Page 52

In What You Throw

“ T ry lowering your arms. You always keep them too high.” Netharu’el steps behind me, his hands cupping my elbows as he eases them downward. His touch burns against my skin. “And spread your legs.” He presses them apart.

“Ready?”

“Yes.” He moves in closer, his right hand gliding up my arm until his fingertips brush mine before settling over the back of my hand. “Try again.”

I draw my arm back. His hand moves with it, guiding me into position and ensuring I shift my weight to the right. He stays with me every step of the way. His other hand rests on my hip, firm, anchoring me in place.

“Now,” he murmurs in my ear.

Heat surges through me. His lips hover so close they could graze my earlobe.

I flinch.

“What is it?” he asks.

“Nothing.”

I lock my gaze on the target, a slab of white-painted wood mounted on a stake. The grass is damp and drooping against my calves, glistening from the past days of rain. The sky sags beneath the weight of ashen clouds, swallowing the treetops of Gorgoroth and stretching beyond.

The air is thick with humidity and saturated with rhythmic dripping. Droplets are falling from grass blades, sliding off palm fronds, and seeping through the dense jungle canopy.

I steady myself and release. The dagger strikes the target, not the center or the ring. But close enough.

“Better.” Netharu’el lets go of me. “Now?—”

“Zel!”

Salahfar and Fax approach. Salahfar, wrapped in full leather, moves stiffly through the wet grass, grimacing every time Fax shoves him playfully. Fax, in contrast, strides easily, wearing nothing but short black tights, his bare torso glistening with moisture.

He reaches me first and presses a quick kiss to my lips.

I blink, startled, stumbling back.

He’s the first star elf to greet me in this manner. And I don’t like it. Not one bit. Neither does Netharu’el. He goes rigid, as if someone had struck him.

Fax is unconcerned and leans an elbow against my shoulder, flashing a grin. “Hey, Zel, listen up. Guess what Ibwa made me do?”

“What?”

Fax glances sideways at Netharu’el as if only now noticing him. “Um… we can talk about it later.”

“It’s time for our training,” Salahfar cuts in. “You’re done, aren’t you? It’s daymeal.”

“We’re finished,” Netharu’el drawls, giving me a strange look before shifting his attention back to Salahfar. “What kind of training do you plan to conduct with my apprentice?”

Salahfar shakes his head dismissively. “Nothing important. Nothing that would necessarily interest you, and I wouldn’t dream of boring you with the details. Come, Zel. Move it.”

“I’m coming.”

I pull the daggers from the target and place them in Netharu’el’s hands. A glance, a moment of contact. My hands are in his. They’re warm and soft, as if the sun has touched them for a daytime, but it hasn’t.

“I’ll see you during aftenday, Netharu’el.”

“Be on time.”

“You too.”

His expression softens, a smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. “Sota.”

I laugh. “Sota.”

Salahfar gives me a look like I’ve lost my mind.

We head to the dining hall and eat a quick daymeal with Acranta and Jelethia. They talk about everything. Swords, bows, final trials, fencing. All the things I usually find interesting. Things I want to focus on.

But I can’t.

All I can think about is…

Netharu’el.

“Oh, so you do agree, Zel?” Acranta bounces in her seat.

“What?”

“I said that?—”

His eyes. Black as the depths of Valeanrae in Orethres, an abyss swallowing all light. Like the scales of Akares’s dragon. Black. Like the innermost tunnels of the Hollow Tree, like the heart of a demon in Saxx, or the very soul of Maevux, God of Demon Death. Or like?—

“Hello?”

I blink, shaking off the thoughts. “Sorry, Acranta.”

“You weren’t listening? Again?”

“No, I was. I agree.”

“Do you?”

“Are you serious?” Jelethia lifts a delicate brow. “I thought you?—”

And that smile. His lips, the corners of his mouth, the dimples that appear when he laughs.

How I melt when he looks at me with those gleaming eyes, that smile stretching wide. When he watches me like that, alive, alight, brimming with energy. And when he touches me?—

“Zel!”

I flinch as Fax waves a hand in front of my face.

“What are you thinking about?” Jelethia asks, intrigued.

“Nothing.”

“Not to be that person, but… it’s definitely something.”

“You haven’t touched your food,” Salahfar notes. “Eat.”

“I will.”

“Well, hurry up.”

Acranta narrows her eyes. “You usually devour your food, don’t you?”

Everyone is staring at me.

“Stop it!” I snap, shoving a bite of salad into my mouth. The crisp crunch fills my ears, and suddenly, I’m back in the dream. The one where Netharu’el kissed me. Where his teeth grazed my lips, sharp and sexy.

“She’s hopeless, isn’t she?” Jelethia tugs at her lip rings. “Look at her eyes. All hazy. So stylish. The new trend among the Sunish.”

“Oh, absolutely!” Acranta chimes in. “What’s she staring at? Your nose hairs, Fax?”

“Ugh, no! Zel, quit staring!”

They keep talking, but their voices fade into the hum of the dining hall, blending with the murmurs of the star elves all around. And my thoughts drown out the rest.

Once we finish eating, we head to a secluded part of Nimuala, crossing the damp, sticky grass. It squelches beneath my feet, coating my skin in mud that seeps between my toes like wet sand. I’m the only one barefoot.

In the distance, a cluster of palm trees dots the horizon. Otherwise, we’re surrounded by open fields. The sun remains hidden behind thick clouds. The air is still. Silent. Except for the voices of my friends.

“So he’s back?” Jelethia settles onto a fallen tree branch at the edge of Gorgoroth.

The cries of distant animals fade into the background, and the birdsong is muted. I sit beside her, my gaze drifting to the slender grass stalks. A smaller bone ant, nearly the size of my foot, makes its way across the ground. I lift my feet to let it pass.

“Yes,” I say after a pause.

“What was he doing while he was gone?”

“I don’t know.”

“Aren’t you curious?”

“He won’t tell me.”

“So how is he otherwise?” She fiddles with the necklaces around her throat, her gaze flicking in my direction.

Her outfit is minimal: a strip of fabric wrapped across her chest, breeches as short as undergarments, and knee-high leather boots. Everything’s black against her smoke-gray skin, except for the design on her chest piece, a twisting, tree-like pattern as red as her eyes.

I lower my feet. The ant has passed. “What do you mean?”

“But you like him, don’t you? Think he’s… good?”

My heart jumps. I shoot her a wary look. “Good?”

“Well, yeah. Is he good? As a master?”

“He is.”

“And as an elf?” She twists her necklaces, the pieces scraping together with a dry, clattering sound. Unlike Naeva’s, hers aren’t made of pearls. Instead, they seem to be fragments of bone, shaped into various forms, some resembling horns.

What are you digging for, Jelethia?

“Yes,” I say.

A black hornbill lands in the bush behind us, its eyes a burning red. It ruffles its wings. Flutters. Its mind is blank.

I reach out without thinking, as I always do when encountering a new creature. It’s become instinct, automatic, inevitable.

But this bird is…

Empty.

Not like the dragon. That’d been a wall, a blockade. This is a void. There’s nothing to sense, as if there’s no mind at all. How’s that possible?

Jelethia inches closer while the others settle a short distance away, their conversation drifting to other things. “Do you think he has a woman?”

“You should know. Weren’t you supposed to have a love meeting with him?”

“It never happened.”

“That’s a pity.”

“But still…” She bites down on her lip rings, glancing toward Fax and Acranta as they shove each other playfully, then at Salahfar, who shakes his head at them. “There’s nothing between you two.”

I cough and stand. “No, Jelethia, there’s nothing between us.”

She exhales, her shoulders relaxing. “Good.”

“He’s my master.”

“Right. That’d be… odd. Not to be that person, but you’re of a different race.”

“So what?”

She tilts her head up, locking eyes with me.

“You’re interested in him, aren’t you?” I counter.

She shrugs. “Interested? I want a bit of fun.” She laughs a deep, throaty chuckle like a walrus. The sound is entirely at odds with her appearance and demeanor. It belongs to a stout, middle-aged dwarf, not her. “You get it, right?”

No, I don’t get it. He’s my master. My teacher. My Netharu’el. Not yours. Understand that.

I’d say it out loud, but I don’t want her to spread rumors that I… like him. Do I? It’s confusing.

“What about Vaast?” I ask. “Isn’t he good enough?”

“What do you mean?”

“You two get along, don’t you?”

“Well, yeah.”

“Have you ever considered him?”

Even as I speak to Jelethia, my mind drifts elsewhere. Netharu’el—his cheekbones, his jawline, his eyes, and the way his thick, dark lashes frame them.

She snorts. “No, I’m not looking for anything long-term, you know that. Besides, Neth is hotter.”

He is. Fiery attractive. More than most. And I’m not the only one who thinks so. He always draws longing stares, even from men.

Right on cue, Fax looks up and shakes his head in disbelief. “Netharu’el? Hot? Hold on now. He’s got nothing on?—”

“Don’t say it,” Salahfar warns.

“—Salahfar.” Fax waggles his eyebrows. “No one can compare to you, darling.”

Salahfar’s gaze flicks to me, and I move before he even has a chance to speak.

“Hit him?” I ask. “Sure thing, I’m at your service.”

“No!” Fax yelps. “Easy now. Listen. Stop, don’t come any closer! You hit too hard!”

I stop short of him, hovering my hand above his shoulder, letting it linger in the air. “Should I? Or shouldn’t I?”

“Do it!” Jelethia calls from the log, bouncing eagerly.

“Oh, no,” Acranta groans.

Fax squeezes his eyes shut. “Just make it quick, then.”

I throw my arm around him and laugh. “Relax, Fax. Why would I ever hit you?”

“You’ve done it before,” he says, looking up at me with wide, innocent eyes, placing a hand over mine.