Page 111 of Storm of Ink and Blood

Rabin followed Zarya out of the flat and into the bustling streets of Ishaan. No one had any reason to recognize him here, but he still felt exposed within these crowds. Being around too many people always made him anxious. He preferred quiet and solitude. The company of only those he trusted—though that circle was rather small.

Zarya walked ahead of him with purpose, clearly familiar with the city. She’d been here for months, and he couldn’t help but notice the way she seemed to belong here, like these sights and smells and sounds had been imprinted into her by her mother’s hand. He ran to catch up as she gave him a sidelong look.

“You’re sure about this?” she asked. “Row is right. I could just kill you if I get tired of you.”

Though she said it matter-of-factly, he detected the note of insincerity in her voice. She was fighting this with her mind, but her heart sought this ending, too.

“Zarya,” he snagged her arm and stopped her as the crowd surged around them. “What do I have to do to prove to you that I’m yours, body and soul? That I want to protect you and be there with you through all of this?”

She narrowed her eyes. “But you don’t fully agree with what I’m doing. You understand that this will only make my goals more possible.”

“I agree with your cause, Zarya. I’m only worried about the consequences.”

“I don’t care about the consequences,” she said, and it took every ounce of restraint to hold back the tirade he wanted to unleash. That she shouldn’t play with her life so casually. That he’d be ruined if anything happened to her.

“I know that.” He stepped in closer, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek. “And that’s why I love you, Spitfire. You are fearless and brave and so damn strong. So if you insist on doing this, then let me be there with you.” He meant that part. He did love that about her, but it also scared the shit out of him.

He watched her blink heavily, her lids sliding closed and then opening as he realized what he’d just said. Love. It had slipped out. This wasn’t how he’d planned to say it, but it had been there pressing against the surface, ready to burst through the thin veneer where he’d been keeping it and couldn’t contain it anymore.

There was no denying what he felt for her—what he’d felt from the moment he’d seen her in the dream forest all those months ago.

She cleared her throat and then spun around. “We should go.” She was walking faster now, her shoulders stiff.

He watched her for a moment and then once again jogged to catch up. He was such a fool. When had he ever let his emotions get the best of him like this? But being around Zarya called into question everything he’d ever known about himself.

They continued to wind through the streets that grew more crowded as the hour passed. Finally, Zarya consulted the paper Row had handed them and pointed down a narrow alley.

“I think it’s this way.”

Rabin peered down the shadowy path and nodded, his guard always up. “I’ll go first.”

“Fine, tough guy.” She waved him on and he heard her following as the cool shadows enveloped them. They passed several narrow doorways, some with iron numbers screwed into the surface and others with numbers inelegantly hacked into the wood.

“What’s the address?” he asked.

“1043. I think. I always forget how terrible Row’s handwriting is.” She squinted and held the paper further away. “Is that a Q?”

They continued down the alley, counting the numbers they passed. After another minute, they stopped before a plain wooden door.

“This appears to be right,” she said, consulting the paper again and then knocked. They waited as someone shuffled on the other side, and the door popped open to reveal a stunning woman with deep brown skin and silver hair hanging down either side of her face. She appeared around Zarya’s age, but the depth in her eyes suggested she was positively ancient.

Mystics were their own brand of magical being. Very rare and very mysterious. Some believed they were a distant relation to Aazheri, but they denied the connection, claiming their magic was entirely unique.

“Yes?” she asked, her gaze open but cautious.

“We’re looking for a mystic,” Zarya said, and the woman cocked her head, studying them both.

“Why?”

Zarya gestured between them. “We need you to perform a Bandhan.”

The mystic blinked as if she needed a moment to absorb Zarya’s words.

“Well, then, come in,” she said. “I’m Thriti.”

After closing the door behind them, she crossed the room. She wore a long black dress embroidered with mirrors along the hem, covering her from chin to wrist. She folded her thin arms before she assessed them both from head to toe. Zarya looked at him, but he nodded. He didn’t sense anything amiss with the mystic, only a deep curiosity.

“You are masatara and paramadhar? Are you sure? You’ve entered the mind plane?” she asked.