Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 84840 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 424(@200wpm)___ 339(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84840 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 424(@200wpm)___ 339(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
Makarios shudders and nods, his breath hitching.
“I’ll take good care of you,” he promises. “You’ll become a grand healer, like him.”
The girl shakes her head. “No magic.”
Makarios blinks, then shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter.” A small, wry laugh escapes him—wet with grief, but filled with something else, too. Determination. “I met a team of healers once who rivalled the best vitalians. We’ll find them. We’ll learn.”
A team of healers. I know who he means.
Megaera. Olyn. Me.
Makarios will find us. He will learn.
And we will teach.
I stare into the flames as they climb higher, consuming what was and scattering it into embers. Mikros will not be forgotten. We will carry him forward.
The thought grips my heart so tight it hurts, but I hold onto it, feeling each beat pound against my ribs. When we leave the pyre, it feels like each of us choosing a new fork in the road.
Akilah and Florentius walk ahead together. Makarios takes the young girl home. Quin and I, we step into the city, where luminists are ushering the displaced into the luminariums.
The domes shine against the darkened sky. A half day ago, they shone only for the linea. Now, they shine for all.
I glance at Quin, the king who promised to make this happen—and who is making it happen. He doesn’t look at me; he keeps his gaze ahead, but he knows I’m watching him. He always does.
His jaw tenses, the faintest movement. Then, as if hearing my thoughts, he exhales and shakes his head. “This is all your work,” he murmurs.
I rest a hand on his cane, halting him. The motion is small, but it stills him completely. His dark eyes lock onto mine, unreadable in the flickering luminist glow.
I step forward until the shaft of his cane presses against the length of my leg—until I can feel the slight tremor shivering through the wood. A tension coiled beneath his steady exterior.
“It’s ours,” I whisper.
The city hums around us—distant hopeful voices, the absence of luminist bells, a wail and a laugh in the night—but none of it truly sinks into me. There is only him. The warmth of his breath against the cool air. The press of his cane deepening against my leg.
His fingers shift subtly against the cane’s handle, tightening, combing my hip. The tension is more tremulous now. No longer heavy with war, or the burden of duty.
It’s more desperate. More aware.
It flickers along with the luminarium light that catches in his eyes.
And I don’t move away.
I slide closer.
I slide until I can feel the hum of him battling his self-control.
I slide until he loses it.
A visceral shiver rolls through him, blooming with magic. The winds rise, lifting us—through the lingering smoke above the city, through the thick curtain of mist, until we break into a sky full of stars. His magic pockets us, wind keeping steady beneath our feet, very little above—just enough to flutter the hem of his cloak. His cane is still against my thigh, his fingers still resting at my hip. His breath still caught between us.
The vast sky glitters above us and under it is just the two of us. Down there, the weight of the world rests on his shoulders. But up here, he is free. He is light. He can take off his crown and be.
I raise a trembling hand to his cane, fingers curling over his. Slowly, I loosen his grip, freeing him of it. Up here the only support we need should be from one another. I toss the cane onto the soft, moonlit cloud that Quin reins in, and the cane sinks slightly into its glow.
I take his fist, tight and trembling, and slowly pry his fingers open. I guide his hand, press his palm against my waist. A place to anchor himself—to me.
His breath stutters. His eyes shutter. And then—his fingers curl in, clamping onto me, desperate, like I might slip through his grasp if he doesn’t hold tight.
“Cael . . .” His voice is a rumble, low and uneven. A warning.
A warning that he’s coming undone.
That if he does, he won’t stop.
It all sinks low into me on a delicate shiver and I pull myself forward, a hand in his shirt, a whisper landing on the flutette I gave him, sitting at the base of his throat.
“I don’t want you to—”
He moves.
He tilts my head up and his lips crash into mine, hard, messy. Raw. Years of longing, years of suppressing . . . his kiss is uncontrolled, fiery, like he’s tearing down all and any walls between us. I clutch his jaw and pull him even harder against my lips so he knows not to stop. I don’t want anything more between us. So long we’ve worn layers of masks around one another, for so long we’ve slowly peeled them off, and this is what’s under them all. Relentless desire for one another, an insatiable need to feel.