Page 93 of Evermore (The Never Sky #3)

Archer had finished speaking, and was moving among the crowd, clasping hands, listening to concerns with a sincerity that couldn’t be faked.

The gathered people surged around him, a strange mix of deference and familiarity in their interactions.

He had always been good at this, at making people feel heard, valued.

It was why, despite his reluctance, he was the right choice to wear the crown.

“He’s remarkable,” Tuck observed, following my gaze.

“He is.” I kept my voice deliberately level, my hands clasped in front of me.

“And you’re worried you’ll ruin it.”

“Stop knowing shit, Tuck. It’s annoying.”

“God of Knowledge, remember?” He tapped his temple with one finger. “Though in this case, it doesn’t take divine insight. It’s written all over your face.”

“I hate to admit this, but I think I hate the spotlight right now,” I whispered as Archer looked back at me for the third time, a beaming smile on his face. My heart ached with pride, but my soul thrummed with fear.

“Then let’s head back to the castle, Huntress. This feels like a security nightmare as it is and if something happens while Thorne’s away, he’s going to have my ass anyway.”

“Still no word from him?” I asked for the third or fourth time since he’d been gone.

“Nothing yet. I’m giving him another day and then going after him myself. The Fates can be vicious bastards, less so now than before they were bound, but he’s reckless when it comes to you.”

“You’re gripping it all wrong,” Tuck growled, his massive hands engulfing Archer’s as he adjusted his hold on the axe handle. “Loose in the fingers, tight in the palm. It’s not a damn teacup.”

The castle gardens provided ample space for impromptu weapons training.

The overgrown hedges and messy flower beds seemed in tune with Tuck’s rough instruction.

Archer had brought in gardeners after he saw how much Quill loved the space, but they were new and several of them had fled after witnessing Archer’s previous attempts, which had sent an axe sailing into a prized rosebush.

“It is absolutely nothing like a teacup,” Archer muttered, readjusting his stance for what must have been the twentieth time. “I’ve held plenty of those successfully.”

“Less talking, more throwing,” Tuck commanded, stepping back and crossing his massive arms. “And this time, try to hit the target and not that poor squirrel.”

“That was one time,” Archer protested, glancing at me. “And it dodged. I swear.”

I sat on a stone bench nearby, enjoying the warmth of the evening sun and the ridiculous spectacle before me, a half-read book in my lap.

The training dummy, a burlap sack stuffed with hay and decorated with a silly face drawn by Quill, remained untouched, though the ground around it was littered with axes that had fallen short, veered wide, or in one particularly spectacular case, somehow managed to go backward.

“Remember,” Tuck said, his voice gruff but patient, “your arm is an extension of your will. The axe is the extension of your arm.”

“My will is apparently drunk today,” Archer mumbled, taking a deep breath and raising the axe.

“Your form is better,” Thea called from where she sat, braiding flowers into a wreath a few yards away. “The last one almost went in a straight line.”

She flashed a smile at Tuck that lingered just a moment too long. He cleared his throat and turned his attention back to Archer, though I caught the slightest hint of color rise to his cheeks. “Focus, Your Majesty.”

Archer nodded, squared his shoulders, and with a grunt of effort, hurled the axe toward the target. It spun through the air, handle over blade, and crashed into the hedge several feet to the right of the target.

“Better,” Tuck declared, despite all evidence to the contrary.

“Are we looking at the same thing?” Archer gestured to the quivering axe now embedded in a topiary.

“You kept your wrist straight that time.” Tuck retrieved another axe from the collection at his feet. “Again.”

A few paces behind us, Quill was twirling in delicate circles, her arms raised gracefully above her head.

She’d been practicing the dance steps for days, determined to perform for Minerva, who sat watching with extreme attentiveness.

The old goddess leaned on her cane, her normally severe expression softened as she observed the child’s earnest efforts.

“Straighten your back,” Minerva instructed, her voice gentler than I’d ever heard it. “Feel the music in your mind, let it guide your movements. The dance should bring you peace.”

Quill nodded solemnly, standing taller as she continued.

“She’s getting quite good,” Elowen said, appearing beside me with two wine glasses. She handed one to me before settling on the bench. “Reminds me of someone else I know.”

I took a sip, letting the cool sweetness wash away the heat of the day. “She’s been practicing all week. Says she wants to impress Minerva, though I can’t imagine why.”

Elowen smiled, watching as Minerva made subtle adjustments to Quill’s posture. “Perhaps Minnie’s always had a soft spot for children. And Quill has a gift for finding the cracks in people’s armor.”

“Like someone else I know,” I teased, nudging her shoulder.

Across the garden, Archer let out a triumphant shout as his axe finally made contact with the dummy, not the center, not even close, but it stuck in the burlap with a satisfying thunk.

“Did you see that?” He spun around with his arms raised victorious. “I am a natural!”

“After thirty-seven tries,” Tuck said dryly, though there was unmistakable pride in his eyes. “We’ll make a warrior of you yet.”

“I prefer to leave the axe throwing to you,” Archer replied, grinning broadly. “I’ll stick to cards and charming smiles.”

“The charm needs work too,” Thea called.

After retrieving the axe, Tuck demonstrated the proper form once more, his movements fluid despite his bulk. The weapon flew from his hand with deadly precision, striking dead center of the target with enough force to make the dummy rock back on its post.

“Show off,” Archer muttered.

“Remember, when diplomacy fails, a well-placed axe can be very persuasive.”

“I’ll add that to the list of kingly wisdom. Right after ‘knitting is not a king’s hobby’ as you so gallantly told me before you took away my yarn.”

“In my defense, the pup got tangled and the kid got worried. That was a team effort.”

Archer gasped and spun to Quill. She giggled. “I want to be sorry but I’m not. You’re too handsome for knitting sweaters. Maybe if this axe business doesn’t work out, you could try something with Thea. She has a forge at home, you know. You could make your own crowns.”

“Well, I’m not making you one now, traitor,” he huffed, hiding his smile.

“You would if I asked,” she argued back. “Now, don’t distract me. I need to concentrate on my big finale.”

She spun one more time, core tight as she moved to complete her dance with a small curtsy.

Minerva clapped. “Well done. You’ve been practicing.”

Perhaps she means to take your crown one day.

“She can have it,” I hissed back.

I froze as all eyes turned toward me. The words had slipped out by accident.

Somewhere in my mind, a woman’s laughter echoed, low and thrumming with satisfaction at my slip.

I felt Levanya then, coiling in that quiet space.

She meant to pull me in, to protect me from them all, but I no longer knew the path to that corner.

They’d been keeping me far away from her.

Such a fragile shell for all that power.

“I—” I stood abruptly, the wine glass slipping from my fingers and shattering on the stone path. The sound was too sharp, too loud in the sudden silence. “I need to go.”

I turned to leave, desperate to escape the concerned stares, but Archer was there before I could take two steps, blocking my path with his unnatural speed.

“Hey, no,” he said softly, his blue eyes steady on mine. “Not this time.”

“Archer, please. I can’t do this here.”

Run. Hide. Then break. Or break him.

“I’m not sure where you’re going,” he said, and before I could protest further, he pulled me into his arms. The embrace was firm, grounding, his heartbeat steady against my ear. “But you’re not doing it alone.”

I stiffened, then gradually relaxed against him, letting his warmth seep into the cold spaces the voices had carved inside me. His hand moved in slow circles on my back, the way I’d seen him comfort Quill a hundred times before.

“I hate this,” I admitted. “I hate being weak.”

“Weak?” He pulled back to look at me, genuine confusion crossing his features. “Paesha, you’re the strongest person I know. You fight battles inside your mind that would break anyone else.”

He lies. He fears you.

“The voices tell me otherwise,” I said, trying for a smile that felt more like a grimace.

Archer’s expression hardened. “Then the voices are fucking liars.” He glanced over at Quill and winced. “Sorry, kid.”

“I’ve heard worse.” Quill shrugged, moving closer to us. “Especially from you.”

A small, genuine laugh escaped me at that, and Archer’s face brightened at the sound.

“There she is,” he said softly. He kept one arm around my shoulders as he guided me back to the bench.

“Listen to me. You’re going to come out the other side of this darkness.

I don’t know how or when, but I know it with absolute certainty because I’ve been there too.

After Harlow died, there were days I couldn’t see a way forward.

But you never let me give up. You dragged me back into the light, kicking and screaming sometimes.

” His grip on my shoulder tightened. “So I’m going to return the favor, even if I have to stand between you and those voices every damn day until they learn to shut up. ”

“I’ll help too,” Quill declared, squeezing into the small space between Archer and me. “I’m pretty good at being loud when necessary.”