Page 18

I wake to the sound of muffled voices drifting through the floorboards. It takes me a moment to recall where I am and how I’ve come to be here. I blink up at the ceiling for a while, trying to get my bearings as the haze of sleep lifts.

I slept, deep and dreamless—the best night of rest I’ve had in ages. Rejuvenation hums through me, a buzz beneath my skin. I practically bounce from the bed to the window. Throwing the curtains wide, I unlatch the shutters and get my first glimpse of Coldcross in the light of day.

A sea of smoking chimneys and gray slate roofs greets me. The town house is set on a slight rise at the edge of town, giving me a prime view of the cobbled streets that wind, labyrinth-like, outward from a central marketplace. Crowds of people are already gathered there, perusing the many steaming food stalls, trading coin for new wares.

Sharp longing sluices through me. I want desperately to join the stream of shoppers, to lose myself for a time in the crush of browsing and bartering. I doubt I’ll get the chance. We are to ride at first light.

Or…we were.

Peering at the morning sun already climbing high in the cloud-draped blue sky, I wonder what’s forced the change in plans. Whatever it is, I’m grateful for it. The opportunity to wake fully rested, rather than being roused forcefully by the pound of a fist or the bark of an order in the dead of the night, is a rare gift.

In the saddlebags by the door, I find my clothing and—just as Soren promised—my lethally sharp little dagger. I’m also surprised to discover a store of food, a blue suede bag brimming with Ll?rian coin, a silver-handled comb, and the scandalously sheer nightgown I’d worn at the Acrine Hold. My cheeks flame at just the sight of it, but I am quickly distracted by the unfamiliar item stashed at the very bottom.

My brows furrow inward as I pull it out to examine it up close. It’s a book. Quite an old one, given the state of its yellowed pages. It’s no larger than my hand, with an odd symbol gouged into its leather cover: four outward-facing triangles, each unique in design, coming together to form an intricate diamond.

The tetrad.

My fingertip slowly traces the topmost triangle. The Air Remnant. I recognize its familiar ethereal quality from the mark scored in my own flesh. Of its own accord, my hand drifts downward and slightly to the left, landing on the bolder furls that make up the Water Remnant. My teeth sink into my lip as my touch ghosts over the elegant swirls and coils. I fight an unwelcome flush as I remember the moment I did the same to Soren’s chest.

His sharp intake of air. His low hiss of surprise.

That is sensitive.

My hand jerks back from the engraving as though I’ve been scalded. After a fleeting glance at the other two Remnant symbols, I crack open the cover and scan the first page. Blocky letters adorn the parchment in faded black ink.

The Fated Tetrad: A History of Anwyvnian Remnants

Excitement blooms in my stomach. This is the best parting gift Soren could’ve given me. Far better than gold coin or a colorful dress.

The gift of answers.

I’m eager to devour its contents until every gnawing question has finally been put to rest, but I’m highly aware of the morning slipping by outside the window. Penn could walk in at any moment. Who knows how he’ll react, seeing me with a gift from the King of Ll?r in my hands? He might confiscate it before I have a chance to read more than the title page. Given his recent combustible reactions, the whole book could go up in flames, reduced to useless ashes.

Answers will have to wait a bit longer.

I tuck the tome back into the depths of the saddlebag and cover it with the gauzy blue nightgown, promising myself I’ll find an opportunity to peruse it when I’m certain I’ll not be disturbed.

In a bid to avoid Dyvedi ire, I dress in my red gown and sturdy boots instead of the blue gossamer dress. As I shake out the wrinkled folds of my skirts, something falls to the floor with a clatter. The carved wood whistle. It feels a lifetime has passed since Penn gave it to me. I hold it in my hand for a long moment before I slip the leather cord over my head.

Following the sound of voices, I make my way down the stairs, toward the back of the house. The formal sitting room is empty. They’ve gathered in the kitchen instead, at a rustic wood table—Mabon, Uther, Penn, Jac, and two others I recognize from yesterday’s ride. All conversation screeches to a halt when I appear at the threshold.

“Um…good morning,” I say, trying not to fidget.

“Don’t just stand there, Ace.” Jac grins broadly at me. “Take a seat.”

Smiling weakly in return, I make my way to the free stool beside Mabon. As I sit, I notice the bandage affixed to the right side of his bald head, just behind his ear. It is stark white against his midnight skin.

“Are you all right?” I gasp.

“Fit as a fiddle.”

“What happened?”

“Reavers,” he mutters like a curse.

Any further questions are cut off by Uther setting down a steaming bowl of oatmeal before me. I hadn’t even seen him leave the table.

“Thanks, Uther.”

He winks at me as he takes his seat. I still have not looked at Penn. My gaze skitters past him to the other end of the table. The men sitting there are both high-ranking members of the Ember Guild, judging by the insignias on their maroon tunics. They are also not thrilled by my presence, judging by the way they are regarding me—like a meddlesome insect that’s found its way inside your home and must be exterminated at the first opportunity.

“Is there something wrong with the porridge?” I ask, scrunching my nose at them.

Both men blink in surprise.

“It’s just, the way you’re looking at me right now, I’m half expecting you’ve tipped a vial of nightshade in it. And if I’m going to die, I’d rather my last meal not be porridge.” I grimace. “At least give me a rasher of bacon. An omelet. Something edible .”

Jac, Mabon, and Uther all chuckle lowly. One of the men—the one with limp black hair and a dour disposition—gets up and leaves without a word. His counterpart, whose hair is nearly as blond as mine, leans slightly forward on his stool and eyes me warily.

I eye him back.

“Poison’s a woman’s weapon,” he says finally. “If I decide to kill you, you’ll see it coming.”

“I’ll be sure to keep my eyes closed around you, then.” My head tilts as I examine his handsome features. “No great sacrifice, really, with a face like that.”

His lips twitch. “I’m Cadogan.”

“I’d say it’s a pleasure to meet you, Cadogan, but I don’t like to lie.” With that, I pick up my spoon and tuck into my porridge.

There is a marked silence at the table. It’s Cadogan who breaks it, his bark of laughter setting off a chorus of masculine amusement that takes several seconds to die down.

“She’s mouthy,” Cadogan notes when they’ve all stopped. “I like her.”

“You should see her with a bow,” Jac says. “You’ll fall in love.”

A low, unamused grunt comes from Penn’s direction. I ignore it, narrowing my eyes at Jac, who is seated directly across from me. “I wasn’t aware you were capable of loving anything besides your own reflection.”

Mabon snorts.

Jac throws a hand over his heart. “You wound me, Ace.”

I take another spoonful of porridge. It actually isn’t terrible.

“By the way…” Uther’s gray eyes are full of reassurance. “Don’t mind Gower. He’s an eighty-year-old curmudgeon in the body of a fighter.”

“I assume Gower is the man who fled the table upon my arrival?”

Uther nods.

“He’s got his nose out of joint because he wanted to be on the road already,” Jac chimes in. “The man doesn’t know what to do with his hands when they aren’t holding his reins or his cock.”

“Why the delay?” I scrape my spoon against the bottom of my bowl. “I thought we were off at first light.”

Silence descends again. Everyone is suddenly avoiding my eyes.

My brows lift. “What? Why are you all so quiet?”

It’s Penn who answers, his words a low rumble. “You needed to rest.”

My head whips around to him. “You delayed because of me ?”

He nods.

Gods.

A company of thirty trained soldiers, sitting around on their hands so that I could get my beauty rest. No wonder Gower loathes me. I would’ve loathed me, too. Mortification barrels through my chest. I jolt to my feet, spoon clattering. “I just need two minutes to grab my cloak and we can be off—”

“Sit.”

My mouth snaps shut at Penn’s command. “But—”

“ Sit. ”

I sit.

“Finish your breakfast. Three full days of road separate us from Dyved. You’ll need your strength.”

“I’m ready to ride.”

“Good. But that’s not why you’ll need your strength. Later, we’re going to talk about your time at the Acrine Hold. In detail.”

His eyes are two hot coals, smoldering with intent as he rises from his seat, nods to his men, and walks out of the room without another word.

I force myself to eat the rest of my porridge as Jac, Cadogan, Mabon, and Uther carry on a light conversation about which route we’ll take to Dyved. But the once-tasty oats are like sludge in my mouth, lumpy and flavorless.

Coldcross is the last bit of civilization we see for three straight days. We wind slowly west, traveling along the base of the Cimmerians through the snow-sheathed plains that abut the Frostlands. We do not cross over into the tiny kingdom that serves as a buffer between Dyved and Ll?r. Nor do I have any desire to—from what I can tell, it is an icy, inhospitable spit of glacier. When I ask Jac how people manage to survive there without fields to sow or crops to tend, he grimaces and says, “You don’t need to grow anything when you’ve got a fleet of raiding vessels to use to rape, pillage, and plunder every bit of coast across the North Sea.”

I do not ask him to elaborate further.

We make camp at night in clearings just off the road, cooking dinner over campfires and sleeping on bedrolls beneath the stars. Usually, one of the men will pull out an ocarina or lute and play a tune as we eat. There are the occasional after-dinner sparring bouts and arm-wrestling matches, which get quite heated but always stop short of drawing blood. Otherwise, life on the road is rather dull—a slow, monotonous march without much in the way of danger. In fact, the scariest foe I encounter during our journey shares a saddle with me.

After the first day on the road passes without Penn uttering more than a grunt in my general direction, I think—hope—he has forgotten his intention to interrogate me about my time in the clutches of his enemy. By the time I sit down to dinner that first night, I’ve begun to drop my guard. After a full helping of rabbit, courtesy of Uther, washed down with the two cups of strong mead Mabon silently pours for me, I drop them completely.

This is a mistake.

But I do not recognize it as one, even as I steal off into the dusky night for a moment of privacy in the thick shrubbery, away from prying male eyes and sharp-tuned ears. I am careful not to stray too far or stay away too long.

Jaw cracking on a massive yawn, eyelids heavier than anvils, I meander back to camp with my attention fixed on my bedroll and the sleep that awaits me in it. I nearly jump out of my skin when a massive man-shaped form melts from the shadows not ten paces from me.

“Gods!” I press a hand to my thudding heart. “You scared me halfway to an early grave.”

Penn walks to me, glowering. “You shouldn’t be out here alone.”

“There are some things that do not require an audience.” My cheeks tinge pink. “Besides, I brought the whistle.”

His eyes drop to the leather strap that hangs down over my bodice. In three short strides, he’s closed the distance between us; in another, he’s closed his fist over the whistle, so hard the wood creaks.

“And what good is it,” he asks with low menace, “if you fail to put it to use when you’re in trouble?”

“W-what?”

“This is not a godsdamned fashion accessory.”

“I know that!”

“Really? Because history suggests otherwise.”

“How so?”

“You should’ve used it that day on the mountain, the moment you realized you couldn’t make it up the Widow’s Notch! I’d have known you were in trouble. I’d have come for you.”

“And so would every Reaver with a set of ears!”

“I would’ve handled them. I did handle them, in fact.”

“Your fire did, you mean.”

His eyes narrow at the accusatory note in my voice, but he says nothing. He is still holding the whistle, his fingers twisting in the leather cord like it’s a leash at my throat.

“I heard them scream,” I say bluntly, trying to get my pulse under control—and failing miserably. “When the blaze overtook them, I heard them die. I’ve heard men die before. Young men, old men. From fevers and sharp falls and all manner of illnesses. But I have never heard men scream the way those Reavers did when the inferno you unleashed caught up to them.” I shudder at the memory as goose bumps bloom on my arms. “It was horrible. It was…unnatural. Fire does not move like that. With such hunger .”

“You weren’t supposed to be there,” he says through clenched teeth.

“It still happened, whether or not I was there to witness it.”

“And?” He scoffs. “Do you expect me to feel sorry for a clan of barbaric fae haters who would’ve done far worse to us? Cut off our ears and worn them from straps around their necks like jewelry? Pierced us full of iron until the agony was so great, we’d beg for death long before they delivered it?”

I pale. “I…”

“Have you already forgotten what you saw in that clearing? What they did to Jac’s unit?”

I shake my head, unable to speak. I have not forgotten. I will never forget, not as long as I live.

“They like to drag it out,” he continues. “The last few of our soldiers they captured…I’ll spare you the full details, but suffice to say, there wasn’t enough left of them to bring back to their families for funeral rites by the time we found them.” His brow furrows. “No. I don’t feel sorry. I will lose no sleep knowing that murderous horde of blood purists died writhing in pain beneath my flame. I’ll sleep all the more soundly in that knowledge. I only wish I’d been close enough to hear it for myself. Their screams would be a lullaby.”

I flinch as much at his grim words as at the abrasive tone in which they are delivered. My breaths are coming rapidly; my voice is thready. “Do you think by convincing me you’re a monster you’ll somehow scare me into submission?”

“You thought I was a monster long before you knew I could command the flame.” He leans forward, bringing his face within a handspan of mine. As he does, he puts pressure on the leather cord, holding me in place so I cannot retreat from him. “Isn’t that right?”

I have no rebuttal. I had indeed called him a monster after he cut Thawe Bridge and killed the men crossing it. At the time, he seemed unbothered by my assessment. Looking at him now, I realize his indifference is a mask, shielding his true emotions more effectively than the helm he so often wears to hide his identity. Beneath it, there is something else, something I am almost afraid to look too closely at. A savage sort of desperation that seizes me by the heart.

“I thought you did not care what I thought,” I whisper—voice stark, eyes fixed on his, heart thundering at twice its normal speed.

There is a moment of silence. In it, I taste the same possibility I see in his gaze as it drops to my mouth, the same possibility I feel at my neck as the pressure on the cord increases a shade, urging me nearer.

Almost a challenge.

Almost a dare.

One I accept, refusing to be the one to flinch away. Not this time. I yield a few scant inches, bringing my face so close to his, our noses nearly bump. As the distance narrows, the tension mounts—a treacherous give-and-take. Our lips are so close, we share each breath. I’m dizzyingly aware of the fact that if either of us moves even the slightest bit—me rising onto the balls of my feet, him craning his face down just a little more—we will no longer be fighting, but doing something vastly different. Something I tell myself I have no business even thinking about, let alone longing for.

And yet…there is no denying the desire that races down my spine as the moment lingers on; no pushing aside the furl of attraction that spirals like smoke in the pit of my stomach—the first warning sign of a fire that, if allowed to catch, will undoubtedly turn to an all-consuming inferno.

My heart skips a beat when, at last, he moves, bridging that tiny divide. His lips brush mine, light as the beat of a butterfly wing.

Not a kiss.

The shadow of one.

I feel each word he whispers against my lips long before they reach my ears.

“I would give anything not to care.”

Before I can even process it, he’s gone. His mouth tears from mine, he releases the whistle, and, with a laugh of pure bitterness, he turns away. My pulse is ragged as I watch him stride five paces forward. I try to breathe, but I can’t seem to fill my lungs with enough oxygen. Every inhale is shaky and shallow. My emotions are a tangled lump, lodged firmly in my throat, as contradictory as they are confusing. Regret and relief. Unfulfilled desire and undeniable disappointment.

I would give anything not to care.

That makes two of us, then.

I think he’s going to disappear—to walk into the forest, leaving me alone in the dark. But he stops. He, too, appears to be breathing heavily, each exhale rattling the broad expanse of his back. I count his labored breaths— one, two, three —before he gets himself back under control, locking down the rare breach of emotions with the same self-possession he uses to swing his blade and steer his horse.

For a moment, we are both utterly quiet. Only the faint screech of an owl swooping overhead shatters the silent night. When I finally feel able to speak again, I ask a question that’s been nagging at me since we departed the Acrine Hold.

“Why didn’t you tell me you are a Remnant? That you are…like me?”

He does not turn to face me, speaking to the shadows. “Would it have made any difference? Would you have trusted me any more than you do now?”

“Maybe.”

“I doubt that.”

“Trust has to start somewhere. But you have given me nothing to go on. I learned more in one hour with your so-called enemy than I have from you in weeks.”

The silence that descends is so icy, I am surprised I cannot see my breath. “So you trust Soren more than me, is that it?”

“I didn’t say that—”

He spins around, pinning me with a glare. “Did he sway you to his side with an expensive dress and a few honeyed compliments? Did he win you over so easily with his practiced manners and fine wines? I thought you wiser than that.”

“He did not win me; I am not a prize.”

“But you put more faith in his empty words than in my actions.” He scoffs. “Perhaps I should’ve taken the time to coddle you as we fled north, barely escaping Efnysien’s men with our hides intact. Perhaps I should’ve been gentler as I ferried your half-dead corpse across plainlands and ice fields. Then you might afford me the same benefit of the doubt you’ve extended blindly to Soren.”

I jerk my chin higher. “I don’t put any faith in him, blind or otherwise. I know he is dangerous.”

“You know nothing.”

“I’ve heard the battle stories—”

“Those stories are but a fraction of his crimes.” His tone is brittle. “You have no idea who he is. What he has done. The blood he has spilled. The lives he has ruined. Whatever whispers make their way to the Midlands are a weak, diluted measure of his true nature. Only sycophants and simpletons give their allegiance to such a man. Do you count yourself among those ranks?”

“No!”

“Then where does your allegiance lie?”

“With myself!” My voice rises sharply. “You say I would be a fool to trust Soren. What would I be to trust you , when you have given me absolutely no reason to?”

“Keeping you alive all this time counts for nothing, I suppose.”

“Not when you fail to share your reasons for doing so. And do not paint yourself as some gentle savior. You may have kept me alive, but you did so with palpable reluctance.”

“ Gentle savior. ” He laughs bitterly. “Is that what Soren seems? Of course he would, safe behind his borders. Never risking his neck for anything that does not benefit him exclusively.” His voice drops to a snarl. “It is easy to be a gentleman sitting inside a castle. I certainly did not have the benefit of such gentleness when I was undercover in Eld’s army. I did not have the luxury of maintaining my court manners while knee-deep in corpses on the battlefield.”

I flinch.

He sees it, and his eyes lose some of their burning wrath. Taking a deep breath, he manages to rein in some of his anger. “What is it you require? An apology?”

“No,” I declare, even though there is a part of me that would appreciate one. “Your past actions do not concern me half so much as your future ones.” I narrow my eyes at him. His face is half-turned from me, one hand braced against the trunk of a tree. “What are your plans for me in Dyved?”

“You’ll see for yourself soon enough.”

“Am I to be a prisoner?”

“A prisoner ?” His head shakes in disbelief. “Gods, you cannot be serious. Would I have gone through all the effort of saving you—repeatedly—only to make you my prisoner?”

“If I’m not a prisoner, what am I?”

“You are a piece in a puzzle I have been trying to solve for over a century.”

I blink slowly. “So, you aim to fulfill this prophecy Soren spoke of? To restore the balance? Or is it…”

“Is it what?”

“He indicated that…that you…Well, that you were trying to assuage your guilt over something that happened a long time ago.” Sucking in a sharp breath, I force myself to continue despite the tension ebbing from Penn in waves. “Something with the previous wind weaver. With…Enid.”

The bark beneath Penn’s fingers begins to smolder. He quickly pulls back his hand, clenching it into a tight fist at his side. I keep my eyes on the blackened tree trunk as he mutters, “This is not the time or place to discuss this.”

He begins to walk away.

“ Trust. ” The word rings out, halting him in his tracks. “This is where it begins, Penn. You want me to stop questioning your motives? Give me a reason to.”

It is as close as I’ll allow myself to get to begging. The plea in my voice must register somewhere beneath his brimming anger, because he does not walk away. His shoulders are stiff as he turns around to face me. The ten paces between us feel at once far too vast and far too near.

“Ask, then,” he says flatly. “Ask your questions.”

“Who was she?”

“A Remnant of Air, as you know already.”

“I didn’t ask what she was. I asked who she was.”

His expression is blank, all emotions carefully contained. “I found her seventy years ago, in a city near Lake Lumen. What is now Westlake, though it had another name then. Another king. She was born the daughter of a lord there. Her father was wise, for a mortal. He had read of Anwyvn’s history, had seen the slow sickness spreading through his lands. So, when his wife gave birth to a babe bearing a strange mark on her breast…he did not cast the newborn out, as others would have.” He takes a deep breath. “Harboring a halfling was punishable by death. But he knew she was a child of the prophecy. He named her Enid, which means soul or spirit , for she had moved his with her first breath. And for sixteen years, he did his best to keep her safe.”

I have never heard him speak so much. I keep very still and very silent, afraid any interruption will break the spell of his words.

“But discontent grew in the Midlands, spurred by famine and plague. And, with it, an insatiable violence. Wars raged, kings usurping one another with such speed, it was hardly worth writing down their names in the historical annals.”

Paper kings , Eli called them. Their sovereignty easily scratched out.

“It was a bloody time,” Penn continues. “A dangerous time for everyone, but especially for the fae. Most especially for a Remnant. Enid spent her whole life locked away in that manor house, hidden from a world that would kill her on sight. She never stepped outside, never got to laugh or play or be a child. Books were her only escape from confinement. Still, it was not enough. Servants talk. Even her father’s position could not halt the whispers forever.”

My stomach turns leaden with foreboding.

“Once the rumors began to spread, there was no stopping them. A changeling girl lived under the lord’s roof, they said, swapped at birth for his real child. Fae trickery at work. And he, a fool for loving her. Not fit to see the truth in his own household. Not fit to rule their small fiefdom.” A muscle leaps in his jaw. “I got her out as the townsfolk closed in with their torches and pitchforks, as the king’s soldiers rode in to finish the job.”

“Her family?”

“Butchered. Everyone in the manor, down to the scullery maids. They even killed the hounds.”

My throat is thick, my words choked with horror. “And Enid?”

“I brought her north. To Dyved. Eventually, to Ll?r.” Penn’s voice is flat, his face expressionless. Even his eyes are banked of their normal fire, as though speaking of this requires such control, he has no choice but to contain his emotions in a vise. “There was a time when Soren and I were not at odds. We were not even mere allies. We…”

“You were friends,” I finish. I had guessed as much. Theirs is no feud between estranged enemies, no disagreement between acquaintances. Such enduring vitriol is only possible because it feeds upon the fuel of a ruined friendship. For what is hate but love turned poison?

Penn stares at me, delaying for a long moment. I get the sense he does not particularly want to share whatever he is going to say next. “You must understand, there is a certain…bond…that exists among all the Remnants. Like it or not, we are linked.”

My brows lift. “What do you mean by linked ?”

“We share an inherent compatibility. A common energy. Think of it like a blood bond or a family tie—only deeper, for this connection cannot ever truly be severed. We are four weighted scales hung from the same beam, forever seeking a balance only the others can deliver. Independent, but irrevocably tethered.”

I think of the ornate tetrad symbol etched into the leather of Soren’s book—those four triangles, individual yet interlocked. “That’s how it is with you and Soren?”

He nods stiffly.

“And with Enid?”

“Yes.” He pauses. “And, I can only assume, so it will be with you.”

I start, incredulous. “When I was with Soren, I didn’t feel any…link.”

“You have barely begun to understand your own powers. You are stumbling around in the dark, unable to tell shadow from night. In time, your sight will adjust and adapt.” His eyes hold mine. “Do you feel it with me now?”

“Feel…what, exactly?”

“The energy. Like an invisible string, connecting us. Tethering us together.”

“I don’t…” I shake my head. My heart pounds so hard, I cannot hear myself think. “I’m not sure.”

He closes some of the distance between us and orders softly, “Close your eyes.”

I hesitate.

“Trust”—he echoes my earlier statement back to me, gesturing from his chest to mine—“goes both ways.”

I close my eyes.

“Good.” I hear him move closer. “Now, calm your breaths. In through your nose, out through your mouth. That’s it. Slow and steady. Feel your pulse. Focus on each heartbeat.”

I do as he says, shutting out everything except the thudding of my heart against my ribs. Eventually, it slows from a frantic, panicked patter to a uniform rhythm.

“Good,” Penn says. He’s even closer now, his voice only an arm’s length away. “When you’re ready, reach out with your senses.”

“I don’t know how.”

“How many senses do you have?”

It is a question even a young child could answer. “Five.”

“Wrong.”

“Sight, smell, taste, touch, hearing. That’s five.”

“ You have another,” he counters. “You merely need learn how to use it.”

His hand comes down on the fabric of my dress, directly over my Remnant. I suck in a breath. I can feel the heat of his fingers, his warmth a sharp contrast to the chill that always ebbs from my mark. It is an effort to keep my heartbeats steady.

“Here,” he says, applying a bit more pressure. “This is the center of your power. Do you feel it?”

I nod. I feel it. That cold prickle, coiled within.

“What does it feel like?”

“It’s like…like there’s a storm swirling inside me,” I explain haltingly. “My mark is the eye of that storm. A dangerous point of stillness, surrounded by chaos.”

“Focus on the stillness. Shut out the chaos. Find your center.”

I try to envision the storm within me. In my mind, I see a hurricane moving fast over the water, clouds spinning round and round with increasing violence, waves cresting white with each swell. And, at the center, an eye.

Calm.

Cool.

Contained.

The surface still as a looking glass, the sky above clear blue. I concentrate on it until the clouds are a distant rumble, until the wind gentles to a breeze, then drops off completely. Until the sea around me feels like cool bathwater.

“I’m there,” I breathe, floating. “I’m at the center.”

“Reach out with your senses. Beneath the storm. Beyond the chaos. What else do you feel?”

“Nothing. There’s nothing.”

“Not nothing. Look harder.”

“There’s…” I search the calm waters, not knowing what I am supposed to be seeking until I see it. Feel it. A faint ripple, disturbing the serenity. “Wait. There’s…something else.”

And there is. Like an invisible current, tugging me forward. Warm as an underground hot spring amid the cool waves of my mind’s eye. Beckoning like the smell of burning chestnuts on an autumn wind. I glide toward it, following my senses. Pushing past the confines of my consciousness, I open my eyes and stare at the source.

“It’s you,” I murmur in surprise. “I feel… you .”

He is startlingly close. His eyes are a living flame, burning into mine. “What do I feel like?”

“Like…a hot swallow of tea after a day out in the chill.” I test the current between us, exploring it, running my mind across it like hands over a precious object. “Like the faint char of a bonfire in the air from somewhere far away. A hint of flame and heat.”

He does not say a word. He does not move a muscle. He does not even appear to be breathing.

“Is that what I feel like to you?” I ask.

“No. You…” A muscle leaps in his cheek as his jaw tightens. “You are like a crisp trickle of water down the back of a sun-scorched neck. Like cold aloe on a burn.”

“Oh” is all I can manage to say.

We stare at each other for a long time. Drinking each other in with this newfound sense of awareness. He’s right: it is like having a sixth sense. A second sight. Just as I can see him, smell him, touch him…I can now actually feel him standing there. Even with my eyes closed, I know I would be able to pinpoint his exact location. It is akin to looking through a glamour, but instead of seeing his true likeness, I see straight to his soul.

“You will be able to sense when I’m nearby,” he tells me in a gruff voice. “Even sense some of my emotions, if I do not guard against it.”

My eyes are wide with sudden horror. “Can you sense mine?”

“Sometimes.”

“ Sometimes? ”

“Only the very strong ones.” He glances away from me. “As with any connection, the more you hone it, the stronger it becomes. The more time we spend together, the deeper the bond will grow and the keener my perception will be.” His throat bobs on a swallow. “That’s how it has been for me in the past, anyway.”

With Soren.

With Enid.

A flash of something unpleasant flares through me. “Right. Of course.”

He stares at the tree line for a long while in silence. “We should be getting back. It’s dark. The men will be looking for us.”

“But—”

He turns and walks away before I can ask him anything else. Mind reeling, I wait until he is almost out of sight before I follow him back to camp.

It isn’t until later, when I’ve burrowed into my bedroll by the fire, that I realize he did not ask me a single question about Soren or my time at the Acrine Hold.