Chapter 8

Chapter Eight

Anash

Words slug reluctantly onto the page. It's as if they don't want to be written as much as I don't want to be writing them.

Ambushed in the middle of the night.

Decisive victory.

All dead or surrendered.

Captives tied and marching with us to Willowood. They had no idea what they were up against. Splinter group. The hostages confess central organization to be missing. If they continue in this fashion, we'll pick them off group by group.

No sign of the fire mage.

And on and on, I write until the sun comes up. Half in one code, half in another. To Ralossi, to the queen's advanced camp, to my mother, to my sister, to the far north where the Gatekeeper dwells, I spread this news to the royal bloodlines. When it's done, I seal each letter and stack them neatly, all to be parceled out by the fasted messengers Luminia has to offer.

Part of me is glad there were so few casualties on our side. But the annihilation of so many humans makes me nauseous. I haven't been able to eat. Which is all well and good, since food is being rationed until we make it to Lord Warner's estate to resupply. But I haven't been able to feed either.

If Zenith has noticed certain appetites of mine have been lacking, he hasn't complained, for which I'm grateful. None of this is easy on him either. He's been different since the massacre. Quiet.

Hunger leaves me feeling anxious and weak until it's time to march. Again. Endless marching. I fall into step with Isolde, as is my habit these days. Her face is unreadable. We walk in silence.

I think of the humans I know back home. Of Celeste, who cooks the best chicken dumplings I've ever eaten. Celeste, who has no children of her own but spoils her little nieces and nephews to pieces. Of Bootsie, whose paintings decorate the new peach-and-plum-colored guest quarters of our home. Bright flowers, waterfalls, and greenery cheering up any space. Of Morris, an old man now but who used to race me on horseback when I was a boy. He always let me win.

All mortal. Their short lives filled with so much joy and love.

These young men and women from Irondale who took up arms at the witching hour to attack the queen's army, their eyes closed for the final sleep. No more dreams.

Meanwhile, most of our soldiers are in good spirits. This war has handed them an early victory. A swift victory. Even deprived of sleep and the comfort of tents and wagons, they march on, singing of battle and justice.

But not all.

Here and there are serious faces. Introspective. Doubtful. Kept quiet among the celebrating, some of the soldiers show the same reflective response I've seen in Zenith. In the tightness of their mouths, in the creases above their brows.

I'm surprised, and yet I'm not. Zenith has never struck me as the type to relish killing but rather a man who will do whatever is necessary to accomplish his mission, even if what's necessary is also unsavory. Like the slaughter of a troop much weaker than your own.

No, he's taking no joy from this victory.

A little voice inside me grows louder.

Talk to him. Confess everything you know. He'll listen.

I know I should. I need to. But how to start? What to say?

My fear is a molten lump blocking my throat and refusing to budge no matter how much the words fight to break free.

Isolde elbows my side. "Snail's slime in your throat? You're awfully quiet today."

"Sleepy." It's true, even if it isn't the entire answer.

"Come fly with me for a bit. Let's get a good look at the battle site."

That's the last thing I want to see from a bird's-eye view. "You go on. I need a moment to speak with my guards. I'll join you later."

She stares at me for a moment, then shrugs and takes off.

I fall back to walk alongside Nola and Rolan, who are always nearby these days, keeping their watchful gazes on me. They mean well, but their constant surveillance grates. Though their entire purpose is to keep me safe, the mere fact that Zenith thinks bodyguards are necessary brings a heightened awareness of potential danger. Makes me jumpy.

I don't actually have anything I need to discuss with them, but I greet them and ask how they're doing.

Stoic as always, they insist they're fine. And they probably are. They didn't take part in the killing. Had no attachment to the fallen. I'm glad for it. Nola and Rolan are kind enough. They deserve better than this lopsided war.

"And you?" asks Nola. "How are you doing?"

"Oh, all right, I suppose."

She casts a knowing glance. "You're not. But you will be. This campaign won't last forever."

"Nothing lasts forever." Rolan grips my shoulder and gives a comforting squeeze.

They're trying to help, and I appreciate their kind words. But some things I want to last forever. Like Zenith and me. We're forever.

Aren't we?