Page 14 of Grim and Oro (Lightlark)

Then turn around and slam the door behind me. One of my guards is there. “Is something wrong? They all agreed, they all know exactly what—”

“Send them away,” I growl.

I portal back to the scar.

The dreks aren’t even there. I’ve closed all the openings. Still, I rage, roaring, shadows flaring in all directions.

I feel sick. Poisoned. Cursed .

The witch. I hate her . I hate her, and everything she has done to my head.

She is practically powerless ... yet she has complete and utter power over me.

I throw myself back into my duties, into endless distractions.

And there is more than enough to be distracted by.

There are talks of rebel groups. There are even calls for me to attend this Centennial, and end these curses once and for all.

The dreks ... they killed civilians in the last attack. Dozens, before I could finally close the scar and end them.

I’m exhausted by the time I return to my room. I take my armor off, then stare at the wall. Trying to will myself to find the strength to take a bath.

Then—

I feel her.

My entire body tenses in awareness, all my senses narrowing. She’s here . And. And—

She’s bleeding.

My shadows race across the floor of my room in panic, and it’s been centuries since I haven’t had a hold on them. She makes me lose control. She makes me reckless.

She makes me emotional.

Just over a week prior, I bellowed my hatred of her across my lands, but at the sight of her, like this—

She’s in the middle of my room, gagged. I pull the fabric out in an instant, fear spiking through my bones as I study her chest. She’s been carved like an animal.

“Sorry. I shouldn’t have ... I didn’t—I didn’t know where else to go.”

Does she not know she doesn’t just hurt herself when she’s this reckless? That she hurts me? That she puts the entire world at risk of being burned to ash?

“You are a fool,” I say.

“I am very much aware.”

What happened? Who did this to her? My rage is blinding. I am going to enjoy taking them apart, piece by piece. “Who am I killing tonight?”

She has the nerve to look surprised. “What? No one.”

Not yet. I’ll kill them, but not yet. Not while she is still bleeding this much. She’ll die if I don’t close the wound.

I need her alive to unlock the sword. That’s what I tell myself. That’s why I feel so panicked, I want to retch.

I study her blood-soaked, torn dress. “I don’t know how you’re still conscious,” I growl. She’s so fragile. “Why won’t you stop bleeding?”

Her healing elixir .

She tells me where it is, and I don’t think I’ve ever portaled this quickly. I’m back in a flash. Instead of letting me do it, letting me help her , she rips it from my grip and pours it over her chest without a second thought.

Her scream rakes through my bones, making my shadows lash out, clawing at the floor, as if they too know this is wrong. She shouldn’t be hurt. I should have protected her, somehow .

I find myself wishing I could take that pain away. I’m used to pain. She isn’t. If I could, I would take it from her.

Instead, I sit here, only able to offer her a roll of gauze, then watch as she ties it herself, with practiced fingers.

My hands make fists, thinking about why she might be so practiced.

Maybe she’s more familiar with pain than I thought.

Fury boils beneath my skin. The blood soaks through the bandages immediately. She bleeds far too much .

Her pain ...

I feel it. I feel it like it’s mine, and it hurts .

There’s little I can do. The elixir and wrappings will heal her injuries. It doesn’t seem to be doing much for the pain, though.

She winces again. Her lips part in a silent cry.

I don’t even know what I’m doing until I’m downstairs in the cook’s quarters. I chop up chocolate. I melt it down. I don’t think about all the reasons I shouldn’t care, because I do, and she’s bleeding , and in pain, and right now, I’ll do anything to bring her comfort.

This drink. It helps me. It— helped —me.

I portal back to my room and roughly hand her the mug. “Drink this.”

Slowly, tentatively, she takes it from me. Her chest. It has to be on fire. I don’t know how the pain alone hasn’t made her faint.

I don’t breathe as I watch her drink. I’m waiting for something. For what, I don’t know, until I watch her eyes flutter closed. Until I feel the airy surprise and chocolate-sweet flush of pleasure before it’s swallowed by another wave of pain.

She likes it.

She likes it too .

I don’t know why that inconsequential fact becomes everything, proof that perhaps we’re not so different and maybe she shouldn’t ever leave my room.

She drinks every drop, and then she frowns again. “Do you have something else for the pain? How about that Nightshade substance?” She thinks for a moment. “Nightbane?”

My blood runs cold.

Confusing, white-hot fury laces through me, mixed with fear.

“You will never know nightbane,” I say.

“Why not?”

“It’s a drug. It makes you the happiest you’ve ever been and takes away all suffering.”

She looks undeterred. “I want it.”

The fool. I have more concern for her own life than she does, and why is that? If she wants to be this foolish, I should let her. I should let her die .

Even though I pose far more danger to her than the drug, I have an urge to make her understand, make her stay as far away from it as possible.

“It kills you slowly, methodically, efficiently, until you die with a smile on your mouth. With continued use, nightbane is a death sentence, and everyone who takes it knows it.”

Finally, she looks dissuaded, and I breathe a little easier. “So why take it?”

I never understood myself, though now, I’m starting to. “I suppose they feel the pleasure ... however short-lived ... is worth it.”

She’s still on the floor. I curse the fact that I don’t have more furniture. Besides my bed, my room is mostly empty. Simple. I should do something about that. I sit down next to her.

She asks me why I don’t have anything stronger for pain, and I tell her the truth. What I learned as a child:

Pain can be useful.

It can be used to unlock deeper levels of ability. With the dreks and the scar, my pain has become an asset.

I continue telling her the truth. I continue talking , and I’ve never shared this much about myself before, not with anyone. But I have the strange urge to distract her from the pain. And ... even stranger ... the urge for her to know me. Because then maybe she will let me know her.

“When I was seven, my training consisted of being cut and skinned until there was barely any flesh left on my back.”

Her eyes widen ... they are matched with a feeling I can taste. Concern . Not pity ... concern . Like perhaps she doesn’t hate me as much as she claims.

Her voice is quiet. “That is barbaric.”

She isn’t wrong. I only lift a shoulder.

“It was a custom here, for a very long time. Meant to toughen the body and mind at the height of its growth. The place I trained as a warrior ... we were punished for the smallest of infractions. In public. Shadows can turn into the sharpest, thinnest blades.”

“That’s humiliating.”

“It wasn’t. It was a chance to prove we didn’t react to the pain.

Standing there, being cut, and not moving a muscle in your face .

.. It was seen as strength.” To me, it meant my pain could be conquered.

It meant perhaps my feelings could be as well.

All that pain ... could be turned into something else.

Something useful. “My father would come and watch. It was an honor to show him that I had no reaction to the pain.”

Back when I actually respected my father.

Her concern continues. Interesting. “You know how awful that sounds, right?”

I nod. I do. “It’s why that doesn’t happen anymore. Our training is still ruthless ... but not as cruel.”

She swallows. I watch her throat with far too much interest. What would the skin there feel like, beneath my lips? Beneath my teeth?

Her voice breaks my focus. “But ... you don’t have any scars.”

My walls come up. She’s seen my body.

Has she thought of me, late at night, the same way I think of her?

The thought angers me as much as it interests me.

She knows I can remove scars. Is she wondering why I haven’t removed the one she gave me?

“You have a Moonling healer, don’t you? Or Moonling healing supplies? Why is Cleo helping you?”

There she goes, with her questions.

Too many questions. All at once, I remember my plan. What I must do.

“You should leave,” I say, and it’s the first semi-responsible thing I’ve done all night.

Her hurt is instantaneous. I almost hate myself for being the cause, but no. She should be hurt. She should hate me.

Without another word, she uses her device to disappear.

My loneliness is immediate. I’m instantly regretting my words, I’m left hating myself for making her leave.

You should leave , I said.

You should never leave , is what I meant.

Hours later, I’m pacing my room. I haven’t gotten a thing done since she left. I’ve been too distracted, this unfamiliar worry raking at my chest. I imagine her bleeding out on her bed. What if the wrappings weren’t tight enough? What if the wound didn’t fully close?

What if she’s dying right now?

What if she’s already dead?

I promised myself I would stop doing this, stop watching her. But a blinding panic makes me portal to her room without another thought.

The relief at seeing her sleeping soundly nearly has me sinking to the floor.

There she is , I think. Sleeping soundly for the both of us .

I almost leave. She’s fine.

But what if she isn’t in a few hours?

A moment later, I’m sitting on the chair across from her bed. I’m watching her sleep, the same way I have for many nights before.

I feel her emotions as she dreams. I feel a spike of panic, and my shadows act on instinct, caressing her cheek. She sighs and flips onto her stomach. Her feelings smooth over. Her dreams become lighter.

For once ... I am a cure. Instead of causing pain, I am healing it.