They had been building toward something so perfect. Could have been more perfect, still, with the gift of this extra time together. Were it not for Raefe’s presence.
Cedric’s bruised knuckles throbbed, like they had a heartbeat all their own, as he recalled the feel of Raefe’s face colliding with his fist, the sound of crunching bone and sight of splitting skin.
The knight smiled.
Served the bastard right for daring to hurt her. For daring to hurt what washis.
He quickly shook his head, wiping the grin from his face and inhaling sharply. This was so unlike him.
She did not need his protection.
She was not his possession.
Was not a thing to be owned or a prize to be won.
She was not, in fact, his.
But you are hers,his mind told him, and Cedric couldn’t help but sigh at the truth in that.
The weather had turned crueler with every mile they journeyed from Kingshelm. If there’d been any doubt as to whether winter was on its way, there certainly wasn’t any more. Not as the wind bit at Cedric’s cheeks, his horse’s reins slack in his grip as they picked their way down the tree-lined road.
“Easy, Polonius,” Cedric murmured, reaching down to pat his neck. The horse huffed and tossed his head as though irritated with the sound of his hooves squelching in the damp earth, the wet leaves crushed with every step.
The party had split into natural groupings as they traveled. Sephone and Raefe kept to the front, while Young Shep, Thraigg, and Jocelyn followed behind. Then came Thibault and Hargrave, toting along the packhorse and wagon. Their assignment to the group had been a pleasant surprise—Lord Church hadn’t informed Cedric of their involvement in escorting the Arcanians, but after journeying with them to and from the Lost City, he’d come to enjoy their company. Even if Thibault’s personal views regarding their traveling companions still left something to be desired.
The continued side-glances he gave Elyria, Jocelyn, Sephone, and Raefe, in particular, led Cedric to believe that, despite whatever accords might have been signed and declarations King Callum might have made, Thibault’s feelings hadn’t evolved much since the Crucible.
Cedric exhaled. He supposed he couldn’t expect the man to have changed overnight. Still, he wondered why Thibault would even have volunteered for this assignment. He supposed he and Hargrave were somewhat of a unit. At least the latter seemed perfectly at ease with the situation.
Polonius nickered, drawing Cedric’s attention back with a shake of his mane. He shifted in his saddle to look behind him, where Tristan and Ollie brought up the rear and completed the trail of their little caravan. Elyria, rather fittingly, seemed inclined to ride wherever she wanted, whenever she wanted. Sometimes, she would push Fjaethe far past the group, as though scouting ahead. Other times, it was like she’d fall purposefully behind.
Cedric suspected it was not just traveling in the same party as Raefe that had her so on edge. She was clearly unhappy with howlong the journey was taking as a whole, irritated that she couldn’t just soar straight to Dawnspire on those aurora-like wings. Couldn’t step through the shadows and justbe there.
Restraint was not her strong suit, Cedric was aware. So it really did make it all the more admirable that Elyria exercised so much of it. From the moment she’d stepped foot in Havensreach, really, she had been holding back. Deferring to the king’s rules, playing by the book.
Even dutifully ignoring the man who deserved so much more than the temporarily broken nose Cedric had given him. And the one Elyria had bestowed upon him herself a few days prior.
How convenient it must be to have the modicum of healing magic all fae possessed, Cedric thought. It made the idea of breaking Raefe’s nose all over again, should he step out of line, all the more enticing.
Cedric smiled again.
No, she definitely did not need him to fight her battles. But he would do so happily anyway. Even if she was still keeping him at arm’s length.
Cedric tracked where Elyria rode ahead of him, the hood of her cloak up around her face, flexing his fist around Polonius’ reins. They’d barely spoken since the morning they’d left Kingshelm. Not about anything that mattered, at any rate.
Not about Raefe. Not about how proud Cedric was of himself—how proud he hoped she was—for keeping his fire subdued, keeping it from leaping forth and setting the entire courtyard ablaze when he’d punched him.
And definitely not about what happened the night before they left.
Cedric didn’t know what he’d expected. That despite her claims of even slates and settled scores, things might’ve been different? That the way Elyria’s body had curled into his in the dark, the press of her lips, their intertwining magic, the way she had whispered that she wanted tostay with him...that it all meant something?
It did, of course. To him, obviously, but he knew now that it meant something to her too.
It’s just that Elyria was Elyria.
And he—well, he was still a fool.
She’d hardly even looked at him in days.
