When I look into Nightspark’s large brown eyes, dark eyelashes framing them beautifully, though barely distinguishable against his black coat, he doesn’t seem so beastly. His blood isn't visible until it hits the cobblestones below but it's dripping at a steady rate, enough that I’m willing to get bitten to help him.
I hold his gaze with my own, unfalteringly calm as I let him adjust to my presence. When he snorts unhappily but doesn’t immediately lash out at me, I push aside my own pain to offer him my hand. He sniffs at it, not happy with the interaction, but still he doesn't snap his teeth, which is permission enough. When my damaged palm slips onto his neck, my fingers almost brush the leather of Prince Soren’s gloves as he moves his hand away from the wound, and the maelstrom of my poison-addled mind reaches a new peak.
The male hates me, and the Fates alone keep me at his side, so why in the ashes am I so keenly aware of the stillness in his body? With narrowed eyes, he watches me carefully with no malice in his gaze but, as the fraught air thickens around us, the depths of his affection for this beast becomes painfully clear.
This isn’t just a useful or preferred horse; Nightspark is a ward of my Fates-blessed mate.
I let my magic out gently, softly, in the way that all animals and skittish folk need, letting it slowly build until I’m steadily healing and he’s never had the chance to notice. Pushing my magic into the wound, I stop the flow of blood and repair the blood vessels, and then weave together the torn muscle.
Careful to do only what’s absolutely required, I stop the damage from getting worse and begin the healing process. I take away the pain, pulling it into myself and adding it to the heavy burden already within me.
There’s a push at my shoulder, and my eyes slip open to find Nightspark nudging at me with his nose as he demands a scratch, his own form of thanks. A smile stretches across my lips, my eyes itching now more than ever, but I gently rub the backs of my fingers over the soft velvet of his muzzle. It’s the only patch of my hands whole enough to give him what he demands without compounding the agony tearing me to shreds.
I don't want to meet Prince Soren’s gaze, every inch of me too exposed, but when I move to turn away, he catches my arm. Though my mind is still a hazy mess, I notice he’s removed his gloves. His fingers are impossible to shake, and I don’t have the strength to try. They’re gentle enough, more confusion swirling in my gut and the sensation only deepens when my gaze catches on the bundle of clothing now balanced on Tyton’s pack.
The clasp sitting on top is Soren’s and the furs make it easy to distinguish it’s his cloak I’m looking at, but when I glance back to him, I find he's also removed his riding jacket and the plates of armor that covered his legs. The drops of witcheswane that inevitably covered him thanks to the melee are now gone.
A lump forms in my throat as my eyes sting but I dismiss it as a reaction to the pain in my hands or a relief to escape any further injury. Such an emotional response to basic kindness can only be a result of my weakened state and not a softening for this male. He doesn’t deserve an inch of my regard, no matter how the Fates sing beneath my scars.
“Reed, help her up. She’ll ride with me.”
Even with the strength draining from my legs, I move to brace myself with my foot on his foot to swing myself up behind him but it’s no use. The vile poison has taken its toll and noamount of my determination can stop my legs from giving out. It’s Soren’s grip on my arm alone that saves me from collapsing on the cobblestones at Nightspark’s feet.
Reed looks carefully at the prince before he steps over to me, hands firm on my hips as he lifts me without trouble to sit behind Soren. Though he’s patient with my clumsy movements to get settled there, he steps back the second I'm seated, as though touching me burns him. He ducks his head deeply into a bow and, confused, I glance up to find the audience we’ve attracted.
The soldiers of Yrell watch every part of this interaction, a gallery of assessing eyes, and idly, as I struggle to keep my wits about me, I notice the clear differences between them and the soldiers of Yregar. There’s an arrogance there that’s baseless, as far as I can tell. An assumed superiority, simply for their bloodlines, but I can already see the cracks that have begun to form.
The performance Reed is putting on makes sense.
Soren clicks under his tongue and Nightspark moves at his command, the pace far slower than when we rode here, but still I struggle to stay seated. I don't know where to put my hands. They hurt too much to simply grip Soren’s waist, but my balance is hampered by my pain, so not holding on at all isn’t a wise option.
Soren doesn’t give me the chance to come to my own decision. Hooking his hands behind my knees, he slides me closer to settle me against his back. One of his hands stays around my leg, holding me securely as the warmth of his firm grip seeps through the layers of my robes to sink into my skin. Vaguely, I think the Fates approve of our closeness, but there’s too much chaos in my mind to tell.
The stink of the witch's blood is horrific, none of the high fae exaggerating their distaste for it. The toxic concoction of magicKharl feeds into his soldiers rots in their blood before they're even dead, and a vile stench bursts from their corpses instantly, but the witcheswane smells even worse to me. It radiates from the cobblestones and reaches me even up here, and there are remnants of it on Nightspark’s legs from where he rode through the puddles that line Yrell’s outer wall.
My stomach churns, and I have to pull all my focus into myself to be sure I don't vomit all over Soren's back, swallowing over and over again to keep it at bay. My eyes screw tightly shut, and my legs squeeze to keep me from falling. I barely feel the nudge of another horse riding up beside us before the teeth-snapping sound of Nightspark’s ire breaks through my concentration.
Prince Tyton begins to murmur, “Whatever you need to say to Prince Mercer, do it quickly. The witcheswane is draining her, and it’ll do far worse if we don't get her away from it soon."
Soren tenses underneath my cheek, and a hand presses against the back of my neck, pushing me into him as Tyton holds me on the horse securely. The horses move faster now that I'm supported, Nightspark lashing out as he's forced to ride abreast of the others. When I hear the gates ahead open, I blink my eyes to clear them, but it’s no use.
As we come to a halt before the castle, I slump, hands catching me in an echo of the fight at Yregar, and darkness envelops me once more.
The monsters hunt me.
Consuming, destroying everything in their path. They hunt us, huntme, hunt the magic in my blood that’s older than theFates themselves. Panic blinds me, steals the air from my lungs, a shot through my bloodstream and into my heart until it races faster than my feet could ever carry me.
Or maybe my eyes are shut.
Have the Ureen descended on the camps? Have they followed us out of the cities and fallen onto the makeshift lodgings of the evacuees? Why else would I be sleeping when those apparitions still hunt?
They hunt me, they hunt Pemba, they want our blood and our power, they want me more than a hundred thousand cities filled to the brim with high fae. They just want me.
“Rooke… Fates mercies, Rooke,wake up!”
My eyes fly open, and an agony-filled gasp tears from my lips as my hands shove at the wall before me, bright bursts of stars filling my vision as the pain rocks me. My gut churns, my throat working to keep the bile down, and the gasps torn from my chest sound more like sobs than breaths.
“Mercer will come looking if I keep the barrier up for much longer, Soren.”
