Page 2 of The Heart of Nym (The Twisted Roots Duology #1)
Her legs ached from running. Her lungs burned, chest feeling frozen from the intake of cold air, as if the winter breeze was freezing her from the inside-out.
Her toes cracked and scraped against twisted roots, twigs tangling in silver locks of hair.
Blue eyes scanned the forest, glowing like the dots of fire that followed her from yards away.
She could give up. She could curl amongst the rotting foliage and let them take her or she could do exactly as the man chasing her told her and run.
She could run until she reached the cliff—dive into the rushing rapids down below, but there was no telling if she would survive the jagged and rocky descent.
Nymiria paused, panting, as she took a sharp left towards the Choking Vines.
Just as she breached the entrance, the thorned vines began moving towards her, attempting to encase her and hold her captive. She knew that if they got a taste for her blood, they would never let go. They would seek her out and chase her through the shrouded wood just as the men behind her would.
So she ran faster, silently calling upon Greia to help her. Pleading—begging with each sharply panted breath.
But all of the gods abandoned her long ago, she thought, because the moment she cried out for deliverance and a safe place to land, she crashed into the earth floor. Under her palms, all that Greia could offer her, was the soft swell of yellow and white blossoms—flowers to lessen the blow.
Nymiria felt his weight on top of her, smelled the dirt and pine on his leather glove as it closed around her mouth, muffling her soft cries.
“Now, now,” His voice, rough and deep, was a rumble against her pale white skin. “I would highly advise you against screaming, moonflower.”
When her mother was captured, months ago, she believed she’d cried all of the tears left in her body. But Nymiria had been wrong. Because the moment he lifted her from the bed of flowers beneath them, she felt the sting of tears running down her winter-chilled face.
“If you do not struggle and try to use your magic on me, I will make sure that you are placed somewhere where you will be taken care of.”
She downcast her eyes, refusing to look up and scrutinize any features she could make out under his mask and hood. The only thing she caught a glimpse of as the man stepped in front of her was the glow of bright, blue eyes the color of tourmaline gems.
“Can you be good for me, moonflower?”
Nymiria reached for her magic, reached for Greia, but there was absolutely nothing left inside of her. She was empty—hollow. So, instead, she nodded.
Her body went still as the man slipped iron chains from his belt, taking the shackles and cuffing them to her rope-burned wrists.
The man went still, his fingers brushing over the deep red welts that encircled them.
If he felt any sympathy for her, he did not show it now.
He merely gripped the chain that hung between her shackles and began tugging her towards the orbs of fire that were closing in on them.
She couldn’t run anymore. Even if she attempted, how far could she get with the iron on her?
With what little power Nymiria had, she’d made it this far into Yaar’s Wander.
It was the most dangerous forest in Gaellagh, but with the power of Greia at the tips of her fingers, the snarling oaks and tumbling pines made for an easy obstacle.
Not too easy, though. She’d spent all of her Graces in that part of the forest, neglecting to remember that, the deeper she traveled, the more dangerous the plant life became.
Her wrists ached, a deep ache that spread through her arms and to her chest as she continued walking. A sweat broke out over her forehead, her eyes wide and heart hammering when another masked male stepped out of the darkness.
Just like his counterpart, his eyes were blue, but she caught a wisp of brown curls poking out from under his hood. “She’s bleeding.” The man said. Before Nymiria could recoil from his extending hand, the man swiped at the trail of blood leading from her shoulder. “Did the thorns get her?”
She hoped not. She hoped it had been a snagging branch that pierced her glowing skin. Anything, but the thorns.
“Fix it.” The man with brown hair turned on his heel, returning to the group.
Nymiria watched, bewildered, as the man that held her chains removed a glove, revealing a hand that was so mangled with scars that she felt it was a wonder he could even flex his fingers.
He pressed his hand to the wound on her shoulder, a faint glow appearing between the cracks of his fingers.
She felt warmth spread through her shoulder and chest, her eyes moving over the partially concealed features of the man in front of her.
His gaze moved up to meet hers, thick brows drawn together in confusion as they stared at one another.
“You’re a Mystic.” Nymiria whispered.
The man pulled his hand away from her shoulder, revealing perfectly smooth skin, now dusted with silver freckles.
He said nothing in response, merely leading her to the iron cage perched atop a wagon.
The men with torches now surrounded the wagon, the driver of the horses doing his best to calm the horses that bucked and pawed at the air in protest.
Nymiria could feel the creatures’ anger. She could sense their disapproval as she was tossed into the cage. The contact with the iron rang deep in her bones, aching and burning deep under the flesh as it snuffed out any semblance of power left inside of her. She was utterly defenseless.
The glow of the moon caught her attention and as the horse and buggy jerked forward, the movement jostled a tear from her eye. She palmed it away quickly, looking back to where the masked and hooded man watched her from the bench beside her.
His eyes, though bright and vibrant blue, were lifeless.
There was not an ounce of emotion detectable within them.
But he stared at her just as deeply and intently as she stared at him.
The buggy jostled again as it propelled over a large root on the ground, sending Nymiria careening into the iron bars.
She hissed at the impact, face crumpling in pain.
Not just the physical pain from the impact, but the pain in her chest as her mind reeled with the reality of her circumstances.
A low whimper sounded at the back of her throat despite her feeble attempt to remain calm. She wanted to be calm, but the tears would not stop falling.The man was still watching her, his thick black brows creasing at the center when she began moving towards him.
She pointed at the place on her chest where the pain had settled deep. “Fix it.” She pleaded. “Fix it.”
The man hesitated, his eyes darting around the darkness before he slowly, carefully, removed his glove from his scarred hand.
He was cautious when he reached between the iron bars, his eyes still void of emotion as he placed his hand over the center of her chest. The glow from his touch returned and Nymiria let out a sob when the hurt in her chest was flooded with a euphoric warmth.
It spread through her entire body, her eyes wide with wonder and hope as she turned her gaze back to the moon.
She didn’t realize the man had already removed his hand. She didn’t realize that, instead of silver freckles, he’d now left an intricate and beautiful marking on the center of her chest that glowed the same beautiful silver, complimenting the opal-like coloring of her skin.
A moonflower.