This was for her.
Tharen did not speak. He watched quietly, and when she became so wrapped up in walking to Graves, focusing on the tips of her toes as they pointed to the ground, pressing upon the wooden deck in just the right manner, spine straight and shoulders rolled back, she started when she glanced to his spot and found Az, instead.
Her demon watched her with pride—even as she fell—quietly strengthening her. Tharen had reclaimed his spot by the sails, wind swirling from his palms as he forced his Aer magic into thesails. The ship’s speed increased, rocking with greater force over the waves.
When her knees were bruised and cheeks hot with embarrassment, Graves called lowly, voice cutting through the mist that had turned to a soft drizzle, slicing through the air at an angle with the gusts, "We’re done for today. Azgorath, take her below deck to eat."
Az came to her side, hands gripping her shoulders as he murmured, "You did so well, my angel."
Graves’s eyes fell to her hands, her palms red and sore from how many times she had caught herself on the deck. "I’ll tell Tharen to give you a salve for the bruising. Tomorrow morning, we go again."
When they had been at sea for fourteen days and the air grew humid and warm, Luella found herself fanning her face, hair stuck to her temples with sweat and saltwater. She could scarcely believe the Winter Solstice had been a month ago.
And only a fortnight since the postponed finale of the Solstice—where she had lain on the altar, let Tharen touch her, and her wings had torn free in scarlet agony.
Time marched on, and she was left to pick up the crumbling pieces, forced onward, always. Just as the ship sailed true across the sea with Tharen and Vale’s careful command, so too did time continue.
One night, below deck in a windowless room—the others gathered around a desk as they conversed, with her in Az’s lap, Ven curled around her shoulders like a mewling scarf—they had discussed a detour around the warming waters near Syreni, ripewith nymphs and sirens. And so, their journey was extended by one week.
With two weeks behind and two ahead, the endless sea stretched on. She did not venture into Az’s arms for…relief, nor did she let free the tempest caged inside her, but she knew the others felt the weight of her strain.
Sometimes, when it was just Vale, Tharen, and she below deck, sitting uneasily around a table, plain porridge before her, with fish and stale crackers in front of the other two, she found them both staring at her. None so pressing as the King’s emerald eyes. The thread between them was fragile—perhaps the weakest of her five. Even over Tharen, but something had shifted between them after the Temples. Some of the fraying, icy threads had been mended, pushing Vale farther away.
Though, she still felt Vale—she felt his war with his inner beast, and something about the near-constant state of turmoil and rage felt akin to what she was going through.
Her lessons had been going as well as expected. She could walk a few paces alone before she succumbed to the wind and fell to her knees. She was making progress—at least, that was what Graves had told her. She wasn’t sure if he was just saying that to make her feel better.
He didn’t seem like one to lie for the sake of it.
24
STAY
VALE
Weariness sank into Vale’s bones as he scrubbed a hand over his face.
He had been forcibly relieved of his duties, Azgorath and Graves forcing him and Tharen both to rest—not the first time, nor would it be the last.
Alone, Vale flexed his fingers, aching from gripping the wheel. His dragon was restless, the wind so glorious, tempting him to shift, give in, and fly far. But not alone.
With her.
His Vincire, his mate.
Even now, Vale felt the call to her. She was soft inside his chest, where their bond wrapped around his heart, tethered to his soul.
Go to her, his dragon hissed.
Vale pinched the bridge of his nose. Godsdamn it all to the Below.
Stay yourself, Vale hissed in reply.
His dragon had been quiet, thus far. It seemed that the quiet had been shattered. But why?
The air was still. It was evening, the sky still covered by a mass of clouds, shades of deep purple and pink blotting theirpure white and turning the ever-present shroud of greyscale emptiness into something fit for only the most majestic of paintings.
The shifting rain and clouds followed them—sometimes pouring, sometimes gone—all tied to Luella.
