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Dom’s hand clenched into a fist, knuckles white beneath pale skin. He refused to think of Taristan and Cortael in the same breath, their images intertwined. Lest the memory of Cortael rot, corrupted by his brother’s face.
“He did speak of you. I remember that much.” Meliz’s voice took on a dreamy edge, her eyes faraway again, in a memory Dom did not share. “Cortael called you his brother, in heart if not blood.”
Elders healed quicker than mortals; Dom himself was a testament to that.The trade, it seems, is that our hearts, once broken, never heal at all.He felt the pain of it sharply in his chest, beneath quilted wool, skin, and bone.
Part of him wanted to turn away and leave Meliz to her memories. But he could not move, frozen to the spot.
The reason was obvious, even to him.
She held a little piece of Cortael, one he had never seen. As she spoke, it was like he lived again, even for an instant.
“He was seventeen when we met,” she said.
Dom remembered. Cortael was gangly, his limbs too long, still growing into his frame. His dark red hair hung loose, brushing his shoulders, his black eyes always piercing, always fixed on the horizon. And he was diligent, talented, honed like good steel. He already had the makings of a king.
“Cortael was barely more than a boy, but already different.” Meliz wavered, her brow furrowing. “Graver. Older in some way. And restless. Haunted.”
“So are all his kind,” Dom mumbled. He remembered the same, the way Cortael always took one last glance at the stars before they forced him to sleep. Always searching.
“I thought I could save Corayne from it.” Her voice thickened, catching in her throat. “I thought I could give her roots. But what do I know of such things?”
The pirate captain waved dismissively at herself, salt-worn and sun-damaged, swaying idly as her ship swayed on the tide.
Dom felt the odd urge to embrace the woman but elected not to. He wagered Meliz an-Amarat did not enjoy being coddled, least of all by him.
“She will never have roots, Meliz,” he said slowly, as much for himself as for her. “But perhaps we can give her wings.”
Her eyes gleamed, unshed tears reflecting the dipping sun. As in the villa, she took him by the arm. This time, her touch was gentle, her hand feather-light.
“Protect her for me,” she breathed. “And for Cortael.”
“I will.”
With my dying breath. With every fiber of my being.
“I loved him too, in my own way.” Her hand pulled back, dropping to her side. Meliz did not weep, her tears held at bay. “Before I let him go.”
Dom’s own eyes stung, the image of the port swimming out of focus, until even Sorasa was a blur before his eyes.
“I am still learning to do that,” he bit out.
“The memories can stay,” she said gravely. Her aura of command returned, falling around her like a cloak. “But the rest is an anchor. The grief. Even you can drown, Domacridhan.”
Stricken as he was, Dom could not help but twist a bitter smile.
“A strange thing to say before a voyage.”
To his surprise, Meliz smiled too, shaking her head at him. With the sun in her hair and the smile on her face, Dom understood what Cortael saw in her, so many years ago.
“You are odder than I expected,” she chuckled.
He quirked a brow at her. “And what did you expect?”
The pirate captain paused, licking her lips.
“Someone colder,” she finally said, looking him up and down. “Made of stone instead of flesh. Less mortal. Like all the things Cortael tried to be.”
The wind blew over the harbor again, smelling of salt. He turned into it, facing the docks and the little ship. A familiar figure ran its deck, checking the rigging, though she was no sailor. It was not like Sorasa Sarn to remain still.
