Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 84840 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 424(@200wpm)___ 339(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84840 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 424(@200wpm)___ 339(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
I step closer, my hands trembling at my sides, one grazing Quin’s gifted dromveske hanging from my belt. “I tried. I tried very hard to do as you asked.”
“Very hard,” he says drily, his lip curling.
“I couldn’t leave him to die, and he couldn’t see me die either. Life forced us back together.”
“Don’t put this on fate,” he snaps, his voice trembling with fury. “You wanted to be together.”
I flinch, my mouth dry. My silence hangs heavy between us.
He steps closer, his voice low and dangerous. “Or are you here to tell me from now on, you’ll leave us alone?”
I look at him, my heart pounding. There’s a rational side that says I should agree, that says that’s what I’ve been trying to do all along and should do properly final, but I cannot say those words. My stomach roils even at the thought of them.
He looms over me. “So?”
I inhale sharply. “You love your brother. Nothing is worth destroying your relationship. Hate me, not him.”
“What if I only agree if you leave his life?” His words are a threat, slicing through the air.
A sharp pain pierces my chest. My fists clench instinctively. “He needs your support for the kingdom.”
“Leave him!” he roars.
I shake my head, desperation thick in my voice. “You want me to give him up. Why won’t you give up your jealousy?”
His eyes blaze, raw and pained, as he recoils. “My brother falls for my only spark of joy, and I’m the one who has to get over it?”
Guilt twists in my gut—almost as much as the spear that plunged through my meridians. “I hate how much I’ve hurt you. I am sorry.”
“Sorry enough to give him up?”
“Sorry enough that I will do anything I can to make it up to you. Anything, except that.”
His laugh this time is a quiet, broken thing. It doesn’t echo—it sinks into the air, heavy and unbearable. “Make it up to me?” His voice is tight, trembling. “Why bother? You’re going to do whatever you want no matter the outcome of this conversation.”
He turns toward his horse, and panic surges in my chest. I lunge forward, snagging his sleeve. He halts but doesn’t face me.
“I am grateful to you,” I whisper. “Fond of you. I owe you my life, and I would gladly give it for you.”
He turns slowly, his voice barely audible. “Do you know how painful it is to hear that platitude? I’d rather you say the truth. You don’t care for me at all.”
“You’re his beloved brother,” I say, my voice breaking. “I will treat you as if you are mine.”
“Keep digging this knife in!” His voice cracks on the words, and he pulls away from me, his face twisted with anguish.
“I’m sorry I’ve hurt you.”
“Sorry isn’t enough!”
He steps back, and I’m about to beg him not to run away again when figures slip out from behind broken stone walls. At first, I’m slammed with panic, I see purple crusader cloaks and spears, but as I steady my breathing, I see the figures for what they are: sickly looking villagers aiming scythes and pitchforks. But why at us? Why do they look so serious. And so sickly?
I take in the figures surrounding us. “What’s going on?” I call out. I step backwards, closer to Nicostratus.
No one speaks, but they keep shifting closer.
I frown over a lurch of fear. I don’t know what these villagers want, but I feel like we should get away. Or at the very least, Nicostratus should. Taking me along might be asking too much. “Fly out of here,” I murmur.
“Haven’t meditated since . . .”
I glimpse a flicker of pain in his expression. Meditating might mean confronting his fight with his brother in a way he hasn’t been ready for yet.
“Are you telling me you’ve no magic right now?” I gulp.
“I still have a sword.”
He starts to draw it and I stop him. “We don’t know the situation. They look sick.”
I call out again, this time directing my question to the silver-bearded man who seems to be leading. “You’re pale. I see a damp sheen on your faces. You’re unwell.”
“Unwell?” he spits, voice hoarse. “We’re dying.”
They rush forwards, scythes and pitchforks gleaming in the daylight. Nicostratus’s sword comes out and I raise both hands. “Stop! If you’re that sick you need a healer. Why attack?”
Silver-beard halts the men. “You’re not sick. You’re like the rest of them in Kastoria. Suspicious.”
“Slow down. We’re travellers, from the south. What’s happening?”
Silver-beard squints at us, his scythe still angled at us, but he’s not moving forward.
I narrow my gaze, scrolling him for signs. “What are your symptoms?”
Silver-beard shoves at his sleeves and raises his arms. My chest seizes as I take in the familiar sheen of scales creeping over his skin. I’ve seen this before, in Kastoria. The regent should have taken care of this. At least this.