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Azmar must return to the battlefield. To his people. But I cannot carry him.
It can cripple the strongest of men,I once told him as we sat on the bridge, gazing at the stars,and yet it can strengthen the weakest of them, too.
Strengthen the weakest of them.
I glance southeast, toward the battlefield.
“Fight or flee,” I whisper.
“Lark?”
Pressing my lips together, I cradle his face and press my forehead to his, my tears falling onto his brow. “Fight or flee,” I repeat. “That’s how all creatures respond to fear. Azmar”—I choke on my own voice—“I need you to flee.”
He meets my eyes. Confusion gives way to clarity.
There’s an energy to fear. A desperation for preservation. A reserve of strength that only true terror can tap into.
It’s Azmar’s only chance.
But to channel so much into him, long enough to get him across enemy lines and into Cagmar ... it will warp his mind, and his heart.
Our relationship will never be the same.
Crying, I press my bloodstone into his palm. Kiss him one last time. Stand. Back away, and take his sword with me, just in case.
“I n-need you to f-flee,” I force out once more, sobs distorting my voice. “I need you to run back to the trollis.”
Only they can save him.
It hurts when I push it out. It eviscerates my heart and steals my air, cuts into my every fiber like shards of glass. I shake with it, and when it hits Azmar, his body tenses. His eyes widen. His skin slicks.
He rises to his feet, new blood seeping into the makeshift bandage and dripping into his waistline. His veins darken, breath quickens, like my skin’s peeled back to reveal a monster from the darkest depths of the canyon. His legs quake, like they’ve forgotten how to move.
I push harder, and my nails cut into my palms. I make him fear me more than anything else, even death.
And Azmar flees.
Fueled by that last reserve of strength, he runs. And I run after him, because I cannot let him fall before he reaches help. I cannot carry him. This is all I can do.
And so I chase him, across the basin floor and up its side, into a battlefield strewn with bodies, swallowing him in fear, sobbing, knowing that I am destroying everything we had.
Chapter 27
Cagmar feels colder than I remember. Even after Perg brought me a change of clothes and a fur, I can’t get warm. I’m starting to forget what warmth feels like, and I returned less than a day ago.
The lights in the infirmary gleam too pale and shine with a strange sort of exhaustion I never noticed before. Casualties fill every bed, and any extra space has been stuffed with cots for the higher-caste injured. Others have been placed in their apartments, or even in the market. Azmar lies on a center bed on his stomach, his back stitched and bandaged and swollen. He lost a lot of blood, especially during his run. I know the medicine they’ve given him keeps him asleep, but I wonder if he would have awakened by now if left to his own devices. If the pain would keep him conscious.
With the doctors attending other patients, I dare to take his hand and hold it in mine. Is his skin too hot, or is mine too cold?
I want him to wake. I need to know he’ll be okay, that he’ll live. And yet I want him to sleep forever. If he never opens his eyes, he’ll never look at me that way again, like I’m a morbid ghost, a repulsive monster, a living nightmare.
I lower my forehead to the cool bed frame. Ritha already treated my own injuries, but they come alive again. Pulsing reminders.If you weren’t like this, you wouldn’t have these bruises.
Azmar called my ability a gift. I don’t think he could say so now. Not when it’s been wielded so violently against him. But I didn’tknow what else to do.It was the only way to help you. Oh, Azmar, please forgive me.
My throat constricts. Gods above and below, I’m so tired of crying. I’ll need my strength if I’m to prove to the council that I belong here. That I’m useful. I haven’t spoken to any of the council members yet—they might not even know I’ve returned. But they kept their word; they have not yet revealed what’s transpired between Azmar and me. If they had, I don’t know if Azmar would have been treated.
I trace circles in his palm, watching his back rise and fall with each deep, quiet breath. Is he dreaming? Am I the subject of his nightmares?
