Silence.
Stillness.
He blinked, and when he opened his eyes, he was no longer in Stonewake.
30
Always Waiting
The world I know as the Resh'Agar is gone. No humming stone, no ancient wards, no shuffling of feet and scrape of boots echoing in vast corridors. Just quiet, but not the kind that heals.
I am standing in a small cottage cradled in the arms of a peaceful sunrise. A sun that shouldn’t be. Not this deep into the Bleed. Not this far into the Dark. The air breathes differently, as though it hasn’t scented war in centuries. But if there is something I have learned over the countless ages of my life, it is that the absence of war does not equate to peace.
Beside me is a window, bordered with gossamer gold curtains. A fireplace stands pressed into one of the gray stone walls, the embers still warm but barely glowing. Neglected and worn with age. The kind a farmer in the Moores might keep. At its mouth stands a wooden rocking chair, swaying as though someone just left the comfort of its embrace. But there is no sign of anyone here.
I look around. A faded rug covers the floor, and a table perches in the corner of the room bearing trinkets of all shapes, sizes, and colors. Some look familiar. Glider carvings, stone figures from the Ebon Sanctuary, weavings from the Climbers of the Azure Fields. Pieces of Elendria, gathered with a caring hand. Where dust has gathered on the furniture around these items, they stand cleaned and polished.
Loved.
With the warmth of the hearth, the cottage should feel welcoming. Yet, a chill curls up my arms. I take a breath. Then another. At last, I recognize the scent. Not so much a lack of war or peace, but the rot of solitude, a companion I have known for too many centuries. It permeates the sparse furnishings and echoes in the drab colors.
This is no home. Merely a shell.
Without warning, the front door creaks open. It gives a sorrowful wail as a small figure steps inside wearing a simple farmgirl’s dress and boots that look like they’ve seen better days. The sun shines on radiant silver hair, illuminating a set of narrow shoulders and delicate hands. My heart lurches again, and without seeing her face I know…
It is my Auryn.
Yet when she turns, when her shabby skirts and poorly cut, shoulder-length white hair shifts with each movement, I cannot breathe. For itismy Auryn. But not. A girl whose light has dimmed, her silver eyes haunted and exhausted. In her arms, she holds a basket of herbs and vegetables. Behind her looms another figure twice her size. I’d recognize the gait anywhere.
Zarrek. But older, his eyebrows gray, his scars wrinkled, and his skin covered in pockmarks. He ducks into the doorway and steps into the cottage. Different armor. Something fashioned of cheap steel and old leather.
No battleaxe? Impossible. Zarrek wouldn’t be caught dead without that weapon.
I expect them to see me. The cottage is too small to hide two men the size of Zarrek and myself. And yet, they do not. Instead, they speak without looking in my direction. I clench my fists, unease knotting in my stomach.
“You should’ve let me come with you,” Zarrek chides. “Don’t go into town by yourself.”
Auryn shakes her head.“I don’t like it when they stare at you. Especially because those stares are meant for me.”
Zarrek steps closer to her and places his hands on her shoulders. Void help me. She looks sosmallbeside him. Like a child looking up at her father.
Zarrek sighs. “I don’t know how many years I’ve got left in me. So let me help you while I still can.”
Auryn’s lips thin into a line. She touches Zarrek’s chest, his runes lighting in response.
“I will not let you fall earlier than you are meant to,” she promises, and the words wrap around my chest like iron bands, shrinking with each breath. Because I know she won’t. Even at a price to her own life.
Zarrek pulls her against him, wrapping his burly arms around her. I can’t move. The bands are still tightening, and soon I am unable to take a single breath. This is Zarrek? The Bloodletter? Hugging Auryn. Speaking to her in a voice I have never heard him use.
“Thessia would have loved it here,” Auryn says at length. Her voice trembles with grief. Sorrow. Pain.
“She would have,” Zarrek agrees.
“Will you come with me next Cycle? To visit her tomb?”
The ground sways beneath me.
“I’ve lost count of the years since we went there,” Auryn continues. “I know it will be difficult, but I want to go.”
