Page 75 of Kingdom of Darkness and Dragons
"Don't," she said, her voice softening. "Just rest."
Her fingers were warm around my own, a small, solid anchor in the swirling chaos of the fever. I clung to her hand as if it were the only thing keeping me from being swept away entirely. The whispers tried to twist the moment into something ugly, something weak.
She pities you. Her mercy is a weapon she will use against you.
But the poison in their words couldn’t touch the simple truth of her touch. She was here. She had not left.
Through the haze of pain, I saw her other hand go to the waterskin. She lifted my head with surprising strength, bringing the skin to my cracked lips. The water was cool, trickling down my raw throat, a small miracle in the midst of this waking nightmare. Her face was drawn and gaunt - she did not know how to hunt, and she had not eaten in several days, I guessed. Dark circles lay under her warm brown eyes suggesting she’d had little sleep either. My gaze fell to the dark bruises circling her neck, a map of my own violence against her. The sight sent a fresh wave of something—not rage, but a sharp, aching possessiveness that was indistinguishable from shame. I had hurt her. I had almost killed her. And still, she stayed.
“Aeveth,” I breathed, the name a ragged prayer. My throat was raw, and the word was barely audible over the hiss of the rain on the fire.
Her grip on my hand tightened. “What?” she asked, leaning closer. “What is it?”
I wanted to tell her. I wanted to explain the pull, the bond, the madness in my own head that only she seemed to quiet. I wanted to thank her. But the words were a tangled knot in my fever-addled brain, impossible to unravel.
“I need… need…”
“What do you need?”
“Need you… close…”
She smiled and I stared up at her, unable to tear my eyes away from the sheer beauty of it. I had not seen her smile before. Warmth blossomed in my chest, spreading through my body, and my heart raced as she lifted the cloak and slid alongside me, pulling my arms round her. She rested her hand on my chest and laid her head on my shoulder.
The simple act of her presence was a balm more potent than any healing draught. Her warmth seeped into my chilled bones, a slow, spreading tide that pushed back the fever’s icy grip. The whispers, which had been a frantic, mocking chorus moments before, faded into a stunned silence. They had no power here, in the circle of her arms.
Her head rested on my shoulder, her breath a soft, steady rhythm against my skin. It was the most peaceful sound I had ever heard. The knot of pain and madness in my soul began to loosen, strand by strand, until there was only the steady beat of her heart against my ribs.
“Sleep now, Aeveth,” I murmured, pressing my lips to her hair. She didn't respond, already lost in dreams. As I allowed myself to drift away, I found myself hoping that she dreamed of me.
28
The rain had finally stopped, but the silence it left behind felt heavier than the storm itself. We'd been tracking through increasingly treacherous terrain for days, following the faint trail that Antonius insisted would lead us to Livia and her captor. The shadow mage had covered his tracks well, but not well enough to completely fool a former gladiator with wilderness experience.
I found myself walking at the back of our small group, isolated by the invisible but very real barriers that had formed since my revelation on the battlefield. Marcus and Antonius moved together with the easy familiarity of long friendship, their conversation quiet but constant. Tarshi and Septimus flanked them, their own bond evident in every shared glance and casual touch. Sirrax, despite his injuries, maintained his position as our scout, his enhanced senses invaluable in tracking our quarry.
And then there was me. The Emperor's son. The heir to everything they had spent their lives fighting against. Utterly fucking useless.
I couldn't blame them for their distance. In their position, I would have felt the same mixture of distrust and barely contained hatred. My bloodline represented every injustice they had suffered, every friend they had lost, every moment of pain inflicted by Imperial policy. The fact that I disagreed with those policies, that I had tried in my own limited way to minimize the damage, meant nothing compared to the simple truth of whose son I was.
"Water ahead," Antonius called back, his voice cutting through my brooding thoughts. "Sounds like a river."
We crested a small rise and found ourselves looking down at a stone bridge that spanned a rushing torrent of muddy water. The recent rains had swollen what was probably normally a gentle stream into a raging river that flowed over the bridge's surface, turning the crossing into a dangerous ford.
"They came this way," Antonius confirmed, crouching to examine something near the bridge's approach. "Recent tracks, maybe two days old."
"Can we cross?" Septimus asked, eyeing the rushing water with obvious scepticism.
Tarshi was already moving toward the bridge, his movements careful as he tested the submerged stones. "It's possible, but dangerous. The stones aren’t solid, looks like some collapsed quite recently, and that current..." He shook his head. "One slip and you're gone."
"We have rope," Marcus pointed out. "We could rig a safety line."
"That will take time," I said, finally finding my voice. "Time we might not have."
The others turned to look at me, and I saw the familiar flash of irritation cross Marcus's face. He had made it clear that he didn't welcome input from the Emperor's son, regardless of its merit.
"You have a better suggestion, Your Highness?" The title was delivered with enough venom to kill a horse.
The contempt in his voice finally broke through my carefully maintained composure. "Yes, actually, I do. And you can stop calling me that. My name is Jalend, or Jalius if you prefer the formal version. I'm not 'Your Highness' to you or anyone else here."
