Page 37 of Awakened Ash and Alchemy

“What did you see?” Gellar asked.

“Katarra is losing the strength in his collective, Commander.” The Seer leaned heavily her staff, its trinkets and tassels wrapped around the wooden tip like talismans. “His power bleeds away.”

“How?” Gellar demanded.

“A new power neither he nor I can see. A something-something that only harms him.”

New power? Martar felt ice coil tighter in his chest, which dared to fill with hope.

“Is it our power?” Gellar asked the Seer.

“No. It is not of the Vanguard. I can’t explain it, as I’ve never seen it before.”

“And Zarek?” Martar asked, unable to stop himself.

The Seer smiled faintly through her many lines of age and wisdom. “Alive.”

Relief struck Martar hard. He sat forward. “Where?”

“I cannot see him. But he is safe. Our captain will return soon.” Her gaze lingered on him. “But whether he wishes to return… that choice may no longer be ours or even his.” Silence followed as the doors smoothly closed behind her.

A missing soldier mattered. Because they never left a man behind. But for their Captain to go missing, and with the Seer’s cryptic message of whether Zarek wanted to return, wasn’t right.

“Zarek must be resting to gain his strength, just somewhere beyond our reach…” While the war tightened its grip. “He will come back.” Martar believed it as he stood to get back out there and search for his friend. “This is his home. His duty.” And he knew without a doubt that duty always came first for Zarek. “The Captain will return. Soon.” Just not soon enough.

SIXTEEN

Warmth. That was the first thing Zarek felt. It didn’t come from the wardings of his room or leathers that held the constant hum of restraint that had been a part of his existence for centuries—but a soft warmth.

Zarek opened his eyes slowly, as if from a deep rest.

He was in a small room filled with soft light. The bedding was soft, the linens even softer, and perfumed with that comforting warm honeyed apple and pear blend that made him exhale with a want to sink deeper into the pillow.

And then he felt it.

His hand.

He turned his head.

Angela was fast asleep, slumped over in the chair beside the bed, with both hands wrapped around his. Her cheek rested against the back of his knuckles as if she had drifted off while holding him there.

Someone was touching his skin.

He pulled his hand back carefully—but nothing burned. Not even her bed had burned.

It had to be the Poison Blade that had rendered him powerless.

He sat up slowly, waiting for the pain, but it didn’t come.

He then peeled back the bandage that covered part of his ribs, expecting to see stitches or a blackened wound. Instead, it had healed shut, leaving only a pink line like a fresh scar not yet fully formed.

Healed in a matter of hours? It wasn’t possible.

Sure, they were self-healers, but the Poison Blade should have kept him off his game for months. Yet he could feel his full power roaring beneath his skin. He flexed his fist as the air hummed faintly around him, as if aware of his presence and power.

His gaze shifted to Angela.

Who are you?