16
Monster. That’s the only thing I can think of as I finally make my way to the waterfall. The sun is setting. My hands are still shaking.
The elk’s eyes are in my head. It was looking at me. I distracted it. I got it
killed.
Just like everything else in my life.
We’re on a journey of survival. I know that. This shouldn’t matter. But for some reason … for some reason it does. For some reason, that elk just feels like someone else I let down.
By the time I approach the cave, Raker has already skinned the creature. I look away, fighting the urge to vomit. He’s made a fire. He roasts the meat and unceremoniously ignores me as I step through the curtain of water and make my place as far from him as possible.
I count my mushrooms and berries, eat a portion of them until my fingers are bright with color, then carefully wrap what’s left in giant leaves I collected.
My stomach isn’t full—but I’m not hungry. Not that Raker ever offers any of his meat, even though it’s enough for several people to share.
Its smell fills the cave, making my traitorous stomach rumble, and that just makes me hate myself even more.
I fall asleep to the sound of falling water, my cheek against my blade.
Buzzing in my ear wakes me up.
Then a sharp pull.
“Ow,” I say, getting up and reaching toward the source—but a blur of light zips away before I can catch it.
It makes the mistake of getting near Raker’s hood. It tries to pull it down —and Raker’s hand smothers it in half a second.
I inhale sharply. He killed the small creature, just like the elk in the woods. But before I can even think about mourning the menace that has been trying to scalp me, Raker cocks his arm, and throws the tiny creature right through the waterfall, in a shimmering arc of light.
It’s alive. Still, that couldn’t have been pleasant.
“Damned pixies,” I think I hear him say to himself, like he has forgotten entirely that I’m here.
He packs his stuff without even a glance at me. Then he leaves.
I sigh as I follow him out of the cave.
The sun has barely risen. We walk through the near darkness, and I watch this glittering world wake up.
The grass rustles like a song. Birds chirp in response. Wildflowers bloom in mismatched patterns. Some have the same stripes and spots as creatures.
Raker looks completely out of place in the middle of it. A towering shadow in the center of this fertile place, black cape curling in the wind.
Against my spine, my sword hums. I reach back and brush its hilt, even though I know I’m being ridiculous.
Has it seen this place? Did it battle here? I wonder about its history.
“Maybe you’ll return one day,” I say under my breath. “Maybe your next wielder will have bigger dreams than me.”
Green and arcs of reflected prisms fill my vision for hours. The grass is soft beneath my boots. My sword is heavy on my back, so I take it down and drag it behind me.
Raker turns to look at me for the first time in hours, and I can’t see his face—but I can almost feel his derision.
I glare at him until he turns back around.
The mountains are endless. We climb them all, one after the other, until my legs go numb. Just when I think my body has reached its limits, those limits expand.
It’s like my tears, I think. Just when I think I’ve cried enough for several lifetimes, they prove me wrong.
If you believe you’re limitless, then you will be, Stellan used to tell me.
When I told him I was tired, he would say, You think you’re tired.
No. I am fucking tired, I would think back, scowling at the fact that he acted like tiredness was a choice. Like weakness was a choice.
Now I can’t deny that his unwavering strength was always more mental than physical.
We enter another grove. A small pool sits in its center, clear and sparkling, water running in from the mountains. It’s clean. Raker bends to fill a canteen from his pack. I should really try to get another one using the coin in my pocket.
For now, I sink to my knees and pool the water in my hands, washing my injured palm before rewrapping it. Then I drink.
When I’m done, and the water settles before me, I catch my reflection and wince. My face is still covered in the dirt I used to get rid of the pixies.
Blood is crusted on my ear from where one bit me. My hair is a knotted mess, several pieces sticking up from the thick braids. My clothes aren’t faring any better.
I straighten my spine, turn to Raker, and say with what I hope is the utmost authority, “I’d like to bathe.”
He barely looks over at me. Then bathe, his silence says.
I swallow. Even if it wasn’t for my markings, I wouldn’t be rushing to strip in front of him.
Politeness isn’t getting me anywhere. My chin rises. “You need to leave.”
I order him just as he’s ordered me countless times before.
He stills. Very slowly, he turns to face me fully. His voice is pure malice.
“Do you think I would waste even a moment of my attention ogling you?
Do you think you matter at all?” And now I realize that his silence thus far has been a gift, as I am reminded of how cruel his words can be.
“Then it shouldn’t be any trouble for you to leave,” I say through my teeth.
He does very much the opposite. He drops his pack. From it he produces a thick bar of soap. Another useful item I don’t have anymore.
Then he begins to undo his armor.
“I’m bathing,” he says. “You can do whatever the fuck you want.” He digs his sword into the ground. It stands tall and proud in front of me.
He undoes his boots. I swallow, wondering what’s next. He has to lower
his hood and mask to bathe, right?
Curiosity momentarily stuns me.
Then I get my fucking mind together and scurry into the woods. I am not going to sit here and stare at Harlan Raker bathing. That’s ridiculous. And
likely a death sentence, as he clearly doesn’t like anyone seeing him
without his layers, much like I do.
Asshole.
When I’m done imagining just what lurks beneath that hood—each iteration becoming increasingly demonic—I distract myself by foraging.
There are some of the same mushrooms I found before. A few different ones. Some leaves that are edible, given their smell. Others that smell bitter, poisonous.
Another advantage of having a mother who loved plants—she taught my sister and me which ones we weren’t allowed to touch. The ones that would burn our ankles … the ones with enough poison to kill a horse.
By the time Raker emerges, I have an armful of provisions, wrapped in leaves. Some roots and nuts, even.
He walks right past me with not so much as a grunt. His hood is slightly wet. It’s the only indication that he was ever in the water at all.
My own skin is dry and dirty, but I swallow my bitterness and follow him up another hill. The sun is almost setting.
When we reach a waterfall, he throws his pack down and turns without another word. To hunt, I know. He didn’t have enough time to cure the elk’s meat. Much of it was left behind uneaten.
I close my mind against the memory of that elk’s lifeless gaze and begin washing my mushrooms in the waterfall. I scrub the dirt off them and the leftover berries and spread them on a smooth rock to dry.
I watch as the sun is pierced by the mountains and melts into a golden smear. It vanishes quickly. Then I make my way into the cave. Raker follows a few minutes later. Empty-handed.
I try and fail to hide my mirth. “What’s wrong? Couldn’t find another gentle creature to kill?”
He steps past me without a single glance.
“Maybe if you’d let me bathe, you could have found your dinner,” I say, chomping happily on one of my roots.
His sword carves into the stone floor with a sharp crack, the rock rippling.
I shrug. “Ignore me. Sorry, I forgot the rules. Shut up and listen. Don’t bathe. Don’t protest when friendly beings get murdered right in front of you.”
At that, he whips around. “Just because it had fucking flowers in its horns doesn’t make it friendly,” he says, with just about all the disdain in the world.
I glare at him and get to my feet. “It was a gentle creature in a grove. It was looking at me with more awareness than you, you demonic brute.”
His voice is venomous. “That gentle creature was a moment away from skewering you through.”
My laugh echoes through the cave. “Oh, so that’s it? You were protecting me?”
He makes a sound of contempt. “Your life is meaningless beyond you possessing something I need. I need you alive for now. Unfortunately.”
I bow at the feet of my past self for setting the map aflame, for I have no doubt in my mind that Raker would have cut me down days ago if I still had it.
He won’t kill me. Which gives me the courage to finally, truly get under his skin. He’s ignored me for days. He has left me behind. He has insulted
me at every turn.
Fuck. Him.
I take a slow step toward him. “I repulse you, don’t I?” I say, tilting my head, searching within that hood for anything to glare at. Even a hint of
those gray eyes. I see only darkness.
“You have no idea,” he says.
I look him up and down, wondering why I bother him so much. I come up with a decent theory. “You think I’m unworthy of this blade.”
He takes a step forward. “You are unworthy of any blade,” he says, getting closer. He doesn’t stop there. “You are weak. You are reckless. You can’t even fucking swim.”
My cheeks burn. His words sting like knives, skinning my weakest points. Still, I tilt my chin up. “Yet it’s mine anyway,” I say, right below him.
“Not for long,” he says. Not even a threat but a promise.
He isn’t wrong, but I hate that he’s right. I hate that he knows this will kill me, because I’m in far over my head and blinded by this unrelenting pain.
He sees that. He sees my weaknesses. I don’t want him to see anything about me.
I’m almost panting in anger. He’s a shadow towering over me. I have to fully tilt my head just to pretend to look at whatever face lies beyond the mask and darkness. I’ve gotten a rise out of him. I want to twist the knife of my words, since I can’t stab him with a real blade. Not yet.
“You must hate that this sword chose me … because it means we’re not so different. It means, in some way, we’re matched,” I purr, hoping my words hit their mark. A smile curves my lips. I can sense the change, the rippling in energy, as his anger simmers.
He leans down like he wants me to hear every word. “Swords are only as good as their wielders. Yours is just as pathetic as you are.” I flinch, that word sinking into my heart deeper than any dagger could, but he doesn’t stop. He gets lower. “Nothing about you is any match to me.”
Raker stares me down, as if daring me to say anything else. As if he’s thinking that he has finally broken me. His words were meant to hurt. They did. But I am not a flame that can be extinguished. I won’t let him look at
me and only see weaknesses.
I look into that darkness, unflinching.
Enough of the mystery. Enough of hiding. Enough of him insulting me when I can’t even see his fucking face. In a flash, I reach toward his mask to remove it.
His hand juts out just as quickly, wrapping painfully around my wrist. I gasp at the tightness of his grip, enough to nearly break bone.
“Don’t,” he snarls.
I bare my teeth at him. His hold doesn’t weaken in the slightest. “They say you’re a monster beneath that mask. That’s why you wear it,” I spit at him. “It would be good, I think. For your face to match your wicked heart.”
His head moves as if he’s looking me up and down.
I know what he sees. My collar, pulled right up to my chin. My shirt that covers me all the way down to my knuckles, even though it’s hot. “I could say the same thing about you,” he says. Of course he notices everything. I
glare at him.
I can almost feel him glaring back.
This is a duel, one I want to win, but as the moments bleed together, as I stare so long at the place beneath his hood that I can almost see those gray eyes, and that silver mask, as our angry breathing fills the cave, as his grip tightens even more—
He drops my wrist as if he can’t bear to touch me any longer, then walks
off, leaving me burning with shame.
Bastard.
I hate him. His words shouldn’t sting—but they do anyway.
The previously sweet berries are nearly tasteless on my tongue. I swallow them down, then some water, before packing my food up carefully.
I look over at where Raker went. I can see the outline of him on his side, sleeping. His sword is close to me, dug into the ground. I don’t even attempt to move it.
His pack, though. His pack is right there by the entrance.
I watch his form as I step toward it. Slowly. Screw you.
With careful fingers, I slip my hand inside—and find what I’m looking for. The soap. I slip it into my palm, grab my sword, then jump through the water.
I am not pathetic, I think, as I venture into the darkness.
Under a muted crescent moon, I take my clothes off.
My markings glow faintly, like they sometimes do. They’re thin. Not too different from the color of my skin. They would be almost unnoticeable if they weren’t so very silver.
The water glows faintly through the darkness. A few bulbous white flowers float along its surface, alongside elaborate lily pads that look like expensive lace, tiny pieces cut out of them in patterns. Beautiful.
Everything here is beautiful.
Sword and soap in hand, I wade into the stream, toward a pool of water that barely moves.
I can’t use too much, or he’ll notice, I think, as I begin to scrub myself. I get my legs, then stomach, then remember the dirt that crusted my cheeks and rub the soap all over my hair and face.
I pause.
This soap—it’s the best smell I’ve ever encountered. Something in nature … something I can’t place.
I breathe it in deeply and sigh. The demon smells good.
Bastard.
With regret, I throw the soap onto the rocks. I wash the bubbles off my skin and tilt my head back, running my fingers through the knotted strands of my hair.
At some point, I realize I’m waist-deep in water … and I’m not afraid.
My pulse isn’t racing. Before, I used to hesitate even being near bathhouses, not that there were many to speak of.
That fear has dimmed. And I hate that it’s because of him. Because he forced me to figure it out instead of carrying me through it, and I did.
I sigh, letting the water melt away my pain and anxiety and anger. It swirls effortlessly, beautifully, massaging my skin. I blink up at the moon, thinking I could learn to love this. I could so easily live here, and be among nature, and learn to swim.
But this is not my life. I’ve spent far too much time in this stream
already. I sigh. Straighten.
And pause.
A man in dark armor stands there staring at me. No. Not just a man.
Darkness crawls up his throat, across his cheeks. I remember the obsidian blood, from the creature of the night.
He’s a demon. That’s why he hasn’t reached me yet. That’s why he’s been waiting. Though his face doesn’t look as decrepit as the others did. It almost looks normal, with the exception of his black irises, and those veins.
Slowly, he extends his hand toward me. “Come.”
I just blink at him.
Maybe Raker is right. Maybe I am pathetic, and an idiot. Because for some reason I thought it was a good idea to have a bath at night, knowing very well what lurks in the darkness.
The stream was so close. I thought, between the waterfall and the pool, I would be safe. Cocooned between two water sources.
At my silence, the man takes a step forward. I flinch. The tip of his boot stops just short of the water.
He’s only a few feet from me. I back away a few steps, but the bottom slants, and I’m forced to stand my ground.
Raker’s horrible voice is in my head. You can’t even fucking swim.
I should have learned. I should have demanded Stellan teach me. But there were no bodies of water nearby. The springs all dried up decades ago.
We lived far from the sea.
“Come. You will join them.”
“Join who?” I demand, water now up to my chin. My skin has erupted in chills. The previously refreshing water now feels ice-cold.
“The stolen brides,” he says simply.
Stolen brides? I start to laugh. The man doesn’t make a single movement.
The idea that anyone would want me as their bride … the idea that someone would want a bride badly enough to steal them … Wait. Is it the God of Death? Does this demon work with him?
Finally, the man’s eyes narrow at me. “I will wait.”
Fuck.
The water is freezing now. It’ll be hours before daylight. I consider my options.
I could wait here and potentially find my death in these cold waters. I could scream and see if Harlan “I Need You Alive, For Now” Raker would save me. Or, I suppose, I could take this man’s hand and see what life might be like as a stolen bride.
I sigh. “Then I guess I’m stuck here staring at your ugly face all night.”
The man frowns.
I stare at him. He stares at me. He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t drop his hand, as if believing I’ll just give up and take his mysterious invitation.
Stolen brides.
On Stormside, people rarely get married. Survival oftentimes means betrayal. Families divided. Killed. Most don’t live that long in those conditions. Love or care or even sex take lower priority than hunger and thirst.
You’re on the wrong side, I think. Thousands on Stormside would take this man’s hand willingly if guaranteed a lifetime of enough to eat.
My feet go numb. So do my fingers. I shiver, teeth rattling, and curse myself. Curse this man. Curse a god who can’t get a bride unless he steals one. I curse this entire forest, and all its creatures, and even Raker’s heavenly soap.
Just as the sun is about to surface, the man turns and disappears into the woods. Shivering, I wait for the red-tipped slice of sunrise to reach me.
A little cry sounds in the back of my throat as I rush through the stream, faint heat finding my limbs again.
My skin is pruney. My nails are blue. Tears sting my eyes at the sensation of the sun on my frozen skin.
The shivering makes it almost impossible to put my clothes on. I didn’t get a chance to wash them.
I grab the soap and my sword and rush up to the cave.
Raker is sharpening his metal when I enter. He takes one glance at my dripping hair and trembling body and looks away.
“Idiot,” he says beneath his breath.
I can’t say I disagree with him. Behind his back, I slip the soap into his bag, grab my food, and leave the cave. I braid my hair, then lie outside beneath the sun, waiting as it warms me just the slightest bit.
When I can feel my toes again, I find the coin in my pocket and lay it on the grass.
“Come back,” I say to the skies, willing my dragon to sense the gold. To want it as much as she wanted rubies. “Please.”
Please, give me a path to the gods that doesn’t involve this asshole.
My coin glimmers beneath the sunlight.
She doesn’t come.
Three days pass in the same way. Endless silence. Raker, doing his best to pretend I don’t exist. Me, doing my best not to risk it all by smothering him in his sleep.
Sometimes, we’ll make camp at one of the waterfall-doored caves earlier than sunset. It gives Raker more time to hunt, and he regularly returns with food. I stop looking. I stop complaining. He never offers anything to me.
It’s fine. I don’t need it. I collect a pile of sticks and, over the days, make a small basket, with skills the weaver taught me over the years. I forage so much that it’s overflowing with fruits, mushrooms, and nuts. The Prism Pass is nothing if not fertile.
I’m wading through a moss-laden forest, brimming with buttercups and asters and violet-tipped tulips, pockets full of crimson berries, when I hear it.
A blade, smashing against something hard. I go still. My blood turns to
ice.
Another challenger. Or an immortal?
No. The sword didn’t hit metal. And that sword … I know it. Unless there is an immortal walking around with a blade as large as Raker’s, it’s
his.
He’s out hunting.
Raker has eaten plenty. There are more than enough berries and mushrooms here. Maybe … maybe if I could save one creature … My feet
move before I can think about all the reasons getting in Raker’s way is a bad idea.
As quietly as I can, I sneak through the woods, careful not to step on anything that will give me away, using skills learned through years of thieving just to get by. I duck low under branches and walk only on roots covered in spongy moss. The sounds of his sword get closer, and I slow. I
curve around a tree dripping wisteria.
There he is.
Raker’s armor is off. He’s just in a shirt that he must wear underneath, thin fabric that molds to his form. His hood is still up.
It’s the first time I’ve seen his body without his armor, and— Fuck. He’s not as repulsive as his personality.
I curse every single muscle—muscles so defined they are visible even through the fabric, ones I didn’t even know existed, ones that do not have any right looking so good on someone so horrible—then drag my attention
back to his blade.
He isn’t hunting. He’s training.
It makes sense. Of course, someone that skilled has only gotten those abilities from ceaseless practice.
I should be practicing. I’ve been too focused on keeping pace, and surviving, but I should be learning how to handle this massive sword.
Raker wields his like it’s weightless. He growls as he turns. His blade flashes silver—before slicing through a tree. An entire fucking tree. It topples over, making the ground tremble.
Gods. The strength that would take … the sharpness of the metal … Raker snarls again. He takes down another tree. Then another. His body is wound tight, muscles flexing.
It seems like he’s getting aggression out. Good, I think. Good that he’s using the trees as targets, and not my neck.
An innocent creature isn’t at risk of becoming his dinner. I should leave. I should find more berries. I should erase the image of Raker’s perfect body from my memory. Instead, I take a step closer, watching through the cover of branches and leaves, transfixed.
I can see now why he has so many names. Why his reputation is enough to leave grown men shaking and pissing themselves.
He is unparalleled.
Raker’s movements are pure strength, matched with perfect precision. He turns to a tree, and cuts along its side in wild slashes, etching notch after notch up its bark, each line so close it’s almost touching, with control I didn’t think was possible.
His wide shoulders are tight. The frustrated growl that leaves his mouth makes me think there was a mistake—or maybe he’s really that upset.
Definitely upset, I think, when he turns—and launches his sword directly into a tree. The trunk trembles with the force, before the blade flies back into his palm, just like it did during the Culling.
Leaves fall from the shaken tree in a flurry.
Then time slows to a crawl as he moves with a smoothness completely at odds with his towering form, with a speed that shouldn’t be possible— And slices every single falling leaf in half.
I don’t breathe. I don’t blink as I watch him lurch to a stop. The leaves are at his feet, in perfectly symmetrical pieces. He doesn’t even look winded.
Fear inches through my blood as I realize I should be absolutely terrified of Harlan Raker. Immortals should be afraid of him. He is known as the best warrior who has ever lived, on Stormside. And I see every bit of that training, every bit of that mastery now.
I finally take a breath, watching him in knee-trembling awe.
Then that breath shoots out of my nostrils as I’m sent back against a tree, my spine hitting the bark. I gasp for air, unable to find it. My mind spins.
Raker’s sword has skewered me here, through the fabric of my shirt.
Slowly, I glance down, seeing the shining metal blade not even an inch from my waist. One hair in the wrong direction, and my guts would be all over this forest floor.
When I look up, he’s right there, staring down at me. Glaring, if I had to guess.
I was quiet. I was far away. The fact that he could even have sensed me … His voice is punishing. “You might think you are quiet, and clever, but you are loud, and clumsy, and a fool to think you could sneak up on me.”
“Then teach me,” I say, through ragged breaths. I want to learn how to wield this sword with even a whisper of the mastery he possesses. It’s the only way I stand a chance at killing the gods once I reach them.
He wrests his blade from the trunk, sending me sliding down the wood as the fabric is released. I barely keep myself upright.
“You aren’t worth even a moment of my time,” he spits, before turning around. “Besides. You’ll be dead soon.”
He leaves me seething and panting against the tree, wondering if it’s a threat, a promise, a prediction—or all three.