Page 70 of Kissed By the Gods
I swallow hard.
My hands are still shaking. But I reach out anyway. He transfers the bloom with shocking gentleness—for one so large, one so strong, one so capable of devastation. It lands in my palms with a whisper. This time, I don’t crush it. I don’t let fear command my fingers, and I don’t let shame tighten my grip.
I stand slowly, careful not to jostle the delicate petals in my hands. Then I walk back to the table and take my place beside Kiernan, who’s begun sewing his petals. He’s pinching agossamer strand between his teeth as he works to thread the impossibly tiny needle.
I swallow the dryness from my mouth. This time, I don’t think of Leo’s screams.
I think about what would happen if I’m ever sent to save him.
And what failure would look like if all I can create is destruction. I peel a single petal back from the bloom with a shuddering breath, but my fingers are shockingly steady. I deposit the one petal in my otherwise empty basket and just stare at it. It’s whole.
Caius claps a hand on my shoulder.
“Well done, Leina,” he says, and the pride in his voice fills the room.
Faelon looks up briefly from his book, that saucy grin back in place. “Let’s get that veil done so I can beat you up in the ring.”
I scoff, but it sounds weak, even to my ears. “I’ll put you on the floor someday.”
Faelon’s grin widens, but it’s not quite so arrogant this time. The teasing is still there, but so is something else. Something that reminds me so much of Levvi it makes me ache.
“I expect nothing less,” he replies.
You ask why I hate him, so I’ll tell you. I hate him because he smiles with the same mouth that commands our chains. I hate him because his blood runs Faraengardian, and no matter how sweetly it sings to you, it was born from a land built on our broken backs.
You cannot trust one born of the enemy, Maeravel—not with your freedom, not with your heart.
Especially not with your heart.
Mother
Letter from Zyrenna Kastrel, commander of the Selencian rebels, to her daughter, Maeravel Kastrel
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Everyonefrom the youngest ward to the most senior archon is on edge, waiting restlessly for the relative safety that winter provides Faraengard. But fall hangs on with both hands, pushing everyone to their limits—in training, in patrols, and on watch duty.
Tonight, the training yard is almost empty, stripped down to nothing but shadows and the fading scent of dust and sweat. All the others drifted off hours ago toward the baths, the Crimson Feather, and other things easier than another hour of drills.
But Ryot and I stayed, fighting until we were both ragged. Now, the stars are out and the air bites colder against my skin with every passing minute. I sit on the ground, breath heaving, downing a flask of laomai before I fall over. Across from me, Ryot wipes down his blades.
“You’re getting faster,” Ryot says, his voice rough from too many hours shouting commands.
“Or you’re getting slower,” I say, a faint smile tugging at my mouth.
He exhales sharply—a sound that could be a laugh if he allowed it. But he won’t. I haven’t heard him laugh at all theselast few weeks. He’s too wrapped up in all the things that can go wrong.
He finishes cleaning the last training blade, setting it carefully beside him.
“You’re getting harder to read. That’s good. It makes you harder to kill.”
“Harder to kill,” I echo. “It’s strange to think of that as a goal. Isn’t it?”
He rolls his broad shoulders and looks up at the stars. “In war, being hard to kill is everything. It means you get another day. Another chance to fight.”
