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DAHLIA

“ Y ou’re going to dig a rut clear to the first circle of hell, my Lady,” Viktor muses as I pace back and forth for what must be the hundredth time in the last half hour. I’ve barely slept in the two nights that Alaric has been gone. I’ll admit that I’ve wrapped myself in his sweater each evening, and that has helped ease a bit of the pain of him being gone, but sleep itself has been elusive. I’ve dozed a bit here and there in the very early hours of the morning when exhaustion became too much, but fretfully. The first day had been torture, but I’d done my best to act normal. Today has been even worse. Training, the forge, walking with Takara, more training—everything only manages to keep the worst of my stress away for what feels like mere moments.

Now I’ve taken to pacing in the field behind the cabin while my guard and Takara watch on.

“Do you want to spar?” Cyrus asks cheerfully.

“No, thank you.”

“Do you want to watch Cyrus and I spar?” Malcom suggests.

“Oh, I would like to watch that,” Takara says, raising her hand. “Perhaps shirtless?”

“I second the shirtless sentiment,” Viktor chimes in with a grin, blowing a kiss in Malcom’s direction.

I can’t help but laugh, pausing my pacing.

“I wouldn’t be completely opposed to watching shirtless sparring, I suppose…” I grin and wink at Takara. “Maybe even pantless—” I gasp and double over as pain spears through my body, burning like someone’s touched a hot poker directly to my heart.

“Dahlia!” Takara cries, running to my side as I fall to my knees.

“My Lady, what’s wrong?” Malcom demands, drawing his blade just as Cyrus and Viktor do the same, placing themselves in a protective loose circle around me. I claw at the ground, fingers curling into the cold earth as I try to breathe around not only the pain, but the panic , because this pain—it isn’t mine.

“Alaric,” I gasp out before pushing myself to my feet and running faster than I’ve ever run before. I hear them calling after me, giving chase, but I don’t dare slow. Something is very wrong with Alaric and something inside of me that I don’t understand is screaming at me to go to him. It’s more than just worry, it’s something much more primal. I run to the stable, Xerxes stomping in his stall, feeling that something is wrong with Alaric the same as I am. I throw open his door and don’t even waste time on a saddle.

Malcom makes it to the stable first, Takara just on his heels.

“Don’t try to stop me,” I warn. “You can follow if you want, but I have to go. Now .”

Takara studies me, a flash of understanding that I don’t even quite comprehend sparking in her eyes, and then she puts a hand on Malcom’s arm.

“Help her up, Mal,” she says quietly. “Do it now. We’ll follow, but she needs to do this. Trust me.”

Malcom doesn’t question it, simply strides forward and lifts me by the waist, settling me on top of the giant horse.

“Ride swift, my Lady.”

With that, I dig my hands into Xerxes’ mane and he takes off like a bolt of lightning.

“Come on, boy. Get me to him,” I beg. “Please get me to him.” The horse runs faster than I’ve ever seen him run, the camp falling away quickly and the forest blurring around us as we speed towards Alaric. My heart threatens to burst through my chest, terror consuming me and making it almost impossible to breathe. What could have happened? He can’t be hurt, not truly. He’s… Alaric . Nothing can harm him…right?

We run on and on, and though I know the journey takes hours, it flies by so quickly that it seems like mere moments. I ignore the pain in my thighs, the chill seeping into my bones. We speed towards the temporary camp, not slowing as shouts arise from those on patrol, cries of warning and then of recognition. We run through the makeshift camp, passing rows of tents and huddles of men around fires. Somehow Xerxes knows exactly where to go, drawn to his master, I assume, and we pull up to a hard stop just outside the largest tent. The warhorse is frothing with exhaustion and I can only pray that he hasn’t pushed himself too far. I slide from his back, hitting the ground hard and falling to my knees, but I ignore the flare of pain. I force myself up and give Xerxes a grateful pat before stumbling towards the opening of the tent. Elias’ head snaps up when I enter, quickly crossing to me.

“Dahlia? What are you?—”

“Where is he?” I demand. “What happened?!” I stalk past Elias, charging further into the tent—and freezing in absolute horror. Alaric is on a raised pallet of furs, bare from the waist up and writhing in pain. There’s a gaping wound in his chest, one that…isn’t healing. Why isn’t he healing? Dark lines branch out from the wound, like tentacles of some sea beast. His body is slick with sweat and trembling, his skin flushed with what I assume is fever.

There are a few others in the tent, but I can’t focus on any of them. All I can see, all I care about is Alaric. Elias steps up beside me.

“Silver, my Lady,” he says quietly. “An arrow was tipped with silver powder and it’s gotten into his blood stream.” He takes a deep breath and my heart stops beating as he says the next words:

“There’s…there’s nothing we can do to stop it.”