Page 75 of A Legacy of Wrath and Reckoning

He studied her face, some war going on in his thoughts Zylah didn’t dare let herself reach for. He dipped his chin in acknowledgement, fingers rolling the little bell at his wrist absentmindedly.

Zylah wanted to go to him, to lay beside him like they had in the cave but knew he needed rest. He hadn’t asked her to fill in any more of the gaps in his memory, and she told herself he just needed time. That no matter how much every second of this was eating away at her, she would give him all the time he needed.

With a small smile, Zylah forced herself to turn away and leave the tent.

Chapter Thirty-Seven

AnotherfailedattemptwithOkwata’s anti-venom began Zylah’s morning with a disheartening tone.

“Interesting,” the scientist mused, shifting his chair back to study her. “Your magic is suspending the venom. But something else seems to be drawing its attention.”

“The venom?” Zylah echoed, blinking away the liquid from her eyes.

“Your magic. It’s preoccupied, for want of a better word. But you already know that, don’t you?” Okwata pocketed the empty vial Zylah returned to him, manoeuvring his chair back to hand her a fresh cloth.

Zylah pressed her lips together as she considered her words. She saw no use in lying, and though she didn’t know Okwata well, he’d been kind to her, to the others. Had welcomed Arioch like an old friend. But the details of what her magic was preoccupiedwithwas not just her secret to share. “I do,” she told him, and he didn’t press her on the matter. “How’s Arioch settling in?”

The Seraphim spent most of his time with Okwata and Ahrek, the latter studiously documenting Arioch’s stories. He’d taken to life in the camp well, though Zylah suspected it wasn’t his first time amongst an army given his connection to the original nine. Okwata’s expression shifted, and she knew his answer regarding Arioch’s wellbeing was likely determined by what he was willing to share, too. Zylah respected that.

“I’ve lived in exile,” Okwata began, his gaze shifting to the tent opening, to some memory he didn’t speak aloud. “But I wasn’t alone. Not for long, anyway. Ahrek found me when I was at my lowest. Was kind to me in a way that…” His voice broke, and when he turned to look back at her his brown eyes were glassy. “…In a way I did not think I ever deserved to have offered to me again.” He smoothed the blanket over his lap, fingers resting over the navy fabric. “Our minds can be our greatest adversaries. How Arioch held onto every piece of himself for so long in the dark is beyond me.”

Zylah had wondered the same. Had silently questioned what the Seraphim’s secret was to have gone to war with his own mind and won.

“But to answer your question,” Okwata continued, “I think he has found some small comfort being here. Camp life is familiar to him.”

Again, Zylah’s thoughts shifted to Ranon, to how he had taken so much from so many. And to what end? “Does he know anything about Ranon’s intentions, his orb?”

“I haven’t questioned Arioch yet. The last thing he needs now is an interrogation.”

Shame warmed Zylah’s cheeks at that. She’d asked Arioch about the blood moon when they’d been barely hours out of the maze. And though the Seraphim seemed to be taking everything in his stride, there was the very real possibility that underneath the surface, things were different. Which meant they needed to seek out their own answers.

A ripple in her magic drew her attention beyond the opening of the tent, but Zylah said nothing as she secured the new cloth over her eyes.

“You’ll come by for the testing later?” Okwata asked, pausing at the exit to wait for her answer.

“We both will.” Holt exchanged a greeting with Okwata, the sensation of his magic filling the tent and forcing Zylah to take a step back as Okwata bade them a good day.

Holt’s magic was growing, too. Which meant he was healing. Physically, at least. His attention slid to the cloth over her eyes, to the way she combed her fingers through her unbound hair, ready to braid it. With a flourish of his hand, he produced a canna cake, holding it out for her.

“A peace offering,” he said with that quirk of his lips she wanted to taste.

His fingers brushed hers as she took the cake, still warm from wherever he’d no doubt stolen it.

“I didn’t realise you and I were at war.” Zylah hid her smile as she took a bite.

“An apology, then. You were right last night, I was deflecting.” Holt’s smile faded. He glanced around the tent, taking in the two cots and the sparse furniture, almost identical to the one he shared with her brother, his admission hanging in the air between them.

Zylah set the cake aside, gestured for him to sit on the edge of her cot. “You don’t have to talk about it, Holt, it’s alright. We can just work on breaking the command.”

There was no mask in place when he looked at her. Only a wild kind of desperation that felt too much like hopelessness. Like he was trying with everything he had not to give up. His throat bobbed as he swallowed, and it was an effort not to reach for him with her mind, not to offer him comfort for fear it would only cause him pain.

“You covered your eyes again,” he said, a hand reaching for her face before he pulled it away and rested his palms on his knees. On the outside, he seemed calm, collected, but Zylah could feel the storm raging inside, the weight of it pressing against her skin and sliding along her bones.

“I think it scares the soldiers,” she admitted. “Plus I’m still adjusting. Experimenting with having them uncovered at different times throughout the day so that I’ll be used to it eventually.”

“Scares them? Perhaps your sight is worse than I thought it was.” He tugged at a piece of her unbraided hair, but the playful gesture quickly turned into something else, his eyes darting up to her face. “Everything about you feels familiar.” Zylah didn’t think she was breathing, but then Holt released her hair and dragged a hand through his own, eyes dancing around the tent again. “But I can’t make sense of any of it,” he said softly, “Of what happened after.” The hand fell to his chest, to the scar hidden beneath his shirt. “Only flashes. And by the time Ranon’s command was in place…”

Zylah didn’t cut in. Wanted him to know that he could speak freely with her, no matter how difficult it was.

---