Chapter 55

Over and over again,I pace the library as my thoughts whirl, and my stomach coils with fear for Jasce and Asha. My feet tread the same path across the marble, back and forth, as if by repetition I can somehow alter the course of events unfolding beyond these walls.

I hurry to the window and stare out at the sky, thick with smoke. Plumes of gray and black blot out the sun. I squint, desperate to see more, to know Jasce and Asha are all right, but I cannot make out anything through the haze.

I turn away from the window and resume my pacing as my mind churns with what ifs and if onlys. What if I had acted sooner, said something different, found another way? If only I could be out there, standing between them, shielding them both from harm. But regrets and wishes are as useless as they are painful. I cannot change what is happening, no matter how desperately I want to.

My love for Jasce anchors me to one side. Blood anchors me to the other.

A tear slips down my cheek as I imagine Jasce and Asha locked in combat, their blades flashing. I swipe the tear away. Crying won't help either of them.

I pause my pacing and press a hand to my churning stomach, the dread rising like bile in my throat. What if one of them dies out there on the battlefield?

My pulse roars in my ears as my mind conjures horrific images of Jasce and Asha lying lifeless on the blood-soaked ground.

No! I squeeze my eyes shut, forcing the gut-wrenching visions away with every ounce of will I possess. I cannot let myself think like that.

"Please," I whisper in a desperate plea to any gods who might be listening. "Keep them safe. Bring them back to me."

* * *

I glanceup as Zerah enters the library, her face pale but her eyes filled with a fierce determination that I've come to admire in her.

She strides over to me and grabs my hand. The warmth of her touch is a small comfort as she guides me to a nearby chair. I sink down onto the sofa, and Zerah settles beside me, never releasing her hold on my hand.

We sit in heavy silence. What words could possibly be spoken at a time like this? Empty platitudes and false reassurances would only ring hollow.

When the palace walls tremble, Zerah grips my hand so tightly it's nearly painful. But I welcome the discomfort. It anchors me, keeps me tethered, so I don't float away on a tide of panic.

"They'll be all right," she says softly. "Jasce and the others. They're strong."

I nod, unable to speak around the lump in my throat.

"Let's head to the apothecary," Zerah says. "We can make bandages for the wounded."

Again, I nod, knowing action, any action, is a lifeline right now.

From the nearby table, I pick up my veil, settle it over my face, then follow Zerah from the library.

The scent of herbs and the sharp tang of antiseptic greet us as we enter the apothecary a few minutes later. Women from around the palace are already there, their faces set in grim lines of determination as they tear cloth into strips. I take my place beside Zerah at one of the long wooden tables.

My fingers fumble at first, clumsy with anxiety as I try to rip the fabric into even strips. Zerah shows me how to fold and tear more efficiently, and soon I find a rhythm in the repetitive motion.

But as much as I try to focus on the task at hand, my mind wanders outside these walls to where steel clashes against steel and magic lights up the sky with its deadly beauty. I picture Jasce, his brow furrowed in concentration as he commands his fire magic with a deft hand.

The sounds of battle are distant, yet they are a constant reminder that each bandage I roll could soon be stained crimson with the blood of someone I may know, someone I may love.

Zerah glances at me occasionally, her observant eyes missing nothing. She doesn't speak, doesn't offer false comfort. Instead, she just works alongside me, her presence a silent balm.

Every once in a while, I look at the door, knowing if the battle was over someone would come to tell us.

Hurry, Jasce.

Please hurry back to me.