Page 48 of Where Darkness Falls

You hide it well, Maeva Cale.

As she snoozes, she doesn’t look as threatening as the villagers describe her to be.

But even I know that predators can hide amongst the flocks.

“Are we certain this is the woman we are looking for?” Laisren inquires, glancing over my shoulder.

“She has to be,” Riordan says. “I can’t imagine another reason someone would forgo a warm bath if it’s available, unless they are grieving.”

With a snort she stirs, fluttering her eyes open. She looks down at the empty bottle in her hand and winces. “Holy Celestae,” she groans. I clear my throat, announcing our presence. With a jolt, her eyes move past her feet as she notices us standing just a few feet in front of her. Her head slowly rises so she can look at us fully. Her eyes roam over each of us until her gaze lands on me.

I’m stunned by the dark, ocean-blue eyes of the woman before me—a color so vibrant that I fear I’ll drown in her unyielding gaze. They’re like a tempest, calling me into the eye of a storm. They’re how I remember the skies in Zulgalros on a bright winter’s day. Her eyes are the shade of ripe berries and delphiniums. The center is flecked with light, appearing like a tiny sun bursting forth to spread softly amongst the deep blue.

For a moment, we stare at one another. I’m worried she will try to fight us, and I really hope that she doesn’t. However, she does something that I least expect.

She laughs.

Though it’s not a jovial sound. Instead, it’s broken and bitter. It’s a tone of deep sadness—a declaration of pain.

Suddenly, she’s laughing harder. We glance at one another, unsure what to make of such a reaction.

“Has she succumbed to mania?” Riordan whispers.

“It’s possible, but I don’t think it’s mania that now plagues her,” Virgil replies.

Then, as quickly as she began, she stops laughing and wipes the liquid falling from the creases of her eyes.

“Have you finally come to end my sorrow, High General?” she asks, quietly. “Or should I say Cadre?” Her eyes roam over each of us.

“We mean you no harm,” I say tersely. “Unless you force our hand.”

She scoffs. For such a petite thing, she doesn’t appear to be afraid of us, which I find unnerving. It’s been a long time since someone hasn’t cowered in my presence.

I clear my throat. “Are you Maeva Cale?” I ask.

Her body tenses. “I was Maeva Cale. Now… Now, I’m just Maeva,” she replies.

So, it’s true.

The insipid fools murdered her family, but that doesn’t mean she killed them. It could’ve been a misunderstanding, and everyone is confusing her with someone else. At least, I hope that’s the case.

“Did you murder the soldiers stationed here?” I ask.

“Did I murder them?” she asks, her voice lethal. Her pupils swallow the deep blue of her eyes, as her features distort into something predatory. “THEY’RE the murderers. THEY killed the only family I’ve ever known. Yet you ask ME if I’m theirmurderer?” She slowly shakes her head. “No, I’m the punishment for their sins.”

Well, perhaps my assessment of her is slightly off kilter. Yet, something about her words rubs me the wrong way. “They were only following orders, Miss Cale,” I bark out. “Many of them have families and children that depend on them. Now they don’t even have bodies to bury.”

Definitely not the right thing to say to an angry, drunk woman. Fury surges through her features, and I ready myself for the possibility that she might attack.

“What about the ones they’ve slaughtered over the years? What of the innocent Malvorian men, women, and children they string up all because of a coveted ability? Will you blindly defend a king whose only concern is to possess more power and not care for the welfare of his people?” she spits, tears streaming down her face. “They destroy every speck of light that exists in this hellish kingdom. The Cales were the brightest of them all.”

There’s so much venom,hatred, and sorrow in each word she speaks. Each one’s a deep punch in my gut. She’s right that the king rules cruelly, but I can’t say that… nor can my men. We’re his to command and control, despite our reservations.

Virgil pushes ahead of me, bending down, eye-level with a weeping Maeva. He removes his helmet, holding a hand out to her. Maeva flinches, as if she expects him to hit her. “I’m not going to hurt you,” he whispers, placing his hand on his own knee.

What is he doing?

In all the years I’ve trained with Virgil, I’ve never seen him so tender or soft-spoken. Yet, he is kneeling in front of her, trying to understand her. Perhaps it’s because Maeva is in distress. Maybe he sees himself in her—alone and defenseless. She wipes her face with the back of her hand.