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The rush from my mark buzzed through my head. I was not familiar with the tunnels, with the resources Zathki had to aid me. But in my arms, I had the most precious resource. There was one way out of it I could see, and it meant proving that I did believe in Wesley—that my belief was greater than my fear.
“Wait. Wait!” I caught his arms, pulled him in against my chest, and took a second to clear my head. Wesley squirmed in my grip, until I dropped my head and pressed my lips against the top of his head. “Please, Wesley. A moment.”
I needed to think. To weigh this.
Yes, yes, my mark told me that this was the way, that I should trust Wesley and his power. Right then, we had no other choice.
But what if I lost him?
What would it cost Wesley to amplify my mark that much? For a Thorzi mage, it would have been no trouble to direct a battleship flying so close, but I knew nothing of the abilities of humans. They were resilient, curious, stubborn, but magic demanded more than that. It demanded energy and raw power. As dangerous as it was for a warrior to sit under the light of Lyr, channeling that gift was as much of a risk.
And—and whynow?
My father Zul had taken a human mate. And my father Murphy had never shown any signs of being a mage.
The king as well, had his Rochelle. No power from her either.
I breathed in deep, the scent of Wesley’s hair and the bland soap from Crux’s lab. He still smelled sweet, his skin was warm.
No human could bear the light of Lyr or the marks of a true-born warrior. But here I was, a hybrid. And Wesley had come, as stubborn and brave a human as I had ever seen, and he had power we thought had been lost forever.
No hybrid had been born a mage. No Thorzi had that power.
And Wesley offered it—offered me his hand—freely when I held mine out. He was put here, given to me by the stars, for more than standing idly beside me and watching my people commit an atrocity.
“I do believe in you, my Wesley. I only—”
“You don’t want to lose me,” he said, a tiny tilt of his lips that looked all too familiar. “I don’t want to lose you either. And I didn’t.”
I searched his face, weighing the fear that spasmed in my chest, rushing blood through my veins at the thought of holding him in my arms while he died. That terror battled with the wisdom of my star mark, the knowledge that there was one safe way out of this.
“Because you are full of miracles,” I whispered.
The Thorzi were coming. In moments, they would open fire again, and the Zathki were rushing past, into the tunnels. If the Thorzi collapsed them, many would die, and we would all suffer for it, because we needed the Zathki.
Their technology, at least.
And they needed us too—our resources, yes, but right then, they needed me. And they needed Wesley.
I hung my head for a moment, setting aside my selfish fear to accept what was right.
“You will take my power, make it your own. Let them know that we are alive down here. Nothing more. Do not push too far. Do not try to make this complicated.” An impulse, like he had shown when he’d saved me once already.
If it was Crux attacking Zathkar, coming to make sure Wesley and I were finished, then it wouldn’t matter if Wesley could reach his ship. He wouldn’t pause.
But if it was Kaelum, there was a chance. He was there to find Wesley and me. Or, seeing his own crashed ship, to avenge us. We didn’t even have to direct him in battle—only let him know that we were alive.
Surely something so vague was within the realm of Wesley’s abilities. With a sigh, I grabbed the tops of his arms and stared directly into his clever eyes.
“You will be careful,” I commanded. “If you feel any discomfort, stop. Nothing is worth you being hurt, do you understand?”
He was staring up at me, his cheeks red from the cold, nibbling his bottom lip. When he glanced away, he fidgeted with his glasses. “I’ll be careful,” he promised, barely louder than a whisper.
The Thorzi ships swooped lower as I raised my eyes, the plasma blasters glowing threateningly. There was no more time to waste.
I took hold of the back of Wesley’s hand and guided it across my skin, trying to tell him with my eyes alone that if he could not save himself, I did not want him to save me. I would die on this barren waste with him, rather than ever leave his side.
His fingertips thrummed against my skin at the first brush against my tactician’s mark. With a sharp breath, I steeled my nerves and pressed his palm down against my skin. “You can do this.”
