37. Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Seven

A nother failed attempt with Okwata’s anti-venom began Zylah’s morning with a disheartening tone.

“Interesting,” the scientist mused, shifting his chair back to study her. “Your magic is suspending the venom. But something else seems to be drawing its attention.”

“The venom?” Zylah echoed, blinking away the liquid from her eyes.

“Your magic. It’s preoccupied, for want of a better word. But you already know that, don’t you?” Okwata pocketed the empty vial Zylah returned to him, manoeuvring his chair back to hand her a fresh cloth.

Zylah pressed her lips together as she considered her words. She saw no use in lying, and though she didn’t know Okwata well, he’d been kind to her, to the others. Had welcomed Arioch like an old friend. But the details of what her magic was preoccupied with was not just her secret to share. “I do,” she told him, and he didn’t press her on the matter. “How’s Arioch settling in?”

The Seraphim spent most of his time with Okwata and Ahrek, the latter studiously documenting Arioch’s stories. He’d taken to life in the camp well, though Zylah suspected it wasn’t his first time amongst an army given his connection to the original nine. Okwata’s expression shifted, and she knew his answer regarding Arioch’s wellbeing was likely determined by what he was willing to share, too. Zylah respected that.

“I’ve lived in exile,” Okwata began, his gaze shifting to the tent opening, to some memory he didn’t speak aloud. “But I wasn’t alone. Not for long, anyway. Ahrek found me when I was at my lowest. Was kind to me in a way that…” His voice broke, and when he turned to look back at her his brown eyes were glassy. “…In a way I did not think I ever deserved to have offered to me again.” He smoothed the blanket over his lap, fingers resting over the navy fabric. “Our minds can be our greatest adversaries. How Arioch held onto every piece of himself for so long in the dark is beyond me.”

Zylah had wondered the same. Had silently questioned what the Seraphim’s secret was to have gone to war with his own mind and won.

“But to answer your question,” Okwata continued, “I think he has found some small comfort being here. Camp life is familiar to him.”

Again, Zylah’s thoughts shifted to Ranon, to how he had taken so much from so many. And to what end? “Does he know anything about Ranon’s intentions, his orb?”

“I haven’t questioned Arioch yet. The last thing he needs now is an interrogation.”

Shame warmed Zylah’s cheeks at that. She’d asked Arioch about the blood moon when they’d been barely hours out of the maze. And though the Seraphim seemed to be taking everything in his stride, there was the very real possibility that underneath the surface, things were different. Which meant they needed to seek out their own answers.

A ripple in her magic drew her attention beyond the opening of the tent, but Zylah said nothing as she secured the new cloth over her eyes.

“You’ll come by for the testing later?” Okwata asked, pausing at the exit to wait for her answer.

“We both will.” Holt exchanged a greeting with Okwata, the sensation of his magic filling the tent and forcing Zylah to take a step back as Okwata bade them a good day.

Holt’s magic was growing, too. Which meant he was healing. Physically, at least. His attention slid to the cloth over her eyes, to the way she combed her fingers through her unbound hair, ready to braid it. With a flourish of his hand, he produced a canna cake, holding it out for her.

“A peace offering,” he said with that quirk of his lips she wanted to taste.

His fingers brushed hers as she took the cake, still warm from wherever he’d no doubt stolen it.

“I didn’t realise you and I were at war.” Zylah hid her smile as she took a bite.

“An apology, then. You were right last night, I was deflecting.” Holt’s smile faded. He glanced around the tent, taking in the two cots and the sparse furniture, almost identical to the one he shared with her brother, his admission hanging in the air between them.

Zylah set the cake aside, gestured for him to sit on the edge of her cot. “You don’t have to talk about it, Holt, it’s alright. We can just work on breaking the command.”

There was no mask in place when he looked at her. Only a wild kind of desperation that felt too much like hopelessness. Like he was trying with everything he had not to give up. His throat bobbed as he swallowed, and it was an effort not to reach for him with her mind, not to offer him comfort for fear it would only cause him pain.

“You covered your eyes again,” he said, a hand reaching for her face before he pulled it away and rested his palms on his knees. On the outside, he seemed calm, collected, but Zylah could feel the storm raging inside, the weight of it pressing against her skin and sliding along her bones.

“I think it scares the soldiers,” she admitted. “Plus I’m still adjusting. Experimenting with having them uncovered at different times throughout the day so that I’ll be used to it eventually.”

“Scares them? Perhaps your sight is worse than I thought it was.” He tugged at a piece of her unbraided hair, but the playful gesture quickly turned into something else, his eyes darting up to her face. “Everything about you feels familiar.” Zylah didn’t think she was breathing, but then Holt released her hair and dragged a hand through his own, eyes dancing around the tent again. “But I can’t make sense of any of it,” he said softly, “Of what happened after.” The hand fell to his chest, to the scar hidden beneath his shirt. “Only flashes. And by the time Ranon’s command was in place…”

Zylah didn’t cut in. Wanted him to know that he could speak freely with her, no matter how difficult it was.

“I’m not who I was before. I can see it in their eyes.” He flicked his chin towards the entrance to the tent, to the camp beyond it. “And I…” The muscle feathered in his jaw again. “I still feel like I’m lost.” His eyes darted over Zylah’s face at his confession, searching. “Like there’s a part of me I’ll never get back.”

This time, Zylah caught his hand in hers, her thumb stroking over his. Fear wrapped around her heart, but she shoved it down because her fear wouldn’t help him. Our minds can be our greatest adversaries, Okwata had said. And when Zylah had been her own worst enemy, Holt had been there for her. Given her his friendship, his unwavering love. His time.

“Every soldier in this camp is here because of you. Because of everything you worked for. For your parents. For Adina. For your friends. For the life you believe is possible for all of us.” She willed her voice not to break. To be strong for him when he’d shared this with her. “I think they look at you and they see all the ways they failed you when you needed them most. Because you never failed them. You never failed me.” Zylah pressed a hand to his heart. “I can’t promise you that you’ll find all the old pieces of yourself. But you’re still you, in here. I knew it the moment I found you in that cell. The moment you risked your life to get Rhaznia’s venom for me. Or threw yourself over my brother to protect him from one of Ranon’s monsters.” Holt’s shoulders fell with a deep exhale, but Zylah wasn’t finished. “I can’t begin to imagine what you’ve lost. But I can tell you your heart hasn’t changed, Holt. And I can promise you that I’ll always be here to find you, no matter how lost you feel. To remind you of who you are when you can’t do that for yourself.”

Holt’s eyes didn’t leave her face, and Zylah tugged at the cloth over hers, hating that there was any kind of barrier between them. She took in the way he studied her, the war going on in his eyes and she knew he was trying to remember, to piece it all together. He pressed her palm to the scar over his heart again, pulling her closer, tucking a few strands of hair behind her ear with the other, his attention dipping lower as his hand cupped her jaw, their faces inches apart.

It was what she wanted. What she craved. Zylah leaned into his touch, his warmth, his comforting scent. He moved first this time, lips brushing hers tentatively at first with a soft kiss, as if he would only allow himself just a taste. But whatever restraint he was trying to hold onto quickly snapped, a low rumble in his chest as Zylah slid her hands around the back of his neck to thread into his hair, just as eager to deepen their kiss as he was. Holt pulled her onto his lap, holding onto her like she was an anchor in a storm, like she was the only thing stopping him from breaking apart.

If only loving him was enough to fix everything. To mend what Aurelia had tried to break. Because he wasn’t broken, despite everything he’d said. He was still fighting, still giving himself over to a cause he’d fought for most of his life.

“You heard me,” he murmured against her lips as they pulled back to catch their breaths, chests heaving against each other. “In the maze. You heard me. And in Virian.”

“Don’t,” Zylah breathed, kissing him again as if she could stop the moment she knew was coming. As if she could protect him from the pain the thought would bring. Another sound of approval rumbled through his chest as her tongue swept over his, as a breathy moan escaped her at the way he slid her core against him.

But it was Holt who pulled back first. Not away; he held her in his arms, following the trail of his hands over her thighs, up her torso, over the swell of her breasts, gently shifting her hair to one side so he could trace the line of her shoulder, fingers curling around the back of her neck, his thumb following the line of her jaw, her swollen lips.

“Another memory?” Zylah asked, her skin feeling too hot, too tight, the scrape of fabric against every sensitive part of her too much to bear.

Holt kissed her again, softly, slowly. “No. But it will be one of my favourites now.”

Zylah couldn’t help her smile, another burst of hope swelling in her chest. But she knew what she wanted and what he needed were two different things entirely, and it was that thought that urged her to put aside her desire. “We should work on breaking the command.”

Holt nodded, and Zylah began to ease off his lap, but he held her close, strong arms wrapping around her to hold her to him. Zylah arched a brow at him in question. He shrugged as he held onto her, a corner of his mouth tipping up. “I’m enjoying making new memories. Can you work in these conditions?” He nipped at her bottom lip, the playful gesture quickly turning into another kiss before he broke away again.

The trust he was showing her bolstered her courage a little bit more, cooling the lust and hardening her resolve to do this for him. She left her fingers tangled in his hair and took a deep breath, searching his eyes for any hesitation. “Ready?”

A dip of his chin, his arms tightening around her a little more, and this time Zylah wasn’t sure if he was holding her in place or the other way around. She closed her eyes, gossamer threads already tumbling from her to him, brushing against his mind at places she’d have had no right to enter without his permission. She focused on Ranon’s command, on turning the word over in her thoughts and letting the threads guide her to it.

It felt as if she were falling, but Holt’s arms still held her close, her mind tumbling with her threads inside his memories, flashes of his time in the vanquicite cell, of Aurelia standing over him, eyes wild and full of rage, of Thallan inflicting mental pain, over and over.

Zylah sucked in a ragged breath as claws dug into the wound Raif had given him, the taste of blood in her mouth, his mouth, her breathing— his —wet and raspy. Not real claws, jewelled tips Aurelia wore on her fingers, like the ones Maelissa had worn back at her court. Zylah watched in horror as Aurelia sank her fingers into broken flesh, Holt’s body already lying still, his breaths too shallow, their breaths, each one like fire in their lungs.

Every stab of Aurelia’s fingers echoed in her chest, her heart, the pain like a searing burn all the way up to her throat. Zylah stifled a cough as if she were choking on blood, too, but Holt’s arms were firm around her, urging her on, and she didn’t stop, not yet.

Halfway between life and death, Aurelia began to pick apart Holt’s mind. Tears streamed down Zylah’s cheeks as Aurelia hissed at him, muttering promises about how she was going to break him, to peel away every piece of him until there was nothing left. That she wouldn’t stop until he barely remembered his own name.

Claws sliced open her mind, Holt’s mind, a soundless gasp tearing from Zylah’s lips. Each moment of Aurelia’s tampering felt like a physical blow. And then a voice, her voice, calling out to him, and her name in his thoughts like an anchor that he held onto for as long as he could, just as he was holding onto her now.

Thallan came next, a wave of pain slamming into her over and over and over, and Zylah heard Raif call her name. Her memory, not Holt’s, at the same moment Thallan had tortured him. She slipped between their two memories, every moment of pain she’d felt coinciding with a moment of his torture.

Then Ranon took over. And at that place halfway between this life and whatever came next, he spoke the command. Ignium. The searing burn became an inferno, Holt’s arms falling away from her, cold air rushing in as she landed on something soft, her mind racing to catch up with her body, threads snapping back into place.

Holt was on his feet on the other side of the tent, his back to her, chest heaving. Fear echoed down the threads, thick and heavy in the air between them, his, hers, anguish and pain, all of it twining in the tent between them.

Zylah took a tentative step towards him, his shoulders tensing as she reached out. He wasn’t afraid of Ranon. Or Aurelia. Thallan. But of himself. Of what he’d done. What he might still do. And she needed to show him that she wasn’t afraid of him, no matter what he’d done. No matter what he was capable of.

“Hey,” Zylah said softly, her trembling hand sliding over his shoulder, fingers firm but gentle. Her heart raced in her chest just as fiercely as his, but she was safe with him. He would never hurt her. “We can stop. Try again tomorrow.”

Holt looked over his shoulder, eyes finding hers. “You felt it.” The excruciating pain. Every agonising moment of torture. She wasn’t certain if he’d seen her memories, too.

Zylah nodded. Slid her hand into his. “I did. But a memory can’t truly hurt me. I’m fine. See for yourself.” She walked in front of him, holding his gaze. There was no way to hide the echoes of the fear she felt, the pain, any of it. But she didn’t want to hide anything from him, hated that she couldn’t show him everything.

He looked at their joined hands, his breaths slowing as he took her in, inspecting her for wounds that weren’t there. When his eyes met hers, resolve had settled over his features, and something else Zylah couldn’t decipher. “Can we try again?”

Relief and pride and too many emotions to name warmed Zylah’s chest as she led him back to her cot. She sat beside him with a reassuring smile, waited for his permission to begin. She knew that determined set of his jaw, that unyielding mask of his falling back into place. And with a dip of his chin, Zylah set to work.