I open my eyes, raising them to find Zevayr.

I expect fury.

What I find is worse—something soft and vulnerable flickering in his gaze.

Turning to the woman, I softly say, “He’ll sleep for a while. But your Georg will be just fine.” Her eyes are wide, glued to her son’s healed belly. Slowly, she looks at me. Really looks at me. Her gaze lingers on my eyes.

“Thank you,” she breathes. Then she tugs me into a tight embrace, her tears warm against my neck.

Zevayr carries Georg back to the cottage and settles him into a bed far too large for his small frame. I blot the sweat from his brow, then draw the covers up to his chest. In the doorway, his mother, Georgaina, hovers helplessly, wringing her hands.

Zevayr’s eyes burn into my back, but I’m too nervous to face him, afraid of what I’ll find.

Instead, I place a hand on Georgaina’s shoulder and give her a warm smile. The older woman wipes a tear from her cheek and insists we stay for a meal. I shoot Zevayr a questioning glance, and he nods. His hand scorches through the fabric of my tunic, searing into my lower back as we follow Georgaina to her modest kitchen. His steady touch anchors me in a way that it shouldn’t.

She feeds us delicious roasted hen and salty potatoes. It’s my first time eating hen—it’s too cold in Tundrayn for the small birds to survive. And after weeks of subsisting on unseasoned rabbit, I think it might be the most delicious thing I’ve ever eaten. I try to take small bites, but I finish my portion in minutes. Georgaina notices and piles more hen onto my empty plate. Zevayr hides a smile behind his hand.

“We don’t have much,” Georgaina says by way of apology. “But you’re welcome to anything you like.”

“This is perfect.” I smile at her, taking another bite.

“Where is Georg’s father?” Zevayr asks casually, his gaze flitting between me and the worn, wooden door.

Georgaina shakes her head, fingers playing with the checkered tablecloth. “He was summoned to the front lines a few years ago. His sword came home. He never did.”

Suddenly, the hen tastes like ash in my mouth.

“Georg carries the sword everywhere. Says he wants to be a soldier like his Pa. I want something more for him, though. Something better. But … we’re commons.” She shrugs, eyes glistening. “If the war doesn’t end, in a few years, he’ll leave me, too.”

Her words splinter my heart.

I’ve been agonizing over my people, but everyone has suffered in this war. Especially nonwielders.

This is why I need to get to Arbinj.

Zevayr clears his throat. “Is that a garden you have out back?” He gestures to the window behind me.

She nods. “It’s doing all right. Could do with some more water, though. Well’s empty. Soldiers came through a few weeks ago. Siphoned it dry.”

Tides, did these people have any luck?

A muscle ticks in Zevayr’s jaw. “And the Rebellion? Any trouble with them?”

Georgaina eyes him warily. “They stop by from time to time. Not friendly, but not hostile either. Sometimes they bring food.”

She says nothing more, but her silence speaks clearly.

The Rebellion isn’t their enemy.

Across the table, Zevayr catches my eye. His jaw is locked, lips pressed into a thin line.

Georgaina flicks her gaze between us, sharp eyes missing nothing. “Last I heard, Prince Zevayr was delivering the Tundrayni princess to Arbinj. But they were attacked. No one’s seen them since.”

My heart skips.

Zevayr’s hand moves—slowly, deliberately—to rest on the pommel of his sword. I plead silently with my eyes, hoping he’ll understand—hoping he’ll listen.

Please. Please don’t.

His jaw tightens further. I might be healing stress fractures in his molars later.

His fingers tighten around his sword.

Please. I don’t dare breathe.

Then, his voice cuts through the thick silence. “We heard something similar,” he rumbles, gray eyes locked on mine. “Except he isn’t delivering her, like bartered goods to be traded. He’s safeguarding her. Like a treasure.”

My breath catches. My lips part. Just for a heartbeat, something soft flickers across his face.

Then, it’s gone.

“We’ll be on our way,” he says, smoothly rising from the table. His hand doesn’t leave his sword.

I follow. “Georg will need a few days of rest when he wakes. Try to keep him indoors, if you can.” I squeeze Georgaina’s hand.

“Thank you,” she murmurs, pulling me into another embrace. “I wish I had something to offer you in return.”

“You do,” Zevayr says gruffly. “Forget you ever saw us.”

She nods solemnly. Georgaina tries to pack us food, but I shake my head. They have so little already.

Outside, the sky weeps—a gentle drizzle that hadn’t been there moments ago. There wasn’t a single cloud in sight, yet now the rain falls soft and steady.

Zevayr draws me to his side, sweeping his cloak over us like a canopy, and together, we walk on.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

“HOW FAR ARE WE from Arbinj?” I ask, dry leaves crunching beneath my boots. It’s been hours since we left Georgaina’s cottage—the drizzle cleared after fifteen minutes of walking. “Well, uncontested Arbinj.”

We’ve avoided the rebels so far, but we’re deep in their territory now. I’m surprised we haven’t encountered any.

“About two weeks out from the army base. The men will recognize me—we’ll be safe.”

Safe. A big promise.

Will I ever truly be safe in Arbinj? A Tundrayni within their borders, my blue eyes a reminder of lost loved ones.

The thought plagues me more often as our journey nears its end. It’s a bittersweet feeling—I’m not ready for it to be over.

I don’t dwell on why.

“You summoned that rain. Back at the cottage,” I say instead, the words bubbling over. “Why?”

He glances at me, then back to the path. His shoulders are stiff. “The same reason you healed the boy, I imagine.” He’s quiet for several heartbeats. His voice is rough when he speaks again. “We’ve taken so much from them. I wanted to give something back.”

Heat prickles behind my eyes, my throat cinching tight.

I don’t ask him any more questions.

I’m starting a fire at our camp for the night when a loud boom of thunder cracks through the air. A sharp yelp tears from my lips, the dried branches dropping to the leaf-ridden ground. I whirl, expecting to find a wrathful Zevayr looming behind me, poised to summon lightning.

I blink.

He’s still sitting a few paces away, skinning a large hare. His lips tick up softly, an apology in his eyes. “That’s not me,” he says, pointing skyward. “It’s a natural storm.”

Right. We’re in Arbinj now. The land of thunderstorms.

The wind picks up, and something inside me buckles. I don’t want to ask. I don’t want him to know. But the crackling air clamps down on my lungs like a vise.

“Can you—can you make it stop?”

I hate the vulnerability in my voice.

His eyes soften, a look of regret crossing his face. “I wish I could. But I can only control storms that I summon myself.”

I nod too fast. I want to tell him it’s fine, and that I’m not a baby. But there’s another crash of thunder, and my hands jerk at my sides. The words die in my throat.

Zevayr pretends not to notice.

It starts raining while we eat—the rabbit tastes different tonight, more flavored—and Zevayr quickly strings up his cloak between two trees as a makeshift tarp, leather side up. We huddle beneath it, shoulder to shoulder. Since the weather has been warmer, we haven’t necessarily needed to sleep so close together—but I haven’t said anything, and neither has he.