Page 162 of Kissed By the Gods
And in that hush between heartbeats, he lowers his lips back to mine. It’s not a desperate kiss this time, not teeth and fire and hunger like I want. No, this is something deeper. A vow made flesh. A kiss that saysI see you. That promisesI’ll stand between you and the fires of hell. That vowsyou’re everything.
I try to press harder, to turn it into something fierce and consuming because softness scares me in a way battle never has. But he won’t let me. The way he kisses me back—gods, it’s a sacrament. An aching confession without a single word.
Just as the ache blooms into something full and breaking, the world intrudes.
From a great distance, the sound of trumpets slices through the quiet.
“When evaluating Selencian boys for Altor potential, err on the side of caution. It is preferable to cull the unmarked than to overlook the marked. One missed Altor can cost us dozens of good men.”
General Maran Mawn to the Vaelspire Mines Contingent in Year 33 of the Eternal Wars
CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
LEINA
The trumpets aredifferent from any I’ve heard before.
The call starts from somewhere across the ocean. On a nearby island, maybe. It’s low and deep and continuous, a rumbling that flies across the water. It’s a terrifying sound, one that warns of doom. The only thing more terrifying is the silence when it stops, abruptly, the trumpeter silenced mid-piercing note.
But other trumpets quickly pick up the call, their sharp, urgent notes cutting through the air. The sounds get closer and closer, until the trumpets are wailing from every corner of Amarune.
Ryot and I lock eyes for a tenuous moment, trying to declare soundlessly everything we haven’t said, anything we haven’t shared. But the sound of doors slamming and boots running down the hallway spurs Ryot into action, and he all but throws me across the room. He tosses my boots and scythe my way, as I wrestle with my chainmail. Watching the efficiency with which he moves, I decide that “suiting up and arming with all haste” should be part of the training regimen at the Synod.
“You may be a veilstrider,” he tells me, as he grabs my pack and straps it to my back for me, along with my scythe. “But you’re still a ward. You stay behind the front line, with Thalric.”
There’s frantic neighing outside as the beasts join their riders. Ryot grabs my hand and pulls me out the door, and we’re running down the hallway and down the stairs, the other Stormriven men hot on our heels.
Ryot keeps shouting directions.
“Your job, Leina, is to learn. You’re still a ward. You’re not to be anyone’s hero today. Watch the veterans and learn from them. Make sure you manage your energy levels. Don’t overestimate yourself and drain your power.”
He pauses and then mutters. “Hopefully there won’t be very many of them.”
From somewhere behind me, Nyrica snorts. “If we’re hoping for things, let’s hope that they all die mid-air and plummet into the ocean, yeah?”
Ryot ignores his sarcasm. “Vaeloria is the fastest beast in the air, faster than the draegoths. Use her speed, if it comes to it,” he continues.
I squeeze Ryot’s hands in mine.
“Ryot,” I say, and his head jerks toward mine, as we reach the galehold. Somehow, Einarr and Vaeloria find us immediately in the chaos of running warriors and flapping wings. I smile a little, trying to ease his worry. “We’ve trained for this. Trust me.”
He swears, then wraps a hand at the back of my neck, pulling me in for a hard kiss. He doesn’t even care that we’re surrounded by our cast. When we pull apart, he rests his forehead on mine for a heartbeat’s worth of time.
“Don’t do anything heroic,” he tells me. “Stay with Leif and Thalric, at the back of the formation with the other wards. I’ll be needed at the front.”
They’ll want his shields. Godsdammit, that is so terrifying. I’m sure he’s always at the front. Then he’s backing up, mounting Einarr. Vaeloria snorts from behind me, and I run over to her.
I follow Thalric’s line of sight as he finds Nyrica, heading to the front lines hot on Ryot’s heels. Nyrica turns to give Thalric his classic, jaunty grin, flashing his dimple, but I’ve never seen the look that crosses Thalric’s face in response. It’s not only worry or determination, it’s something so much deeper, something that breaks the rigid calm he wears. Nyrica sees him and slows, his usual easy grin faltering. For a heartbeat, they simply stare at each other across the gap.
And then Thalric moves. He strides forward and grabs Nyrica by the front of his tunic and drags him forward in a single, decisive motion, and their mouths crash together—hard, desperate, and aching. Thalric cups the back of Nyrica’s head, holding him there, and Nyrica clutches Thalric's tunic in his fists like he might drown if he lets go. They finally pull apart to press their foreheads together, both breathing hard.
“Stay alive up there, Nyr.”
Nyrica recovers first, falling back on his jaunty, teasing smile.
