Page 39

Focus. There must be more than just him. But no, his scent is everywhere, woven like a thread through fabric. Ferns, damp jungle, rich earth.

Warmth. Safety. As if his skin is freshly washed, yet his belt, straps, and cloak have been steeped in fragrant mud, rubbed against the brittle remains of fallen dipterocarp leaves.

“Answer me, Iszaelda.”

“Relax.”

“What scents do you perceive?”

I sigh. Perceive? Is he joking?

“The usual. Leaves, grass, earth?—”

“And?”

“Your stench.”

The hand at my back tenses. “Excuse me?”

“Your stench. It’s so strong I can’t smell anything else.”

I keep jogging, my steps growing steadier, trusting, perhaps foolishly, that he’s not leading me toward a cliff or a tangle of palms. The ground changes beneath me, the grass turning rougher and drier. The river’s roar fades into the distance, swallowed by the shifting terrain.

It takes a few sparks for Netharu’el to regain his composure. “You need to learn to filter out what’s closest to you, like my so-called stench.”

“Either that or?—”

“Only then will you sense the river bending ahead of you. Only then will you see where you’re going without your eyes.”

“Yeah, yeah, I get it.” I try to slow my pace, but he won’t let me. “Maybe if you washed more thoroughly next time, it would help.”

“I’m not here to make things easier for you.”

“Then, why, in all the fires, are you here?”

He pushes me forward. “Now focus on touch.”

Once again, my legs shake, flame-hot, trembling, molten like lava.

But I ignore it. Instead, I focus on the ground beneath me, the way loose earth scatters with every step, the sting of gravel scraping my heels, and the faint tremor in the terrain each time my feet strike down.

But above all, Netharu’el’s hand against my back. The heat of it. The weight. How it presses yet lingers, still yet undeniably present. The subtle shift of his thumb matches my rhythm. His hand moves with me, as if tethering us together in motion.

“What do you feel, Iszaelda?”

“Your hand.”

He chuckles. “Didn’t I tell you to tune out what’s closest to you?”

“Oh, give me a break! This is my first time, isn’t it?”

“But not your last.”

“Unfortunately.”

“The faster you master this, the sooner we can move on to more pleasant things.”

All I do is run. Every ereday, every aftenday, every eredusk, every aftendusk, each one bleeding into the next. I’ve never felt my legs ache like this, nor have I ever fallen asleep so quickly at night.

But it’s working.

In just one mooncrescents, I’ve learned to run independently. Blindfolded. Without Netharu’el’s hand guiding me. I’ve fallen more times than I can count, some crashes worse than others, but so far, I’ve been lucky: no twisted ankles, no broken wrists, and most importantly, I’m still alive.

By now, I’m nothing more than a joke. The other apprentices call me ‘Ipjgepaleg,’ whatever that means; their grins widen every time I pass.

For days, I’ve been forced to keep my eyes sealed shut, day and night.

Making friends? Not even a possibility. I take the stairs two, sometimes three at a time, my fingers gliding over the smooth, well-oiled beams. As I step forward, the upper floor creaks under my weight, angling slightly to the right toward the pantry.

I count my steps. One. Two. Three.

My foot lands on the loose plank, the one that gives just a little. That’s good. I’m on the right track. Careful now, no splinters. Four. And then?—

I stop. A heartbeat. Inside the hut.

I pivot left. Fists clenched, breath slow and controlled. Blood surges through my veins. Then I lunge. Sprint. Chase the sound. Wild. Reckless.

If it’s a stranger, I’ll drive them out. And if it’s Netharu’el—who else would it be? I’ll show him that I hear.

My fists slam into something warm and solid.

Steady. Smooth. Strong. But not strong enough to stay standing.

We crash. I cling to him, hitting the ground hard and landing on top of him. The impact shudders through me.

I brace myself, fisting his shirt, holding on, refusing to be thrown off.

My palms press against his chest, broad, firm, his heartbeat hammering beneath my fingers. His breath, quick and hot, fans against my throat. But he says nothing. Still. Silent.

Stunned, no doubt, by my attack.

I don’t need to touch his face. I already know who I’m lying on.

I hear it in his breath, feel it in his presence, and smell it, leather and philodendron, warmth and strength. But just to be sure, I lift a hand to his face. Fingers trace the sharp contours, the clean-cut lines.

The lean bridge of his nose, the curve of his lips, the hard plane of his forehead. His ears are longer than mine. His skin, smooth beneath my touch.

He breathes against me. I hear it. Feel it.

His warmth lingers in the space between us. Each exhale skimming over my skin.

The moment hangs, unnatural. My body is taut, trembling, uncertain.

Should I be touching him or lying on top of him like this? But I must touch him to be sure. That’s not strange.

And I landed on him when we fell. That’s not strange, either.

Yet everything about this feels wrong. It feels like a storm between us, invisible but crackling, like his presence is charged, humming with thunder and energy.

Do I dare touch his horns?

If I move my hand just a fraction of an inch higher, I’ll be able to reach them.

My fingers creep upward toward his forehead. I swallow. Almost at the base of one of the horns. Do I dare? Would he take offense?

“Were you trying to sneak up on me?” I whisper at last.

My hand hovers, hesitant and undecided on how bold it dares to be.

Netharu’el sits up, grips my wrist, and presses it into the wooden floor. Hard. The boards creak beneath the force. “Well, of course, my dear.”

“You failed.”

I’m half in his lap, his firm breeches pressing against my calves and thighs.

“Perhaps. This time.”

“Admit that I did well.” I prop an elbow on his shoulder, the other hand resting on my hip. If not for the blindfold, I’d make a show of fluttering my lashes.

Silence.

“Or not,” I mutter.

Silence.

No answer. Again.

“When do we start fighting then?”

“At dawn.”

“Already? That was?—”

“With the blindfold.”

“You must be joking!”

“Do I sound like I’m joking?”

“How would I know? I can’t see you, can I? And I’m getting fiery tired of that.”

“I can certainly imagine.”

Something flicks against my nose.

I flinch, blinking. “Was that you?”

“What? Are you imagining things?” His amusement slips through in a quiet chuckle, a slight tremor in his knees.

“Stop it! I want to see.”

“Not until you can see the ocean’s surface with your eardrums, your enemy with your nostrils, the trees with the tip of your tongue, and the wind’s direction with your toes.” His voice lowers. “I’ll remove the blindfold only when you truly feel sight. Without your eyes.”