Page 13 of By the Flames of Her Fury

With one last look at Mortep, whose image was now fuzzy, Teller took my hand. I conjured more illusions and pushed them through our bond. Memories of Teller laughing with his new friends; of learning how to read with Devora, the woman who helped me with the children; of skipping rocks off the cliffside by the Keep and watching them float into blue waves.

Slowly, I felt the fear and tension of his nightmare unravel. I gently pulled myself from his subconscious, like stepping backward into thin air and falling into my own body once more. I knelt at the bed with his little hand in mine, the claws now fully retracted. He opened his eyes and blinked slowly.

I patted his hand. “You can sleep now,” I whispered, pushing several peaceful illusions into his mind. His fingers squeezed around mine as he yawned and curled on his side, already passed out again. When his breaths deepened, I got to my feet and gingerly crept from the bunk room, shutting the door behind me.

I leaned my head against the wall, releasing an exhausted breath. Those dreamwalking sessions always took more out of me than I admitted to the others, not only because they required a hefty dose of magic, but because I was taking on those intense emotions. They weighed on my mind, bringing back not just their memories, but my own.

My own dark cell. My own rattling chains. My own fear of the man with the needles.

It had been four years since I was rescued, but those moments still felt so real when I closed my eyes. I hadn’t lied when I told Teller they would be with him forever.

I needed to sleep. I and the other members of the Ashen Order, the rebellion that had formed years ago to take down Scarven and Mortep, had been putting out fires left and right the past few days. After Scarven died and Mortep escaped last spring, the Keep transitioned into an orphanage and halfway house for those who had suffered under their regime. Some weeks were harder than others, what with so many people living under one roof, so many histories and traumas and emotions rising to the surface with their uncontrollable powers.

This was just one of those weeks.

But instead of going to my chambers, my feet carried me down the flight of stairs and to the workshop on the first floor. I needed something else to occupy my mind before I tried to sleep. I often documented my time with the children and how I used my dreamwalking abilities to help them cope with their trauma. There wasn’t a lot of research in this particular area, and the others in the Order had convinced me that my findings could be a helpful resource for others.

I pushed open the door to the workshop and was met with the scent of burning herbs, spicy and woodsy. To my left was a lounging area with a couch, and next to that was our head Alchemist, Milo, who was deeply entranced in grinding something in his mortar while smoke rose from a pile of herbs on the side.

The workshop was a safe haven of sorts for the Ashen Order. A place to rest and breathe, to research or practice our magic, to plan and strategize. But mostly…it was our home.

“You’re up late,” I commented, making my way to Milo’s table. Cabinets and bookshelves rested behind him with piles of scrolls, glass vials, and baskets of dried flowers. Alchemy, one of the six magical types in the Veridian Empire, required substances from nature to give power to their charms. Milo was often down here mixing potions and practicing new spells to add to his Grimoire.

“Right back at you,” he replied. “Need a sleeping tonic?”

I scrubbed a hand down my face, my coarse black scruff catching on my calluses. “No, thank you. It makes my illusions duller.”

“Are the kids having trouble again?”

“Some of them just take longer than others. We’re working on it.” I stifled a yawn. “I came down to make some notes.”

I crossed to the bookshelves near Milo’s Alchemy corner, grabbed my stack of notebooks, and found the next empty page. I sat in my chair by the window and jotted down the incident with Teller.

I couldn’t get rid of the images of Mortep with his syringes, those cold, stone walls, and Teller’s frightened features. His fear was potent on my tongue, so similar to my own. I closed my eyes against the onslaught of memories. I could practically feel the needles digging into my skin.

When those years came rushing back, there was only one person I wanted to see. One person I wanted to talk to.

The one person I hadn’t seen in a year now.

“Hey, Milo…” I said, trailing off. I put my pencil and notebook down, then turned to face him. “Do you have a second?”

Milo dropped his pestle and eyed me, swiping away his unruly blond curls with the back of his forearm. “I know that look. Not this again.”

I ignored his tone. “Can you send a message for me?”

He sighed, suddenly appearing far older than his twenty years. “Look, Everett, I know you miss her. But you’ve been doing this for a year, and…” His cheeks reddened as if he was embarrassed for me. I knew what he wasn’t saying. You’ve been doing this for a year, and she’s never replied.

Not once, to a single message. I hadn’t seen Vera since she left on a ship in the middle of the night last spring without so much as a goodbye.

My hand strayed to my pocket, fingers rubbing against the familiar, worn piece of parchment.

Swift,

Please forgive me.

Your songbird

Six words. That was all I had to remember her by after the years we spent in neighboring cells. After the nights we cried ourselves to sleep and the days we kept each other alive.