CHAPTER ELEVEN
SLEEP EBBS AWAY THE next morning, slowly, languorously, like a gentle receding tide. Every inch of me is pleasantly warm. I try to shift, but I can’t—there’s a heavy weight settled over my legs and waist.
My eyes flutter open, squinting against the sunlight.
I’m met with a strange sight—Zevayr asleep next to me, my limbs tangled with his. Though we sleep beside each other each night, I always wake alone.
He’s the first to rise, already dressed and brooding.
But not today.
I frown, scanning his face. Is he coming down with something? He’s never slept later than me. Gingerly, I untangle my arms and press my palms to his neck, sending a soft, probing wave of my power through him. He seems fine —no sign of sickness.
A gentle snore escapes him, and I can’t help but smile. His brow is smooth, relaxed, his full lips slightly parted. It’s a stark contrast to the raw anguish on his face last night when he told me of his friend.
I shouldn’t think about the way he said Lev’s name—raw and reverent— like it pained him to speak it aloud. Or how his voice broke mid-sentence, like the memory carved straight through him. Or how much I’d wanted, in that moment, to take away his pain and carry it with my own.
Unbidden, another detail returns to me—how he’d called Lev’s parents nonwielders instead of commons. A small thing, maybe. But from the most powerful stormwielder alive, it felt like something more. A crack in the image I’d built of him. A glimpse of the man beneath the thunder.
Zevayr is full of surprises.
And I’d told him of my own grief—of Sura and Tumaas—and he hadn’t offered platitudes or pity. He’d just listened. As though his silence alone could bear the weight of my sorrow.
I shouldn’t notice the way the sunlight brushes against the strong line of his jaw, softening the stubble that shadows his skin. Or the sweep of his
lashes against his cheeks, darker than night. My gaze drops, lingering on the solid column of his neck, the breadth of his shoulders, the dip between his thick collarbones. Warmth coils low in my belly, and it has nothing to do with his body heat.
But what of the brother waiting for me in Arbinj? Will he be just as handsome?
A sharp pang of guilt pierces my heart, and I tear my gaze away.
Daak.
He would understand me sleeping in Zevayr’s arms each night—he wouldn’t like it, but he’d understand. He’d want me to be safe and warm and alive. But the thoughts running through my mind right now—those feel too much like betrayal.
I shift more forcefully, putting space between our chests, and Zevayr’s grip tightens around me as if even in his sleep, he can’t bear to let me go. His brow furrows, and his eyes flutter open, clouded with sleep before it’s blinked away. His hand skims the curve of my hip before he realizes we’re
still touching.
I stiffen.
So does he.
Realization dawns on him, and he quickly releases his hold.
I inch farther back.
“Sorry.” His deep voice is rough with sleep, and I hate the part of me that wants to hear it again. He clears his throat. “I overslept.”
“It’s all right,” I say softly, offering him a tentative smile. It feels foreign on my face. His gaze drops to my lips. Traitorous warmth rushes to my cheeks, and I pretend I don’t know why.
“Your brother,” I blurt out, rubbing my thumb over the betrothal ring on my finger. “Has he also fought in many battles?”
A shadow settles over his face at the mention of Faramir.
“No,” he says stiffly. “Earthwielder or not, the crown prince is excused from combat. Too risky for the future king.”
“Oh. Are you two … close?”
“No.” The word rings with finality this time.
Zevayr rises before I can ask anything else.
The rest of the morning has been strange. Zevayr and I have reached an
uneasy truce—he hasn’t insulted me once today, and I haven’t felt the need to remind him of the blood on his hands. Even the silence stretching between us as we walk beneath the snow-capped trees, normally vibrating with barely repressed disdain, seems—comfortable.
Still I hesitate before I ask, “When do you think I’ll be able to … bathe?” I cringe as the words leave my lips. Most nights, I’ve scrubbed melted snow over my face and neck, then promptly roasted by the fire until I stopped shivering. It’s only been days—I can’t imagine weeks without a proper bath.
Except now I’ve given Zevayr a fresh opportunity to belittle me. Will he call me a pampered princess? A spoiled, vapid girl? Or his favorite insult—a baby.
The corner of his mouth twitches. I bristle, readying a sharp retort.
But surprisingly, he doesn’t insult me. The rhythmic crunch, crunch, crunch of our boots sinking into half-frozen snow is the only sound until he says, “If we keep this pace, the weather will warm up soon. We’ll come across several streams that you can use.”
“…Thanks.” It looks like the truce is holding. Something shifted between us last night, and the animosity that’s lingered between us has dissipated into … something else. I’m not sure if that’s a good thing.
Zevayr lifts a low-hanging, frost-covered branch with his bare hand for me to pass beneath. He doesn’t even grimace.
“You seem well acclimated to the cold.” I fold my arms tighter, bracing against the chill. He glances at me sideways. His lips thin, and he steps closer until our shoulders are almost touching.
“I’ve spent more time in Tundrayn than in Arbinj in the last decade.”
Right—killing my people. Except the thought doesn’t incite the same
burning hatred in my heart.
Definitely not a good thing.
We keep a breakneck pace the rest of the day. When we stop at night, every single muscle aches in my legs. The heat of the fire seeps through my numb fingers as I hover them over the dancing flames.
My eyes cut to Zevayr’s slumbering form on the blanket.
I have first watch.
Which means, I have time to think.
Time for intrusive thoughts to bombard me—like how my feelings about
Zevayr have grown complicated since our conversation last night. I want to see him as the fearsome Dark Commander—a ruthless murderer.
But the truth is, I don’t anymore. I see Zevayr, the man. I see his heart.
He’s been hurt as much as I have. And that makes it difficult to keep hating him.
With a sigh, I gingerly stretch out my legs. I send a gentle wave of my power pulsing through my thighs and calves. A low hum of contentment escapes me as the day’s aches are erased.
When enough time has passed, I kick snow over the fire and head to the blanket where Zevayr sleeps. Careful not to rouse him, I gently peel back his heavy cloak. His arm is extended, as if waiting for me to rest my head on his bicep. I settle in beside him, letting his cloak fall over us.
I shift, my legs bumping against his lightly. My lips twist. His muscles must ache, too. He walks more than me, often doubling back to create new tracks, or scouting the path ahead, while I wait for his return.
Before I can change my mind, I rest my palms against the exposed skin of his neck. He doesn’t stir. Closing my eyes, I send a wave of power through him, soothing every aching muscle, every inflamed tendon.
When I pull my hands back, my heart feels lighter.
“What would you do if you weren’t a prince?” I ask as Zevayr studies the position of the sun, one hand angled against his forehead. Maybe I’m imagining it, but he moves easier today. He must’ve slept well after I healed
him.
“I’d leave the realm.”
I stop in my tracks, but Zevayr keeps walking.
“Why?” I jog to catch up.
“To see the rest of the world,” he says with a shrug. “There has to be something better than this skiesforsaken continent.” He smiles, but it doesn’t
quite reach his eyes.
“Where would you go?”
“Volca, first. Then beyond.”
“And what would you do?”
He glances sideways. “That’s an awful lot of questions, Mayah.”
“Let me check our packed schedule.” I hold up an invisible sheet, scanning it with exaggerated seriousness. “Let’s see … walking. More walking. Oh,
then after lunch—still more walking.”
He exhales hard, tilting his face to the sky as though summoning patience, but I catch the faint twitch at the corner of his mouth. “I’d help people if I could,” he finally says. “To … try and make up for all the damage I’ve caused. Or just exist. Peacefully. No war. No responsibilities.”
I trip on an overgrown root, and his hand finds the small of my back,
steadying me.
“What about you?” he asks.
I bite my lip, then admit, “I’ve always dreamed of ruling. Of making Tundrayn better. Safer. For all my people.” His eyes catch mine. He knows what I mean—nonwielders and wielders alike.
“And I’d still heal of course.”
Zevayr lets out a quiet laugh.
“What?”
“I’m just picturing the Queen of Tundrayn in a healer’s apron.”
A smile tugs at my lips. “I’d make it work.”
“I have no doubt you would.”
That night, Zevayr portions twice as much snowshoe hare for me. I frown at his meager allotment. “I can’t eat this much. And you’re literally three times my size. You need it more.” I move to slide off some of the meat, but he stops me with a firm grip on my wrist. My breath catches, skin tingling beneath his touch.
“If you’re going to spend your nights healing us both, you need more food to replenish your reserves.”
I yank my hand back like he’s scorched me. Heat rushes to my cheeks.
“You were awake.” I can’t bring myself to look at him.
“I usually am. Men need less sleep than women.”
I gape at him. “Then why even pretend to let me take watch if you’re not going to sleep?”
He shrugs, the ghost of a smile playing at his lips. “Because I know you wouldn’t tolerate anything less than being treated as my equal.”
My lips purse into a thin line, even as dangerous delight swirls in my belly at how well he already knows me. He’s completely right—if he’d offered to take watch every night and let me sleep, I’d have refused, hackles raised and teeth bared.
Begrudgingly, I return only half the extra portion and bite into a thick strip of meat.
“Are you upset?” I ask quietly, glancing at him through my lashes. “I used my power on you without permission. I should’ve asked first.”
He tears his eyes away, teeth raking over his lower lip. “No,” he finally says. “You were doing me a kindness.”
“If I had asked,” I add quickly, “you would’ve said, ‘No, Mayah. You’re just a Tundrayni baby. I’m a big, strong man. Save your reserves. I don’t need the element of surprise to overpower you because I’m a big, scary man.’”
He laughs—deep and unguarded—his gray eyes crinkling at the corners.
The pure masculine sound sends warmth blooming across my chest.
“You don’t need to heal me every night,” he says, voice low, still amused.
“I’m used to sore muscles. And you are a delicate baby.”
I glare at him, chomping into the next bite with more force than needed.
“I’m not a baby.”
“You need more sleep, too,” he says, ignoring me.
“How do you know men need less sleep than women?”
His lips curve into a sinful smirk, and I immediately regret my question.
My face burns hotter than the crackling fire. “Never mind,” I mutter. “Don’t answer that.”
The amused smile doesn’t leave his stupidly handsome face, but Zevayr doesn’t say anything else.
It’s me who can’t keep my tidesforsaken mouth shut. A niggling curiosity keeps prodding my mind, coupled with the barbed, green tendrils of an
emotion I’d rather not name.
“Have you been with … many women?”
A beat.
“Define ‘many.’”
Tides drown me in every lifetime.
“More than five.”
He doesn’t answer, but his lips twist into a soft smile that’s somewhere between a teasing grin and an apology.
“It’s not fair,” I huff, tearing my gaze away. The barbed tendrils curl around my heart and squeeze. “There’s no purity test you need to worry about.”
“You’re right,” he agrees easily. “It isn’t fair. The purity test is archaic.”
A flicker of surprise wells in my chest. “Really? You wouldn’t care if your wife wasn’t pure?”
“I didn’t say I wouldn’t care. If I … loved her, I’d probably be burning with jealousy at the thought of her with someone else.” His voice is tight, hands clenching and unclenching over his knees. A rain drop lands on my cheek. I frown, looking up at the sky. He shoots me a faint smile, but it’s more teeth than anything else. “There’d be a perpetual storm over my head.
But I wouldn’t begrudge her something that happened before she was mine.
I’d hope she wouldn’t begrudge me the same.” The flames crackle, and he stokes the fire with a long branch, his eyes fixed firmly on his task. “And it wouldn’t be anyone’s business but mine and hers. I don’t see the need to parade the knowledge of her alleged ‘purity’ before anyone else.”
I swallow hard. “Does Faramir share your sentiments?”
Zevayr’s face shutters as soon as his brother’s name crosses my lips.
“No. He’ll insist on the purity test.”
“And has he remained ‘pure’?”
A quick shake of his head is the only response.
I snort. “That’s awfully hypocritical.”
A beat passes, then another.
Zevayr opens his mouth, then snaps it shut. Once, twice, as if he’s determined to cage whatever words are trying to escape. Then—finally—he asks, “Are you … worried about passing the purity test?”
Tides, if my cheeks keep heating like this, there won’t be any warmth left for the rest of me. I worry my lower lip between my teeth—it’s a deeply intimate question, but I suppose so was mine.
I flick my gaze to his, but he’s still staring at the fire. I can’t decipher the emotion swirling behind his molten gray eyes.
“No,” I finally say. “The purity test will be uncomfortable, to say the least.
I’d rather slit my wrists than let some stranger prod around, um, me. But I’m not worried about passing. It’s just … I don’t relish the idea of marrying a man who holds me to a different standard. I’d want him to see me as his equal.”
Zevayr’s head turns sharply, and my breath stutters at the intensity thrumming behind his eyes, a maddening swirl of emotions I can’t name.
Desire? Warmth?
And maybe … hope?
Almost like he—
I can’t hold his gaze. It’s too much.
I bolt to my feet, pressing a hand over my heart, as if that might soothe its incessant pounding.
“I—I’m still going to marry your brother, of course. Archaic traditions or
not.”
“Of course.” His voice is stiff.
“Maybe I can change his worldview with my ferocious temper.”
My lips curve into a weak smile. Zevayr’s gaze drops to my mouth. The heat in his eyes chases away the chill in my bones, leaving behind a searing
heat.
And it’ll burn me if I’m not careful.
“No more pretend first watches for me,” I stumble over my words. “I’m going to sleep.” Before he can answer, I pivot on my heel, practically running to the blanket, and nestle myself beneath his cloak.
When he finally joins me, I pretend to sleep.
He pretends he doesn’t notice.
