Page 57 of Kingdom Of Veil And Vow

Closing my eyes, I huff out a breath, unable to believe what the king has done. Alexi was Rhea’s only contact with the outside world. He was a friend, yes, but a father too. I know better than most what it means to lose a father. I want to comfort Rhea, to let her weep on my shoulder while I tell her that she is strong enough to survive this. Even if it doesn’t feel like it. To let her know that I understand, I understand. But as I reach for my magic to shift, imagining closing the book on my fox form and reaching for the one that houses my mortal form, it’s as if the book is just out of reach. Up on too high of a shelf.

Frustrated, my eyes open and meet the gleam of Rhea’s own magic. It glows a brilliant white over Alexi’s chest, Rhea hovering over him as she pleads for it to work. To save him. Her screams echo, and her body shakes, that magic growing brighter and brighter, and for a second, I dare to hope. Dare to believe that maybe Rhea can do the impossible. Because if anyone can beg death to retreat, it is her. But as time slowly passes, that hope dwindles until it is snuffed out completely. Rhea gently caresses Alexi’s cheek as she murmurs her apologies for failing him, and I vow right then that I will help her leave the king. That I will never again see that hope diminish from her face. No matter the cost.

“Siyala.” His voice caresses me from beyond like a gentle touch, one that draws goosebumps to my skin and tugs on a tether deep in my chest. Still torn between some lucid state of consciousness and the present, I’m not sure that he’s actually here until I hear the click of the lock and then the squeaking of metal door hinges as he pulls the door open. His shadow crosses over the space a second before he does, and then he is lowering to the ground in front of me, those dark eyes trying to capture my own. “Siyala, are you alright?”

I move my gaze from its unfocused stare on the wall across from me to meet his, my heart giving a pathetic kick at the sight of him. Even with the dark circles hugging his eyes and the messy way his onyx waves are pulled back behind him, he’s still so godsdamn handsome. There’s a regalness to him, I realize as I scour his features, that mixes in with the ruggedness. Stubble graces his chin and jaw today, and between that and the dark slashes of his brows is a fine, straight nose and perfect lips. Even tipped in a frown as they are now.

“Siyala—”

“Is your repeated use of my true name meant to remind me that you know it?” I ask, my voice cracking as if I haven’t spoken in a long time. I wonder just how long it has been since Immie died. The heaviness of my body screams that it must have been weeks. But the scent of blood in the dungeon reminds me that it’s been a day or two at most, I can’t be sure.

His pause is weighted, meaningful. “Perhaps I just like to say it.” When I don’t respond, he glances off to the side. “You haven’t been eating your meals.”

Meals, plural. So it has been a few days. Why hasn’t he come sooner?

“The king has kept me busy,” he says, as if he’s heard my question. Or maybe I asked it aloud. I try to swallow against the dryness of my throat, and Xander sighs, gaze tracing over me for another few moments before he stands and walks back towards the cell door.

A small voice within me begs to call after him, to not be left alone again because now… now I am truly alone. There is no Immie a few cells down to talk with. There is only me and my mind and the memories that won’t let me be. Panic thrusts my body upwards, and I plant my hands on the cot as I turn to call out for Xander. But he’s already on his way back to me, a waterskin in hand and a satchel crossed over his body.

“Here.” He hands the waterskin to me, the feel of it lost to the numbness still thrumming through me.

The first swallow of water nearly makes me groan, but the next few sit too heavy in my stomach. Closing the lid, I hand it back to him and sway where I’m sitting, my head growing dizzy.

“You need to eat.”

“I can’t,” I rasp, breathing through my mouth. Not with how the metallic remnants of Immie cling to the air, suffocating me. I look out to the hall just beyond the bars for what feels like the hundredth time, and though my eyes tell me that there is no more blood, that Xander and the other guards cleaned everything up, my mind still pictures it pooling out from her mutilated body—creeping towards my cell as if to drown me.

Xander’s hand invades my field of vision, his upturned palm marred with a crescent scar. I trace a line up his forearm to his shoulder, noticing that he isn’t wearing any armor. When my eyes finally meet his, sincerity has softened his features.

“Come with me.”

I know he isn’t freeing me. If I have been able to piece together anything about the guard in our short time together, it is that whatever motivates him to keep secrets from the king is bigger than me. Our argument when I kissed him had all but proven that. But I picture him standing outside of Immie’s cell, his hand in her hair and his eyes locked on the king’s. I see him struggle, the emotion so subtle that I can only detect it in the racing of his heart and the small twitch of his fingers as he attempts to fight for Immie’s freedom.

I knew it then as he tried to frame it to the king in a way that wouldn’t be obvious, why she should live. And I saw when he realized it wasn’t going to work. The quick desperation that filled him when he cast his eyes my way before he hid behind his shields again. I saw, and I understood, even if I couldn’t agree with it. Even if, after her death, I had accused him of doing nothing.

Maybe these are just excuses, or maybe I am simply tired, but whatever instincts drive me to place my fingers in his palm, I do not fight them.

He pulls me up from the cot, catching me with a firm arm around my waist when my own feet stumble beneath me. I think about his rules as we walk, turning them over in my mind. I had assumed his freedom came easily, by nature of the fact that he is a man and a guard. But no truly free man has to develop rules with which to govern himself. He may not be locked in a cell as I am, but the guard currently leading me to a secret room accessed by hidden tunnels that I imagine only a select few know about is no master of himself either.

I tense as we enter the room where Immie, where I, was tortured, and Xander draws me the slightest bit closer. I focus on the clean scent of him—pine and mint—and the ever-present steady beat of his heart. The journey to the hidden room happens in what feels like the blink of an eye, and then the darkness and the iron-tinged air of the dungeon is behind us, replaced by the faint scent of the floral soap I used the last time we were here.

Xander guides me towards that small basin, and I’m surprised to see it filled again with fresh, clean water. A new white towel and folded clothes are set next to the soaps and shampoos on the ground, and I can’t help but wonder why he’s brought me here again. Especially after our kiss. After realizing what I was doing.

“I’ll be right over there again,” he says, gesturing with his chin towards the upturned crates. “Take as much time as you need.”

Sliding the curtain hanging from a rafter above, I’m left alone to stare at the water—my body aching with the urge to plunge myself into it, while my mind asks what I’ve done to deserve such a luxury. My fingers curl in and out at my sides as I stand utterly frozen, too many thoughts and emotions pressing at my bones and filling the spots between them. But then I hear Xander take a seat on the crate. Craning my head, I listen for the soft beat of his heart, letting it anchor me. The comfort from his presence knocks a breath out of me, but it’s enough to get me moving again.

Quickly undressing, I sink down into the tepid water, low enough that the surface is spread out just below my eyes.

How will you escape now? Why should you be the one to find freedom when Immie didn’t? Is Rhea okay? What will happen if you return to the Shifter Kingdom? The thoughts pelt me one right after the other, and any hope of momentary relief vanishes. I wash quickly and with abandon, stories of why Xander brought me here springing to life in my head. Surely, this must be some strange sort of goodbye, because why else would he risk this place again after what I did?

I dress in the clothing left for me, form fitting black pants and a light gray top, the material so soft, it whispers against my skin. Drawing the curtain back, I run my fingers through my damp hair as I walk to where Xander is sitting, a small spread of food set out on the makeshift table in front of him.

At the sound of my steps, his shoulders rise, and he waits a few seconds before turning to look at me. “Take a seat,” he says, heat flushing his cheeks a slight shade of pink. “If you want.”

Silently, I lower onto one of the crates, hands falling from my hair to instead reach for the edge of my tunic, needing an outlet for the nervous energy that’s built up inside of me. I drag a nail over the hem, only to realize it’s different from the others. My gaze turns down to the intricate lines, the swirling patterns unlike any other embroidery I’ve seen before. How strange, I think as I massage it between my fingers. So focused on the threading of the shirt, I let too many seconds pass in awkward silence. When I finally look back up again, Xander’s eyes are fixed not on mine but on where my fingers restlessly move. The corner of his mouth lifts with the faintest excuse of a smile before his expression sobers, and he drags in a deep breath.

“I have news of Princess Rhea,” he says, and time itself seems to stop.