Page 35

"She's been showing us some techniques," Beck says, a note of admiration in his voice. "You should see her disarm someone. It's... impressive."

"I teach you tomorrow, Nessa," Brunhild tells me.

"Looking forward to it," I say, meaning it. "But why should we let them keep those weapons? We know where they are, right? What's stopping us from stealing them?"

"No," Raith says. "You're still too weak."

"I can manage."

"We only found out about this because a girl who was with Malakai wanted to join our side," Beck says. "Obviously, we didn't trust her. But then she started spilling secrets like the weapons stash."

"Then we need to ask her how the room is protected," I say. "We find a way to steal those weapons or destroy them. That's the plan."

Beck nods. "I'll ask her after we're done here. She has channeling class right now. She's an earth. Pretty, too. You should see her?—"

Brunhild silences Beck with a hard smack to the back of the head. "He keeps his eyes to himself and Brunhild, or he loses them."

Beck's grin is sideways. "She's some woman, isn't she?"

"There's more," Mireen says, voice dropping lower. "Voss cornered me after Military Tactics this morning. He's asking about Nessa."

The mention of the Rector sobers me immediately. "What did he want?"

"Questions about your recovery. When you'd be ready to see him. But this time..." she hesitates, exchanging glances with Ambrose, "he specifically asked if your healing abilities had manifested again since the incident with the siphon."

A chill runs through me. "How would he know about that? And how does he know you know?"

"Exactly," Ambrose says. "We've been careful not to mention your healing around anyone but our immediate circle. The only people who know are in this room. Yet he seemed to know not only that you healed Raith, but that it might be a recurring ability."

"He was there," I remind them. "When the siphon attacked. Maybe he saw more than I realized. Or he could know the effects of void magic exposure? What if the only way Raith could've survived was with some kind of healing magic?"

"Maybe," Mireen says slowly. "But something about the way he asked felt... calculated. Like he was confirming something he already knew."

"There's that rumor going around too," Beck adds. "The one about the burned out bodies Bastian mentioned to his father. It's the first I've heard of it, but the rumor is already everywhere. People heard about the fight you guys had with the siphon, too. They just don't know it was you guys and a siphon. All they know is some serious shit went down in the west wing that left a classroom in ruins."

Mireen folds her arms and shakes her head. "Voss knows a hell of a lot about this stuff. Are you sure we can trust him?"

"No," Raith says. "We don't trust him any more than necessary."

"He saved me and Raith, though. He gave us an early tip about the Crucible. And all he's done so far when I meet with him is help with my powers. Why do that if he wants to bring us harm?"

"We shouldn't speculate without evidence," Ambrose cautions, though his expression remains troubled.

"Whatever his interest," Raith interjects, "Nessa isn't seeing him until she's at full strength. I don't care what position he holds."

"Agreed," Mireen says, surprising me with her easy alliance with Raith on this matter. Their shared concern for my welfare seems to have bridged some of the initial distrust. "You need to be at your strongest before facing him."

"Not all news is grim," Beck says, clearly trying to lighten the mood. "There was quite the scene in channeling class this afternoon when Sestra found Dain and Kali... well, channeling something, but not magic." He wiggles his eyebrows suggestively.

Despite everything, I find myself laughing. "In the classroom?"

"Behind the practice dummies," Beck confirms with a grin. "Sestra was so angry I thought she might drown them both on the spot."

"The look on Dain's face," Mireen adds, dissolving into giggles. "Like a fish that suddenly realized it was on land."

Even Raith's lips quirk slightly at the mental image. For a moment, the weight of siphons and Crucibles and secret weapons lifts, replaced by the simple camaraderie of friends sharing gossip. It's a precious moment of normalcy in our increasingly abnormal lives.

"Oh," Mireen says, as if just remembering. "The rumors about your absence are getting wilder by the hour, too. There's a version going around that you challenged Serena to a duel and she burnt you to ash."

"Raith told me that one," I say, reaching for a piece of fruit from the plate Raith brought earlier.

"My favorite is the one about Nessa's flying fish," Beck says.

I feel Typhon perk up at the mention.

"They say he fish-slapped Voss and got you both thrown off the highest tower. When we heard that one, we had to make the code ‘fish slap’ in honor of the rumor yesterday."

We all share some much needed laughs at the increasingly ridiculous rumors. Eventually, though, the conversation turns to more deadly topics. Like our strategy for the Crucible.

Ambrose pulls out a folded parchment from his pocket, spreading it across the foot of the bed. It shows a detailed rendering of what must be the quarry Raith took me to see.

"Where did you get this?" Raith asks, moving closer to examine the map.

"Library archives," Ambrose says proudly. "Not the main one—the secondary archive in the west wing basement. You'd be surprised what they keep there if you know where to look."

Beck rolls his eyes. "He means he sweet-talked the library assistant. Apparently, she has a thing for guys who can quote tactical theory from memory."

Ambrose adjusts his glasses, a hint of pink touching his cheeks. "I can’t control if she finds my intellect stimulating."

“Hey, no need to defend yourself, Ambrose. I’m happy for you. I just didn’t know you had it in you. If you want my advice? You show up at her room. Tonight. Wear something sexy. Just walk right in like you own the place. It works every time.”

"Enough," Mireen cuts in. "We're here to talk strategy, not Beck's questionable romantic wisdom."

"It's not questionable when it works," Beck protests, but subsides when Mireen levels a glare at him.

"So," I say, leaning forward to examine the map, "what's the plan?"

For the next hour, we discuss possible scenarios for the Crucible. Ambrose has developed several strategies based on different starting positions, while Mireen and Beck contribute insights on our potential enemies and allies. Brunhild's tactical knowledge proves surprisingly extensive, her understanding of terrain advantages particularly valuable.

Raith remains mostly silent, though he occasionally offers a suggestion when our strategies have obvious flaws. I notice he's careful not to reveal too much about his own plans with the fires, maintaining a certain distance despite being physically present in the room.

Ultimately, there's only so much planning we can do. We won't know our true objective until the day of the Crucible. But knowing where the Crucible is likely to take place has its advantages, which is what we spend most of our time focusing on.

"Don't you all have classes?" I ask once I've realized just how long we've been talking.

"We'll get a slap on the wrist," Beck says. "No big deal. We're where we need to be."

"He's right." Mireen gives my shoulder a squeeze and I feel wisps of her cool water energy flow into my body. She shivers, but smiles. “Still think it’s incredible how you can draw power from people.”

"She is small, but strong," Brunhild observes with her muscular arms folded. "To draw power from enemies is a valuable skill. I will teach her grappling techniques for combat. Ways to get her small, child-like hands on her opponents."

I raise an eyebrow, then lift one of my hands and give it a look. They aren't that small. "Thanks, Brunhild."

Brunhild nods. Her platinum blonde hair is pulled back in a scalp-tight braid that seems as no-nonsense as the woman herself. "In my home village. Before I come to Empire. We have stories of unbound. Not like stories here. Stories of heroes, not monsters."

"Where was your village?"

"North islands," she says. "Beyond Empire, beyond Red Kingdom. Different... perspective." She taps her temple meaningfully. "But the elements wished us to leave. Waters rose. My home is now part of the sea."

"Well, we're glad you're on our team," Mireen says with a genuine smile.

Brunhild... tries to smile. The expression isn't natural on her severe face, though, and it looks more like she's baring her teeth. "Your team has power. Heart. Good heart makes for good power. We will survive Crucible together."

There's a simple wisdom in her words that catches me off guard. "I hope you're right."

"I am right," she says confidently. "I see truth in people. Is why I trust sexy bear." She nods toward Beck, who preens visibly.

"Nice as this is," Ambrose interjects, checking the time, "we should be going. We've got combat training in twenty minutes, and Instructor Vail hates tardiness even more than Sestra. I can handle remedial channeling classes, but Vail will literally make sure we bleed if we're late."

"It's okay. Go," I say.

They gather their things, Mireen hugging me tightly before she leaves. "Take care of yourself," she whispers. "And be careful with him." Her eyes flick meaningfully toward Raith, who is speaking quietly with Beck near the door.

"I will," I promise.

As they file out, Brunhild stops briefly beside me. "Tomorrow. Do not forget our training.”

When they're gone, Raith closes the door with a soft click. He stays by the door.

"Your friends are protective of you," he observes.

"So are you."

“I only have three days to get you back to full strength. Three days until the Crucible.”

"I’ll be ready.”

He turns to me, his expression unreadable in the growing shadows. "Nessa, I need to tell you something."

My heart quickens. "What is it?"

He hesitates, conflict visible in the tense line of his shoulders. "Do you trust me?" he asks suddenly.

"Yes," I answer without reservation, surprising myself with the certainty of it. After everything—the secrets, the warnings, the distance he's maintained—I still trust him with my life.

He crosses the room in three long strides, stopping before me. "Then trust me when I say that during the Crucible, you need to keep your head down. Complete the objective, nothing more. Don't try to fight Malakai, don't try to be a hero, don't reveal your full abilities unless your life depends on it."

"But my friends?—"

"Will be safer if you follow my advice," he interrupts. "The less attention you draw, the better. Make sure Typhon knows, too."

"That's not much of a strategy," I point out.

"It's the only one I have that keeps you alive," he says, his voice rough with emotion. "And that's all that matters to me right now."

The raw honesty in his voice steals my breath. I feel the truth of his words—the depth of his concern, the fierce protectiveness that borders on desperation. Whatever secrets he's keeping, whatever his true purpose here, his desire to keep me safe is genuine. It matters more to him than anything else.

I reach for him, my fingers finding the collar of his uniform, pulling him closer. "I'll be careful," I promise. "But only if you promise to keep yourself safe, too. That siphon wanted you dead, Raith."

His hand comes up to cover mine, his skin warm against my fingers. "I've survived worse," he says, but doesn't elaborate. Another piece of his past kept in shadow.

"Raith..." I begin, uncertain what I even want to ask. There are too many questions, too many mysteries surrounding him. But what comes out isn’t even a question. "Stay with me tonight."

Surprise flashes across his face, followed by a heat that makes my pulse quicken. Then there's a roguish twist of his lips. "You are in my room, Nessa. I was planning on staying with you whether you liked it or not."

"I just... don't want to be alone."

"You won't be."

"And I want you in the bed. Not on the floor. Only to sleep," I add.

It's not even dark yet, but Raith shows no sign of caring. He can tell I’m tired and need to sleep again.

We prepare for bed in near silence, the routine oddly domestic despite the extraordinary circumstances that brought us here. I brush my hair out to keep it from tangling after spending so long resting. I change while Raith turns his back, slipping into fresh, clean underwear and throwing a thin academy night shirt over myself. Then I climb into the bed.

The bed is narrow, clearly not meant for two, but we make it work. Raith lies on his back, one arm behind his head, while I curl on my side facing him. There's a careful inch of space between us, a boundary neither of us is quite ready to cross despite everything that's happened.

Just like he warned, the heat radiating from him is like a small furnace. But it's cold, even in the fire tower, and his heat feels absolutely perfect. It makes me desperately want to cling to him and cuddle close.

"The dreams," I say into the darkness. "The ones I've been having. They feel like memories, but they're not mine."

I feel him tense beside me. "What do you see?" he asks, his voice carefully neutral.

"A castle. A child running. Screams." I hesitate. "Fire."

The silence stretches so long I think he might not answer. Then, "The tether," he says finally.

The truth I’ve suspected and been afraid to acknowledge finally rises up, impossible to ignore any longer. The dreams aren’t from Typhon. They’re not imaginary. They’re memories.

Raith’s memories.

Which means… gods.

Raith was supposed to be a king. But a king of where?

"Are they your memories?" I ask directly.

Another long pause. "Yes," he admits, the word barely audible.

I wait for him to elaborate, to explain the child, the castle, the fire. To explain how the hells a prince in line for a throne could wind up as a volunteer at Confluence and covered in scars. But he remains silent, the weight of unspoken truths heavy between us.

"You don't have to tell me," I say finally. "Not until you're ready." If I hadn't seen what I've seen, I would maybe press him harder. But if those are his memories? The sound of that scream—his sister's scream—comes to my mind so vividly it gives me cold chills. The thought of his brother, Gareth, makes my heart ache. The brother he lost. The brother he cared for so deeply he's trying to take care of all the fire affinities now to make up for what happened.

But none of it was his fault. I want to tell him that. I want to say something, but I can't find the words.

He turns his head toward me, his profile silver in the moonlight streaming through the window. "And if I'm never ready?"

"Then we'll deal with that when the time comes," I reply.

His hand finds mine in the darkness, fingers intertwining. "You should hate me," he says softly. "For keeping things from you. For pulling you into... this."

"I don't," I tell him. "And I'm here because I choose to be. With you. Whether you like it or not."

He makes a sound, half laugh, half sigh. "So fucking stubborn."

"Says the most stubborn man at Confluence."

That earns a real laugh, quiet but genuine. The sound warms me more than any fire magic could, chasing away the lingering chill of void corruption.

We fall silent, the rhythm of our breathing synchronizing in the quiet room. Through our tether, I feel his emotions settling—the sharp edges of worry softening into something closer to contentment.

"I'll protect you," he murmurs, voice heavy with meaning. "Whatever comes."

"I know," I whisper back. "We'll protect each other."

As sleep claims me, I wonder which is more dangerous—the secrets Raith keeps, or the feelings growing between us despite them. Both have the power to destroy, to wound beyond healing.

Chapter 32

I wake to warmth—a perfect, comfortable heat that makes me want to burrow deeper into the covers and never emerge. As consciousness gradually returns, I realize the source of that heat is Raith, his body curled protectively around mine, one strong arm draped over my waist. Sometime during the night, the careful inch of space between us had vanished, our bodies finding each other like matching puzzle pieces drifting closer until we clicked into place.

His breathing is deep and steady against the back of my neck, his heart a solid thump against my spine. For a moment, I allow myself to simply exist in this bubble of safety and comfort, memorizing the weight of his arm and the way our bodies fit together as if designed for exactly this.

Too soon, the reality of our situation intrudes on my thoughts—the meeting with Voss, the approaching Crucible, the lingering mystery of the siphon. But I cling to this moment like a talisman, tucking it away to revisit when the world inevitably turns dark again.