I scoot deeper under the covers, wincing at the pain the slight movement causes. I groan—partly from that pain, partly from frustration. I’mnotfine. He wasn’t wrong about that part. And without him to talk to, I feel myself slipping again, giving in to the dizziness, the exhaustion.
I can’t fall asleep, though, no matter how hard I try.
It doesn’t matter how comfortable this bed is; I don’t belong in it.
Reave returns some time later, his wavy hair slightly damp. He’s not wearing a shirt, and some dampness still glistens on his skin as well, drawing my eye to his chest. As he crosses to one of three standing wardrobes in the room, my gaze follows, noticing a group of scars sweeping down along his left side, disappearing beneath the band of his loose-fitting pants.
And that’sallI’m noticing, I swear.
After pulling a shirt on, he comes to check on me, feeling my forehead and checking my pulse. Without a word, he takes some of the jars from the bedside table and goes to the cabinet where he poured his drink. He mixes something new in a small metal cup, then carries it back and offers it to me.
“Take this,” he says. “It will help you sleep.”
“I’m not going to let you drug me into a state of oblivionbefore you climb into bed and do whatever you want with me,” I mumble.
His expression darkens, and I immediately realize that I’ve taken our tense bantering too far.
“Just to make one thing perfectly clear,” he says, a slight growl slipping into the words, “I would never touch you without your consent. And you’re obviously in no condition to consent right now, even if youdon’taccept any more medicine from me.”
I begrudgingly take the cup, though I still don’t drink from it.
“If it makes you feel better,” he adds, “I probably won’t even sleep; I have too much work to do, anyhow.” As if to prove his point, he walks over to the small desk in the corner of his room and starts to sort through the piles of books and papers on it.
Several minutes pass. I grip the cup tighter, tapping my fingers against it, watching him. He seems completely uninterested in me, fully absorbed in whatever he’s doing over there. He seemed serious about my consent, too—so maybe I’m being unnecessarily stubborn.
I risk taking a few sips. It tastes surprisingly good, warm currents of honey and cinnamon almost completely masking the bitter medicine underneath, and the drink is empty in no time at all.
I feel calmer as it settles in my stomach, my vision less blurry as it once again settles in the king’s direction.
Reave is standing before a tall window, his arms folded across his chest, his stance tense. I can see a bit of his reflection in the glass; all the gentle concern and teasing humor from earlier appears to be gone. I have a feeling I know why—that I know what he’s watching for.
“Do you think the magic I summoned is what drew this latest rebel attack?” I ask.
He startles a bit at my sudden voice. “…It’s possible, yes. The stronger your bond gets, in general, the worse these attacks are likely to become.”
“But how are they aware that Blight and I are getting stronger?”
“There are some people who are very sensitive to the ebbs and flows of divine magic. Flameseers, we call them. Historically, they’ve been valued by all the rulers of different kingdoms, believed to be another piece of the divine plan, guides sent by the gods...” He shakes his head, and I get the impression that he’s as skeptical of those gods and theirplansas I am. “Gareth is one. That’s how he was able to track down your dragon—though it was still quite the task, as she was weak and separate from you.”
“So, you think these rebels have a seer among them?”
“Unfortunately. And it’s further proof that they aren’t just simple agitators out for blood, as I’d hoped.”
A frightening possibility dawns on me. “You think they were sent by an enemy kingdom?”
“We know they were.”
“How?”
He hesitates, as if he’s not entirely convinced he can trust me with this information. “Two days ago, my soldiers killed three of these enemies, and we found a conscription note folded up in one of their pockets, sealed with intertwining trees in front of a mountain—the emblem of Dralsk.”
My chest tightens. I know a little about that northwestern kingdom, only because it’s where Malachi’s family was originally from. He and his parents and his younger sister fled their home because of increasing turmoil, shortly after thecurrent ruler—Queen Meira—violently stole the throne from her uncle.
Malachi was the only one of his family who made it to Halvgate alive. The rest were picked off by Meira’s sadistic army along the way—which was why he always struggled to talk about his past, I think. I heard a few stories from him, tales about the floating markets on the rivers; the temples built into massive dragon-blessed trees that changed with the seasons; the crippling fog that often covered the land. But beyond that…
“Dralsk is a brutal, forsaken place,” Reave says, stepping closer to me once more.
“All of the true kingdoms are these days,” I say, unable to help myself. “It's a side-effect of your false kingdom and those dragons you control causing so much ruin and devastation. Loss changes people. Survival breeds desperation…and desperation breeds brutal things.”
