emptied and another appeared.
“Please.” His voice shook the inside of his tent.
Garrik watched the liquid empty from the second bottle and felt the burn rip down his throat.
Make me forget.