Septimus grinned. “He’s scared.”
“Of me?”
“Of Kilian.”
“Oh. Is he back from Greyhaven?”
“Yeah. He was a bit delayed, but he got back an hour ago,” Septimus said.
I felt it then, the quiet wrath I was slowly becoming accustomed to. It burned in the back of my throat, along my fingers and deep inside my chest, consuming me in the most delicious way.
“Thanks,” I said, backing away.
“You don’t even know where he is.”
I didn’t respond. I was already rushing out of the mess hall, my feet tripping over one another before reason could overrule insanity. Before I could remind myself exactly why this was a supremely bad idea. I followed the steady stream of anger, tugging on the link all the way to the fifth floor. When I stood outside his door, my breaths ragged from having run upstairs, I lifted my hand to knock.
The door swung open before my fist made contact.
Kilian stood in the doorway. He was dressed for war. A broadsword was strapped to his side and a bandolier hung across his chest, several onyx-hilted daggers gleaming in their sheaths. It looked like he had run his hands through his dark hair several times with how ruffled it was. His eyes were silver moonlight. I could stare at them for hours and still miss them the second I blinked.
He was fucking devastating.
“You’re hurt.” He reached out to touch my face, his thumb gingerly brushing the thin cut on my cheek.
“Hardly.” The word was a whisper of all the things I wanted to say, but just couldn’t. His hand dropped back to his side as he studied me, waiting.
Now that I was here, I found myself stalling, avoiding the real reason for my visit. My gaze skimmed his gear. This close, I could see the elven inscriptions etched into it. “Why are you always dressed for battle? No one’s going to attack Lomask.”
“You never know,” he answered. “It’s good to be prepared for anything.”
I didn’t even knowwhowould attack. Certainly not the mortals; that was a losing battle before it even began. Maybe the lower elven, in Greyhaven? My knowledge of elven politics was dismal.
“Why?” he asked. “Does my attire bother you?”
“Why would it bother me?”
“Everything about me bothers you.”
“I find your dressing to be the least offensive part compared to all your flaws.”
The corners of his lips quirked, amusement in his eyes. “Of which there are many.”
“Naturally.”
It didn’t matter though, how many flaws he had, or how fatal they were. I still found myself standing here, outside his door. It was like trying to change a prophecy that had already been engraved in stone.
He leaned against the doorframe. “How was the second Trial?”
“Awful,” I admitted.
“You called on the link.” There was a hint of approval in his voice.
I shrugged. “It was either that or watch my friends die.”
“You’ve used it twice now. I don’t doubt you’ve noticed what a useful tool it can be. I could help you practice, if you’d like.” A suggestion. Not a forceful command.
I glanced away, glanced back. “I’m doing fine with it as is.”
