“Mal, please, wake up,” she whispered.
The thunder settled for a moment, still and quiet, and Mal’s voice faded. A swell of hope rose in her chest. But distant laughter rang across the Black Deep.
Maeve.
Maeve.
Maeve.
She felt Reeve move behind her. She still didn’t know if it was purely his raw, lethal power that resonated through his body, or because she was not much of a Witch without her own Magic, that he had such an effect on her now.
“I can’t look away,” she uttered.
“From the mountains?”
Maeve.
“He calls to me,” was all she replied.
Reeve moved closer, watching The Dark Peaks with contempt in his eyes. But his voice was a soft hum. “You hear it often?” he said.
He ran his fingers through his hair.
Maeve.
Reeve kneeled at her side, slowly bringing himself to her level.
“I can’t tell if he’s calling my name in a prayer or a curse,” she confessed softly, wiping her eyes pridefully before more tears fell. “I’m not sure which is worse.”
She stood tall and faced him, forcing down the remaining tears.
“Can you hear it?” she asked.
He shook his head.
Maeve.
“Then why are you here?” she asked sharply.
Reeve studied her face for a moment. “Because I can feel you.”
“Right,” she said with a nod. “Our lovely little bond.”
There was nothing lovely in her tone.
Reeve hummed. “You’ve pleaded for my help many times through that lovely little bond.”
Maeve.
She sighed, accepting Mal’s voice would remain in her head. That it would likely keep her from sleep.
“You’re so stubborn,” commented Reeve, but his tone was laced with something like a compliment. “I could help you sleep. My Magic, there are potions—”
“No,” she said plainly.
She turned towards the doors to her chamber, dismissing the idea entirely and leaving him on the balcony.
Green firelights flickered in the darkness, illuminating the walls of the North Tower in Castle Morana. Maeve’s heart raced, jumping out of her chest.
