Elyria’s face was impossibly close, her bottom lip between her teeth, green eyes filled with worry as they ran down his face, his neck, his chest. Searching. Pleading.
Maybe he really was dead. Because that was the only possible explanation for why she would be looking at him like that.
“Cedric?” Her voice turned his name into a song, a melody that washed the vestiges of that mental fog from his mind. Her hand rested on his upper arm, a gentle touch that sent a spark across his skin. It was then that he realized he was bare from the waist up, save for the long bandages wrapped around his chest, shoulder, and head.
With a low groan, Cedric shifted and tried to prop himself up on his elbows, each breath sending a sharp pain through his ribs.
“Don’t move.” Elyria leaned back, the lilt of her voice shifting into something commanding. Protective. “He’s awake,” she called over her shoulder, and Cedric heard the soft patter of footsteps before Zephyr’s frowning face entered his field of vision.
“Thank Gaia,” said the sylvan, immediately ducking down andfussing with Cedric’s bandages.
“How”—he coughed, his words trapped in his dry throat—“how long?” he rasped.
“A few hours,” Elyria replied, some emotion flicking across her face that belied the casualness in her voice.
“What happened? Where is Bel?—”
“Dead.” The word was calm but laced with tension, the kind that made Cedric feel like he was missing something important.
He blinked, his mind sluggish as it struggled to piece together what had transpired in those last moments. Belien was dead. So was Leona, he remembered. He hadn’t witnessed her fall, but he certainly had the honor of bearing the brunt of Belien’s grief.
Elyria stood abruptly, leaving a sudden chill in the place where her hand had lain upon his arm.
Stiffly, Cedric pushed himself into a sitting position, ignoring the protestations of Zephyr and his body alike—the spike of pain that pulled across his ribs and the throbbing at the back of his head. He tracked Elyria’s movements as she ventured toward the small campfire burning nearby, the rest of the champions lounging around it.
Thraigg’s burly frame was curled over his hammer, the metal glinting in the firelight as he cleaned it. Cedric met his eye, and the dwarf offered him a stout nod. Next to him, Nox sat with their legs crossed and eyes closed, absentmindedly stroking one of the dark curved horns on their head, deep in thought. Cyren and Kit had their heads bowed together, speaking in low tones. They took turns tossing surreptitious glances at Gael, who sat in front of the fire, hands wrapped around her knees, staring blankly into the flames.
They were still in the cavern. Cedric’s eyes widened as he realized the ground he sat upon was once again whole and even. Evidence of the battle remained—piles of broken stone strewn across the floor, sections painted with the dark stain of blood. But there was no sign of the wide rift that cut the cavern in half. Had Elyria sealed the sundered ground?
He looked at her retreating form, her head turned to the side as she braided her hair down one shoulder, offering the slimmest glimpse of her face as she walked away. He would’ve sworn her eyes kept darting back to him, though he couldn’t read the emotion there. Was it...guilt?Or something else? She was acting as though the sight of him pained her.
He didn’t understand. If anyone should be feeling guilty, it was him.
Traitor. Betrayer.
Belien’s accusations ran on a loop in Cedric’s mind. He should have felt something like relief or satisfaction—justice?—knowing the sorcerer was gone. He’d been a poison on the entire Crucible, spreading nothing but bitterness and animosity since before they’d even gone through the Gate. Leona, too. In direct conflict with what the Crucible clearly expected of its champions. Time and time again, their behavior had proven them a stain on humanity’s reputation. The idea that one of them might be the one to claim the crown had been humiliating at best, terrifying at worst.
And that wasbeforea blood-mad Belien had tried to incinerate Cedric on the spot.
But all Cedric felt was a sort of sinking feeling around his heart. He couldn’t get the accusations out of his head. Was he a traitor to his kind? Was that what his legacy would be? He was the last remaining human champion. And he’d only gotten here because time and time again, an Arcanian had been willing to put their pride and personal gain aside to help him.
Cedric had never felt smaller. Even now, he was sure he was only alive thanks to their machinations.
He rubbed his hand over the bandage on his torso, at the spot where Belien’s blood magic had struck him. Howwashe still alive? He’d felt the bolt cut straight through his armor, felt that sharp, piercing pain in his chest. He was certain that the only place he should have woken after a blow like that was in the Hereafter.
Zephyr was still fussing behind him, and Cedric winced as she lifted the bandage wrapped around his head to apply a foul-smelling balm. Between her and the quartet of fae present, all blessed with a modicum of healing magic, Cedric knew that his injuries must have been very grave indeed for him to still be in this much pain.
He sighed, inwardly chastising himself. He’d become soft, already entirely too used to the convenience and comfort of magical healing. His nose scrunched and lips pursed as Zephyr rubbed the pungent balm on his chest wound, his head swimming from the stench.
A melodic laugh floated into Cedric’s ear. Drawn like magnets, his eyes shot to the source.
He’d thought Elyria would have joined the other champions at the fire by now. Instead, she reapproached Cedric, a small bundle in her hands.
“Here,” she said, holding it out to him. Then, wrinkling her nose and looking assessingly at Zephyr, she added, “Although, perhaps you won’t have much of an appetite until that...aroma...fades.”
Cedric’s brows drew together as he took the bundle from Elyria and unwrapped it to reveal five strips of bacon folded in a cloth napkin.
He looked at her.
