"You'll die," Casteel protested, even as he helped Makim prepare Nero for movement.
Eryken's smile was grim. "Not if we can help it. This is what the rebellion trained for." He clasped Casteel's shoulder briefly. "Go. Get him to safety. Abergenny needs you both alive."
Chapter Twelve
The abandoned boarding housesat three streets away from the temple ruins, its windows boarded up and its walls scarred by years of neglect. But inside, the rebellion had transformed it into a functional if temporary safehouse—clean rooms, medical supplies, and guards posted at every entrance. Casteel hadn't left Nero's side in two days.
He sat beside the narrow bed, watching the rise and fall of his mate's chest with obsessive intensity. Through their bond, he felt each flicker of pain, each moment of restless sleep, each gradual improvement in Nero's condition. The wounds were healing, Makim assured him, but slowly.
"You need to eat," the healer said for the third time that morning, setting a tray of bread and broth on the rickety table. "The bond requires strength from both of you."
Casteel picked at the food mechanically, his attention never wavering from Nero's pale face. His mate's breathing had grown steadier through the night, the wet rattle fading from his lungs, but he remained unconscious more often than not.
"How long?" Casteel asked, the same question he'd posed every few bells.
"His body is healing," Makim replied patiently. "But arrow wounds to the chest...they take time. Be grateful the bond is sustaining him." The healer met Casteel's gaze. "You've kept him alive, not I."
Through the thin walls came the sounds of the rebellion—people coming and going, hushed conversations about Doran's crackdown on the city, plans being made and revised. Casteel ignored it all. His world had narrowed to this room, this bed, this man who had become everything to him.
When footsteps approached their door, Casteel tensed, hand moving instinctively to the sword Eryken had given him. But the knock was gentle, respectful.
"Come in," he called.
Eryken entered, moving with the careful quietness of a man accustomed to sickrooms. His weathered face bore new lines of exhaustion, and his left arm was bound in a sling—evidence of the fighting at the temple.
"How is he?" Eryken asked, settling into the room's single chair with a barely suppressed wince.
"Alive," Casteel replied, his fingers finding Nero's pulse point automatically. "Makim says the wounds are clean, healing properly."
"Good." Eryken studied his former lieutenant's face, something unreadable flickering in his eyes. "He's always been stubborn about dying."
Despite everything, Casteel felt a small smile tug at his lips. "Tell me about him. Before the rebellion, before all this."
Eryken was quiet for a long moment, his gaze distant. "I didn't know him personally then, so this may be soldier's gossip but from what I've heard Nero was...different then. Had a farm outside Millhaven, a wife who could make even burnt porridgetaste like feast food. One child, and his wife was pregnant with a second when she died." His voice softened. "He used to talk about teaching his son to use a bow."
The words pierced Casteel's heart. He felt Nero stir slightly, as though even unconscious, he could sense the memories being shared.
"What happened?" Casteel asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
Eryken's face darkened. "When Nero couldn't pay the tax collectors, they took half his livestock as penalty the day he was having to burn blighted crops to save his other fields." He ran a hand over his face. "His son died of a fever then his wife was attacked while treating the sick in a neighboring village. Thieves looking for medicine or anything valuable. By the time Nero found her..."
"It was too late," Casteel finished, remembering fragments Nero had shared that night before everything fell apart.
Eryken nodded. "He came to us then. Didn't speak for nearly a month, just worked himself to exhaustion each day. But he was lethal with a bow—could hit targets others couldn't even see." A ghost of a smile crossed his face. "The first time I heard him laugh again was during a raid on a supply caravan. He'd made an impossible shot, and when the guards scattered, he just...laughed. Like he remembered he was still alive."
Casteel's fingers gently traced the bandages covering Nero's chest. "He told me some of this, but not all."
"He wouldn't," Eryken said. "Nero guards his pain like a miser guards gold." He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "I've known him for five years, fought beside him, trusted him with my life. And I've never seen him look at anyone the way he looked at you on that balcony as he realized we were trying for the shot."
Heat bloomed in Casteel's cheeks. "The bond—"
"Is magic, yes," Eryken interrupted. "But magic can't create what isn't there to begin with. It amplifies, enhances, brings to the surface." His eyes, sharp with battlefield wisdom, studied Casteel carefully. "The Nero I know would never have thrown himself in front of arrows for any but those he loves. Not even me."
Silence settled between them, broken only by Nero's steady breathing. Outside, rain began to fall, pattering against the boarded windows like hesitant fingertips.
"What happens now?" Casteel asked, finally trying not to let his stupid heart beat so quickly it stopped. "Doran will be hunting us. The city is in chaos."
"Now we adapt," Eryken replied, his voice taking on the crisp authority of command. "Doran overplayed his hand with that decree. The nobles who weren't already in his pocket are alarmed by his grab for power. The common folk are confused—their prophesied savior has vanished, their city is burning, and their High Priest is demanding they surrender their sons to his new army."
