One of quiet.
One of peace.
4
Stirring of Awe
Morning arrived with the mercy of a freezing wind and the scent of coming rain. Resh greeted the sorrowful sunlight and chill with a crick in his neck and the weight of a petite body across his chest.
Auryn draped over him like a living pendant, arm hooked across his ribs, cheek pressed just below his collarbone, knees tucked up, taking as little space as possible. Her hair tumbled down in pale waves, a few strands caught against the green teardrop earring still resting between her fingers.
He should have been worn out. Should have felt the weight of his position in bands of tension across his body. Yet something had changed. For the first time in memory, he was calm. At peace. Though his duties pulled at him, he drew a deep breath and moved without rush.
The mark at the nape of his neck didn’t itch today. Remained quiet. Dormant.
Resh slid his arm from beneath his unexpected bed partner and sat up. He adjusted his clothing and armor by rote, each buckle and strap falling into place without thought. When he reached for his belt, something slipped free and fluttered toward the ground.
He caught it mid-fall.
Silver ribbons.
The ones he’d bartered for the other day on a whim.
They’d reminded him of her.
He glanced back toward the cot. She’d rolled onto her side, hugging his pillow. His chest tightened. He crouched, holding one ribbon up so it caught the early light. It would look beautiful braided into her wild hair.
These scarred hands aren’t made for such delicate work.
He laid the ribbons by the folded cloak on the bedside table and straightened—just as the tent flap stirred. Cold air slipped in with the sound of boots on rugs.
Zarrek entered with the grace of a man hacking bread with a battleaxe. His fur-lined cloak was slung over one shoulder, hair damp from the drizzle. The soles of his boots tracked mud across the rugs.
He stopped dead. His gaze went to the cot, then to Resh, then back again. Auryn had rolled partly onto her back, one small hand fisted in the edge of the fur blanket, the other still curled around the front of Resh’s pillow.
“It’s in your bed,” Zarrek said flatly.
Resh shrugged. “She was cold.”
“That’s all it takes now?”
The air between them tightened. Zarrek’s eyes lingered one moment longer before he moved past without another word, the faint crackle of his runes humming just under his skin. Resh didn’t watch him go. The weight of their future charged conversation pressed down like the storm now building over the Emerald Moores.
He looked back at Auryn’s sleeping face one last time.
She’s been here a few days and already she’s turned Zarrek and I into a pair of snarling varkhounds. My Second, who questions but never doubts me, now shows me his back. My Kelvasari—who would die for duty without a tremor of fear—looked terrified when she made those flowers bloom.
What’s next?
He reached for his nape. But the mark did not itch. Turning, he stepped out of the tent, donning his Resh’Agar’s mask, slipping on his mantle of duty as though to shield himself from all thought of her. But she lingered.
Even as he walked through the mud.
Even as he stepped farther from her unknowable warmth.
The Kelvasari company traveled with eight large wagons and a few smaller carts when needed. Each wagon could have been its own house, so large was it in breadth, height, and capacity. Six draft horses pulled each. Each beast stood twenty-two hands tall at the shoulder, having been bred for stamina and strength.
Warhorses carried the Reskala through rougher terrain, though their riders tried to march when possible, to conserve the animals’ strength in case a fight broke out on the grasslands. Most of the Vanguard and some of the Stone Wings had their own mounts, totaling close to sixty beasts altogether.
