Page 129 of Crown of the Courtesan

The closer we travel to the Beast Realm, the more his mood improves, but it’s the opposite for me. The further we move away from Alexandria, the more withdrawn I grow as I grapple with what I’ve agreed to.

At the end of the trail, a wall of solid red sandstone towers over us. Along its length, the forest stops abruptly, and our path leads to a cliff that juts two hundred feet into the sky. Chiseled into alcoves, statues of arachnid beast warriors stand guard over arched gates, while a set of stairs fades into their depths. Rett bounds up the steps while I slowly follow.

“I know you’re tired, but we’re almost there. These steps aren’t as bad as they look,” he encourages.

It’s easier said than done, but eventually, with my legs aching and burning, I reach the top. A village of rock domiciles etched from the same sandstone sprawls out—eerily quiet and void of life. Littered possessions and discarded furniture are strewn about the streets, shedding light on the fact that people were here not so long ago.

Unable to carry my pack any longer, I let it fall to the ground. “I need to rest.”

“You’re right. You don’t look well,” Rett agrees, searching the area before grabbing my pack and his own. “Let’s get out of the street.” He ushers me through the front door of a home off the main road. It’s still furnished, so I sink into the first upholstered chair I see. Relief spreads through my muscles and limbs.

Sitting on a stool, he studies me for a second. “We need to talk.”

I choke on my saliva.

No, we don’t.

I want to eat, sleep, bathe—and then remove myself from this mess I’ve woven myself into. I shake my head.

“Tabitha, your power is rapidly growing. You have multiple elements at your disposal, for fuck’s sake! You shouldn’t keep pretending that you can’t control it,” he says, fishing in his supplies for more dried meat and the nearly empty water pouch.

“I’m not pretending.”

“You’ve seen how dangerous the realms can get.”

I bury my face in my palms.

He sinks to his knees and pulls my arms down. He repeats what I’ve grown to hate hearing: “You got lucky that your power cooperated, but if you refuse to train and wield it with discipline, then someday it might fail you or turn on you.”

Tears burst from my eyes. “Stop pushing me!”

“If I don’t push you, then who will?” he says softly, wiping my cheeks. I pull away, tired of this, tired of him. “That bastard in Ashland wanted to suppress everything about you.”

“I don’t want to talk about him!”

He shakes his head. “I watched you create fire and lightning and wind. I’ve seen you boil blood and vaporize pools. You are more powerful than anyone could have imagined, and I won’t let you underestimate yourself. Whether you want to hear it or not, that asshole kept you locked away. He was afraid of your powers, but I’m not.”

What did Valora used to say?

Men’s greatest weakness is their underestimation of women.

Not with Rett, it seems.

He traces the lines in my palms. “Practice by making a fire in the hearth. We’ll need one tonight. Keep using your power. Be consistent, and you’ll find more strength to control it.”

I stare at the fireplace, his words repeating in my mind. A cracking sound jolts my attention as he breaks apart an ornate wooden chair and places the pieces in the rounded hearth. After that, he takes the scattered scrolls tossed about the room and shoves them into the nooks and crannies of the broken furniture.

“Light it,” he instructs, no sympathy in his voice.

With narrowed eyes, I seethe inwardly. I’m tired and don’t want him to order me around like he’s my Keeper. Despite his supportive words, he’s officially insufferable.

Sleep.

A fire would help with that, though… I open my hands and focus on my palms, but nothing happens.

“Right now,” he explains, “you’ve trained your magic only to obey you when you’re in a dangerous situation. Someday, you might be in danger, but it’s not immediate. You’ll need your power. Don’t let it make the rules. Remember, you are in control—you’re always in control.”

My mind wanders at his repetition, and I stop listening. The whispers fill the void. I welcome them, accepting their reprieve.