Page 18 of What Whispers in the Dark (Promises of the Marked)

E xhaustion thrummed over him like a tide as Alora’s laughter distracted him. Not that he wished for it to stop—ever. Not that sound dancing through his thin canvas walls that had traded the morning colors of dusk for golden shards of sunlight. Never that sound.

It was an effort not to react to it.

That laughter drew Thalon’s attention. Shifting his gaze in her direction, a touch of amusement ghosted his face as he prodded, “Out for a stroll this morning?” With his shoulders back and arms crossed, he leaned against Garrik’s table, a knowing grin spreading across his face.

An effort not to react to that, too.

He was a fool.

Last night … in the moonlight, kissed by the midnight breeze of that glade, he had not once thought of the consequences come dawn. Not once, with her head on his shoulder, cared about returning to camp, where everyone prepared to move out. Where everyone would be waiting … and see them return.

A starsdamned fool.

Garrik slid his attention from his tent canvas and growled in retort as he reclined in his chair, ignoring another blissful laugh and Jade’s sharp sound of mirth.

That was … new .

He was tempted to smile at it, at the story Alora had recited; their daring encounter with a rieke—their teamwork. Instead, he focused on the glass of vanilla and oak liquid forming condensation around his fingertips when his Guardian spoke again.

“What would Aiden say?”

Stifling the urge to snarl, he cocked his head in warning.

“Aiden would know to keep his mouth shut or find himself thrown in a river before I force him to walk to Alynthia.” The glass reached his lips, allowing the sting of liquid to burn his throat.

“We leave within the hour. Inform the generals.”

Thalon pushed off the table, turned, and leaned, pressing his fingers into the maps.

His glowing golden assessment bore into the mark, displaying Alynthia’s supposed location.

“Perhaps today the legion could rest. After everything that happened the last few days”—he shifted his weight, cautiously glancing over his shoulder at Garrik refilling his glass from a filled decanter beside his chair—“and … of course. Your birthday.”

At that memory-cursed word, warm bourbon burned down Garrik’s throat again when he tossed back his sixth glass that hour.

It did little to diminish his rising discomfort.

Not so few glasses, and not this early in the morning.

Lately, he used the burn to remind himself he was still alive, especially when his skin reminded him he was akin to a corpse drifting on the icy seas of Krysenka, where shadows and Darkness reigned in an eternal night—or were rumored to.

In all the histories, there were no accounts of anyone ever crossing the waters to its shores.

“What’s one more day?” Thalon shrugged with his palms against the table; the golden Earned in his hair clacked together with the movement.

Beyond Thalon, a timid voice chuckled outside, along with a hollow thump he recognized came from a book, and ignored those, too.

A stuttering breath was Garrik’s answer, recovered by the quick clearing of his throat because that word …

that wretched word pounded from a door deep and sealed, echoing along the shackles inside his mind’s prison and around every sharpened piece of twisted iron and rock and barb he had constructed to keep those memories buried decades ago.

His birthday .

The cursed day was carved into the year like one of his scars. The word elicited a deathly chill waving down his spine and caused his lip to curl.

He had never told them why he hated to celebrate.

If they kne w …

Only, he would never enlighten them. Never allow his darkest secrets and deepest shame to surface.

Today was more vital for his legions’ morale than celebrating the tragedy that was his cruel and regrettable birth.

It had meaning behind it. Like the games in the arena, they needed this day— just one fucking day —to release the pressure weighing on them.

And to forget, if only for a fleeting moment, what Magnelis had done—and what he would still do…

Though it felt like hopelessly drowning from the depths of a bottomless sea, for them all, he would choke on this day just as he had in the silence of his screams. Like he had on the nights that only pure, undulated terror reigned.

He would endure with no one knowing what had happened to him, the things that had been repeated on this day for thirty years in that starsdamned rotting dungeon cell.

When they?—

When she …

Black, viper-like tendrils slithered around his arms in a vapored illusion.

They were not truly there, but still, he quickly tugged his tunic sleeve away from his skin as Thalon’s voice muddled into the distance.

He tried to fight it, tried to steady his vision, shake his head?—

A stoned hallway tunneled before him, lined by torches that cast his crumpled shadow along the walls.

Ebony gloves gripped his bound arms behind his back, shielding a dark-haired High Fae male from the festering burns he had scorched into Garrik’s body as they went up, up, up into the castle.

Garrik could feel the simmering heat of dormant flames from within Malik’s palms as he led them past one …

two … three torches flickering against filthy granite walls.

His burned feet could barely move, barely stand being dragged over each bloodstained graystone.

The sound of the scraping, the smell of his burned flesh, and nausea as he fought to keep his eyes open…

“Garrik?” Thalon called, his voice kingdoms away.

Six more steps and the door would bare him to her. Six more steps ? —

“Happy birthday, my pet.”

Red. Everything was covered in flowing, viscid, warm pools of red.

“Garrik? Did you hear me?” echoed that voice again, but Garrik hardly heard it. Because… in that blood-covered darkened room, surrounded by a blackened abyss, staring into solid onyx eyes above him … someone was screaming.

He was screaming.

Garrik barely felt the glass shatter in his hand.

“ Garrik !” Something like fabric tearing scratched the air. Movement below his chair … then warmth. On his shoulder. A light shake— “Brother, what is it?”

That touch. Garrik shuddered as if it were someone else’s daggered claws preparing to curl and stab into his skin.

Shadows whirled around his face and hands, unsettled and desperate.

Pulling at him— begging their master to wake from the nightmare reigning.

His other guardians called to him silently.

The comforting darkness, their velvet touch, their soothing cold against his scars and unbearable skin, shielding him now because they could not protect him back then.

Face bleak, his eyes swirled with veiled night as he blinked.

“Garrik, please. ” Thalon shook him gently. His pleas danced through the room as he placed his hand on the back of Garrik’s head. “Talk to me . ”

That was not so simple.

He blinked again. The abyss faded like waves retreating from shore as silver narrowed on his hand. Droplets of blood stained a scrap of fabric wrapped around his palm.

That was not there before …

Beside him, his Guardian knelt.

This had been occurring more frequently.

And Thalon was always quick to notice, but knew to remain silent.

As it was not the orders of his brother, Garrik, but the High Prince who commanded him to focus on his duties.

For nearly three years, Garrik had refused to listen.

Refused aid when it was ultimately futile.

Nothing could stop her magic. Nothing could destroy the memories and nightmares.

They were his scars to bear.

Garrik plucked the fabric away from his abdomen, reinforcing the thought, They would never know.

He would not be based as weak . A plaything. Toy. A pathetic trinket to bend and break.

Garrik let out a long-suffering breath. “I’m?—”

“Say the word fine and I’ll throw you out of this tent on your ass and beat you into a river like the little shit-spoiled High Prince you once were.

” Brimstoned fury burned in Thalon’s eyes.

Provoking that holy temper from within him was …

rare. But when his anger surfaced, especially for those he loved dearly—his family …

“Watch yourself, Realmpiercer. I am your High Prince.”

That shadow flared and unfurled behind him, masking the sunlight against the canvas.

“Don’t play that shit with me. Out there”—Thalon made a pointed gesture at the canvas, at the firesite and camp beyond—“in front of them, I will do as you command without question. But in here, I won’t sit back and watch you fall into whatever Firekeeper-filled- hell that just was. ”

Dangerous ground. Very dangerous ground. Thalon would not be dismissed easily today.

Garrik dug his heels into the dirt and stood, muscles rippling from both the memory and the challenge. “I do not take orders from you, general .” He took a step toward his swords-master, fist clenched.

Thalon dared to advance, too. “Today you do.” With a hand on his golden sword, he anchored his boots into the dirt and held new ground.

“Ready to have your ass kicked? Go ahead, at least that’s something instead of sitting here pretending you’re unbothered when you and I both know damn well you’re not.

” Thalon unsheathed his sword and stabbed it into the dirt beside Garrik’s chair.

The air thickened, falling blisteringly cold.

Thalon knew precisely what he was doing. He stepped forward again, fists raised. “Put your damn hands up.”

“ Don’t ,” Garrik growled, a warning as his eyes began to fade into the darkened abyss.

“Then talk.”

Talk ? He would rather eviscerate something—anything. And he recognized Thalon knew that simple, deadly fact. Thalon would risk his own life, risk the Savage Prince turning on him, just to bring Garrik some relief.

He didn’t deserve such loyalty. Such … love.

The two stood in silence, measuring each other.