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‘Are you okay?’ Areanel’s voice was low, a whisper.

Rymedur gave her a smile, fully aware it didn’t quite reach his eyes as his gaze darted around the barren land. ‘Fine,’ he repeated, though his instincts took over as he leaned further into her hand. He craved her touch. Yearned for it.

The slow stroke of her fingers gliding aimlessly through his hair settled something deep inside of him. A breath of air escaped him, and he hummed at the simple, innocent touch. ‘We need to leave soon,’ Areanel explained. ‘Staying any longer would risk us getting caught.’

Something flashed across her eyes, and Rymedur wasn’t sure what it was, but he was sure that she was holding something back.

‘We’ve been travelling for days!’ Vasilio whined.

‘It’s barely been two.’ Percival rolled his eyes. The young prince had clearly had enough of Vasilio’s complaining, which he did often.

Still, Rymedur could not help but like him. Vasilio had a certain charm (even if he seemed to get on everyone’s nerves). Rymedur enjoyed the conversation and humour he brought to their otherwise quiet and contemplative group.

‘Alabasus shouldn’t be far now.’ Brutus’ gravelly tone was like a blade cutting through tough meat. ‘We can continue through the forest, then find the meeting point. We’ll go from there.’

Standing, Rymedur shook off the lingering dust from his clothes, noting that it looked remarkably like ash. It was just a dream; he tried to remind himself, pinching the bridge of his nose between two fingers.

A shoulder brushed his arm as Areanel stood close, and he appreciated her steady presence in the midst of the storm racing through his mind. She didn’t ask questions. Didn’t demand he tell her what he had dreamt. Just stood by his side—a support.

Rymedur instinctively reached for her. His hand found hers, threading their fingers, as his gaze shot to hers. She was feverish.

Before he could even send the thought to them, his shadows had moved of their own accord, wrapping themselves like a blanket to cool and comfort her. But it wasn’t working. Her skin still burned like a wildfire.

‘Love—’ Rymedur’s voice caught in his throat when his eyes locked onto hers. The whites of her eyes had disappeared, and instead they swirled with different shades of blue that glowed brightly as they stared back, like she was looking through him rather than at him. He reached for her, not expecting her to flinch away from his touch. Hurt flashed, cruel and vicious, across his mind. ‘Areanel,’ he tried again, tone urgent and commanding.

Blinking furiously, Areanel shook her head. Stray strands of hair fell from her tight braid, and tears welled in her eyes as she used the heels of her palms to dig into them—like she could push whatever was there away. ‘We need to go,’ her voice was hoarse, strained.

Rymedur could do nothing but watch as his wife staggered away on unsteady legs. Making his way over to Areion, he followed, helping her mount the large stallion. All the while, she remained silent, breaths measured and eyes blinking away something he couldn’t see. But there was pain there; that much he understood. Was it an illness? Or something far worse. He wasn’t sure. But he was going to find out.

Chapter 39

Rymedur

Hot puffs of ragged breath fanned Rymedur’s neck. Areanel had turned further into him in her deep slumber, having been lulled by the gentle sway of Areion. The horse seemed frustrated that they weren’t moving faster, but luckily, he heeded Rymedur’s instructions. Still, Rymedur wasn’t sure how long that would last; Areion was one restless stallion.

Another stuttered breath had Rymedur’s worried gaze flitting down. He studied her features: full lips—slightly parted in sleep, thick lashes—fluttering fitfully. But it was the paleness of her skin that had Rymedur’s heart hammering. She was far too pale. Her fever ran hot, sending sweat beading down her temple, yet her whole body shivered with cold.

Areion jerked to a halt, almost sending both Areanel and Rymedur toppling. Rymedur’s head whipped up, spotting Ryyen at the front of their group, hand raised, fingers curled into a fist—a signal for them to stop.

Turning their hand in a small circle, Ryyen rotated their wrist, then stretched their fingers in various quick gestures Rymedur didn’t understand.

A code, he realised as Percival returned the gesture.

Ryyen let out a low whistle—a signal for them to listen—and their company fell silent.

Rymedur glanced around, trying to listen to whatever it was they heard, but his ears could not pick up what an elf’s could. Was it a threat? Was something approaching? He poured all his effort into focusing on his hearing. Shadows—these ones felt like a comfort rather than the icy terrors from his nightmare—peeled away from him and out towards the forest in hopes of feeling what was out there.

But there was nothing. In fact, there was no sound at all.

Maybe his own senses were betraying him. If he could not rely on hearing, he’d use what he did have—his shadows.

Something felt strange. A prickling sensation startled him as it skittered along the nape of his neck. Something was watching them.

Rymedur curled around Areanel as though to protect her with his body as the feeling of dread clawed at him. He could almost imagine the predator stalking them, playing with them like they were nothing but its next meal.

Vasilio made as though to move toward the front but quickly halted. In a low breath, he whispered something Rymedur couldn’t understand. Was that the old tongue?

He didn’t know Vasilio spoke the language of the Elvadora. Very few did. Then, Rymedur realised he was whispering a spell. Vasilio’s gaze was fixed far into the distance as he repeated the same word over and over; his eyes seemed to brighten with an amber glow before suddenly dulling.