Page 20 of The Cruel Dawn
He pulls on his breeches and storms to the other side of the room. His golden eyes burn bright with frustration and his beautiful face twists with…
Hate? No.
Disappointment? No.
Rage. Yes. At me, at my words.
“All this time,” he growls, “I’ve been waiting for you and planning for this moment to destroy and restore the next city—”
“I know—”
“And now you wanna back out?”
I force myself to not look away even as guilt claws at me. This means so much to him, and he’s right—in our time together, he’s never asked much of me. But the realm is different now. A greater threat looms, one far more dangerous than a desert town with bandits who attack traveling merchants and troublemaking adolescents who burn down wheat fields.
“Please listen to me,” I say, my hands steepled against my lips. “We are so close to losing this realm, and I’m not being hyperbolic, Zee. Danar Rrivae is at our front door, and my life is at stake here, and so is yours, and so is the life of this realm. This is not in the near future. The threat isnow.”
He will understand. Hemustunderstand. He has understood in the past. Like when he was charged with destroying the realm Sadaadea. Both the mortals there and the terrain were uncontrollable. In a moment of exhaustion, Zephar had wanted to flee this first campaign of destruction that he’d led. I convinced him that he could do it, that hehadto do it, that this task was worthy of completion. He understood the urgency and the assignment, and the craggy peak of Sadaadea is now inked in the middle of his lower back.
“I’m not backing out,” I say to him, softer now. “I’m thinking about strategy. Shelezadd can wait. Danar Rrivae and Syrus Wake can’t. If we don’t stop them—”
“I don’t care about Danar and some fucking emperor-puppet!” Zephar shouts, shattering the quiet. “I care about you dismissing me, talking to me like I’m someboy. I waited for you all this time…” He runs his thick fingers through his hair and closes his eyes. “There’s thisdistancebetween us now.” He lowers his head and whispers, “Do I still matter to you?”
His question is like a blade to my gut.
“Ofcourseyou matter to me,” I say. “DoIstill matter toyou?”
“Yes.” His eyes open but stay fixed on the rug.
Does mattering even matter when the world is about to end? Like…for real. Danar Rrivae is at the threshold of Vallendor, preparing to take her from me.
The dim light of pre-dawn casts long shadows across the tent’s walls. Zephar’s shoulders heave as he turns away from me, his jaw clenched. I want to apologize, but the words die in my throat. Instead, I say, “I can see that you’re done talking for the moment. I’ll leave you to think about all that I’ve told you.”
He doesn’t speak, just keeps glaring at the tent’s canvas wall, his back rigid with anger.
I linger, hoping that he’ll say something,anythingthat might bridge this chasm forming between us. But he doesn’t speak. He doesn’t even sigh.
Wearing only my bandeau and breeches, I leave the tent. Out here, the valley enjoys perfect peace. Over in the pavilion, embers flicker in the hearth. A few Mera sit in those low chairs, heads back, eyes closed, swords at their feet. Shari rests at the entrance to our tent, and she lifts her giant head.
I kneel and scratch her ear. “Did we wake you up with all that bullshit?” I kiss the top of her head. “Sorry for the disturbance—the Warden of the Unseen Step deserves better. Let’s go for a walk, yeah?”
She yawns, stands, stretches, and trots beside me until we reach the perimeter of the Sanctum. That’s where she sits.
“I know: you can’t come,” I say, nodding. “I’ll be back this time. Promise.”
The mountains are cool this early in the day, and I welcome the crisp air, which chases away the fog of anger and guilt clouding my mind. It’s still early, but it’s never too early for otherworldly. That’s when I realize that I left my swords in the tent. I gaze at my empty hands—empty, though, doesn’t mean powerless.
I reach a ridge that overlooks Gasho and the desert plain. There’s the Temple of Celestial. There’s the canyon I escaped yesterday.
The skin on the back of my neck prickles. I look back over my shoulder.
No one’s there—no amber or blue glows of the living creep behind me.
And I don’t believe that.
I’m being watched.
Holding my breath, I continue my trek, my steps seemingly casual. My mind, though, isn’t resting. I study the terrain, thinking through ways to capture my stalker. After taking a few more steps, I spin and circle behind a cluster of boulders. I grab the neck of the figure crouched there. “It’s too early in the day to kill someone,” I say cooly, “but if I must…”
