Page 93 of The Darkening (The Darkening)

In the end, he whispers, “Thank you.”

I think about telling him it’s not for him. That it’s my home I’m protecting. But that’s not the whole truth.

I can’t stop imagining Ma walking into the Storm. Throwing a smile over her shoulder. Bracing herself—and disappearing.

No one went with her. No one had her back. Pa said he couldn’t save her—but how would he have even tried?

I’ve seen the Storm pick people off, one by one: the stormtouched, neighbors, wanderers who were there one day and gone the next. It’s not rational, not based in any sort of pattern that research can detect. Going into the Storm alone is a death sentence. There’s no evidence to say that two of us going in will end any better. I know that.

But it gives me hope.

We surface out of the old city to the clamor of stormbells in the Ven. A stormsurge. Dalca shoots me a long, speaking glance, one hand already on his gauntlet’s ikondial.

I nod. “Go.”

He rises into the dark sky, trailed by a half dozen other Wardana. Shining like a beacon, he speeds toward the lightning-streaked Storm.

The roof of the Ven is cold and windy with the sun gone, but there’s no better place to watch for returning Wardana. Pa’s notebook lies open on my lap, but I haven’t been able to concentrate.

The first few Wardana return, specks of red that grow into folks with faces weary from battle. I search them for a glimpse of Casvian’s long pale hair—by far the most distinctive—but there’s neither sight of it nor of Izamal’s dark mane.

A few more show, gathering in the courtyard, clapping each other on the back, and their weariness transforms into a raucous delight at still being alive.

A lone Wardana arcs down, away from the others. His foot touches earth and without losing momentum, he breaks into a familiar stride: tautly straight-backed, as if straining against a weight and refusing to bend. Dalca. Against the blackness of the Storm and sky, I pick out two others, one with a flash of white hair. I let out a slow breath. They’re all heading back. Izamal and Cas are far away and moving slowly, as if they’ve paused to bicker in midair.

I scramble off the roof, tucking Pa’s notebook under my arm, and hurry through the halls, intercepting Dalca just as he reaches the door of the small room that’s become our base.

He turns at the sound of my footfalls, and I stifle a gasp. He looks wretched; his hands tremble, and the sun-kissed glow I so envied is gone from his skin.

“You’ve been hurt,” I say, searching him for any wounds. I can’t tell what might be blood and what’s just the red of his uniform.

“No,” he says, stepping back. Even his shoulders are shaking.

I don’t know what to say, but my face must show my concern.

“I’m fine. Don’t tell the others.”

I open the door and set Pa’s notebook down. No one was here to turn on the ikonlights, and only the dim gold light from the hall filters in.

Dalca follows me inside.

My voice is soft, the same voice I’d used when comforting one of the stormtouched after a bad night. “What happened?”

Head tilted back against the wall, Dalca breathes in and out. His heartbeat jumps in his neck, fast as butterfly wings. A strange longingmakes me look away, and my gaze falls on the view out the window, on the fifth, dark and shadowy. They’ll gather soon, as we always did after a stormsurge.

“Nothing. Nothing beyond the usual. Wasn’t even a bad surge.” He hesitates. “It’s just—it struck me, all at once. I’ll be fine.”

“You don’t need to be fine,” I say.

In the dark, there’s no telling the color of his eyes; only the glint of light caught in them reveals that he’s watching me. In the dark, he could be any boy from the fifth.

When Jem needed comfort, I’d wrap my arm around her and let her rest her head on my shoulder. But what would comfort a prince? “I—I’ll let you be.”

Dalca catches my wrist with a touch soft as a feather’s. “Please don’t leave.”

He lets go, but the ghost of his touch lingers.

“The Storm scares me,” I admit. “If my ma tried and couldn’t—and she was everything I’m not—”