1

The sun shone high above him, blinding him as his eyes fluttered open. Dazed, he glanced around. He was on his back in the middle of a glade, surrounded by pine trees that stretched into the blue sky. Blinking, he sat up and groaned, hand lowering to his stomach. His brow furrowed as his side twinged from the touch; something wet covered his clothes. Pulling his hand away, he stared at the red substance coating his fingers.

Blood, he thought slowly. It was hard to form that single word. Unfocused, he stared at the blood, rubbing his fingertips together. With a shake of his head, he peered at the wound—a single slice along his ribs. It wasn't grievous.

Where am I?

He looked around with no recognition. Nothing, absolutely nothing, told him where was. Green grass spread beneath him and covered the glade. A few flowers and weeds grew randomly, poking out of the ground. Birds chirped, each one like a knife to his ears, and the scent of the damp soil along with something floral made his nose crinkle, overwhelming his senses. His fingers trailed over the soft, slightly wet strands beneath him as he continued blinking, staring at the unfamiliar landscape.

Who am I?

His hands clenched into fists around the grass, uprooting it. He couldn't remember a single thing. Panic clawed under his skin and made his stomach roll as bile burned his throat. With a deep breath, he closed his eyes and searched his mind in an attempt to find something, anything, that would tell him who he was. His brow furrowed. Nothing. There was nothing. His mind was a blank canvas. A black void.

Shuddering, he rubbed his forehead. His breath escaped in quick gasps as his heart pounded, thundering in the empty silence of his mind. How was it possible that he didn't even know his own name? He took several deep breaths in an attempt to calm the ice coursing in his veins.

By the time he opened his eyes, his pulse had slowed. One thing at a time, he thought. He would focus on what was right in front of him. He got to his feet, and the world spun. He clutched his abdomen, blood oozing between his fingers. Ignoring it, he looked at the sun, squinting. It hung high overhead—afternoon sun. Turning, he started north. How he knew which direction was which, he had no idea, but he did.

He locked his gaze on a tree in the distance and walked toward it. When he reached it, he picked another tree to the north, moving ever forward in the hope he wouldn't get lost. Blood continued to seep out of the cut, thirst burned his throat, and his head throbbed with every breath, but he refused to stop. He had to find water, people, or help of some kind.

As he trudged under the boughs of the trees, the sun continued its journey across the sky and began its descent. The birds ceased their songs and settled in their nests for the night. A cold wind came from the north, blowing across the two looming peaks capped in snow and chilling him to the bone. With his arms wrapped about his waist, he slogged on.

Eventually, he began to shiver, and the world shifted in his view. His body begged to sit down as he fought to stay conscious, but something deep inside of him refused to surrender. He had to do something. Something important. He couldn't remember what, but he knew he had to do it.

Darkness pressed around him as he stumbled toward a tree. Each step burned, becoming harder than the last. Everything within him screamed to lay down. Swallowing, he reached out and grabbed the tree; the rough bark scraped against his palm. He hugged the thin pine for support as he panted in short, hard bursts. Everything hurt. His head throbbed, his side ached, and his mouth was painfully dry.

A crack broke the silence of the forest. His head jerked up as a man rounded a tree. The other man paid him no attention or didn't see him in the encroaching night. The new arrival was tall and lean. His cloak swished around his leather boots and dragged through the pine needles covering the ground. His pitch-black hair fell to his shoulders, flaring in the cold breeze.

A scar slashed through the newcomer's eyebrow, eye, and down to his cheekbone. I know him, he thought. He had no idea why he recognized the black-haired man, but he did.

His boots crunched on the pine needles as he stumbled forward, stretching a hand out. The other man whipped around—staff held high in his left hand. It was long, dark in color, and appeared like it was formed from two branches twisting around each other. A deep blue crystal sat on top of the staff, glowing with power.

"What the hell are you doing here?" the black-haired man snarled, prodding the air with the staff.

He didn't hesitate, stumbling toward the mage. He's a mage. "I know you."

The man jerked back as he raised the staff between them like a shield. "Of course, you know me."

"I know you," he repeated as his knees gave out, and he collapsed to the ground, face smacking into the forest floor. Footsteps crunched on the dry ground as the sharp scent of pine stung his nose. Something hard poked into his chest and forced him onto his back. Stars glimmered in the night sky before the mage's face blocked them.

A deep scowl covered the other man's face. He focused on the scar slicing down the side of his face. The mage's right eye was milky and scarred while the left was a deep gray—like the stormy ocean.

Suddenly, an image bloomed in his mind of a storm raging over the ocean, waves violently crashing against the shore, and lightning arcing through the sky. He could perfectly imagine it, but he couldn't ever recall seeing it for himself.

His gaze stayed on the scar. "I know you."

"Yes," the mage snapped. "What's wrong with you?"

He grabbed the mage's cloak, which made him snarl. "I trust you," he whispered, realizing it was true. He trusted this man. The other man jerked back, eyes starting to widen. "Who am I?" he asked. The mage's mouth fell open. A heavy weight started to press around his thoughts as he whispered again, "Who am I?"

Greyson gaped at the unconscious man. Cyrus, he thought, lip curling. He did not hate anyone as much as he hated Cyrus. He eyed the warrior, who did not carry his usual sword. Greyson scoffed. He'd never seen Cyrus without his blade. So much so, he'd assumed the metal was fused to his flesh.

Cyrus' golden-blonde hair hung around his face, and his square jaw had relaxed from its usual clenched position. Even though Greyson could not see them, he knew Cyrus' eyes were blue—the exact same shade as the sky. Greyson was quite a bit taller than him, but Cyrus was broader and had well-formed muscles, no doubt from swordwork.

He poked him with the end of his staff again. Cyrus did not stir. Blood leaked from his side, but the wound didn't seem severe enough to cause this unconscious state. His last question flashed in Greyson's mind. Cyrus didn't know who he was. The great warrior of the Zaesian Empire, and he couldn't remember. The last eight years of being a pain in Greyson's ass, and he didn't remember any of it.

A sneer crossed his face. Greyson could leave Cyrus here to die, and no one would be the wiser. He stalked off without a backward glance. He was not far from his home, which he'd barely left in the last two, almost three, years since the rebellion ended.

Prodding the uneven ground with his staff, Greyson wound through the forest, though his thoughts returned to Cyrus. That last time he'd seen him was about this time of year when Cyrus had escorted him back to the Griseo Mountains where Greyson had been exiled.

Greyson pushed the thoughts out of his mind. With his head held high, he marched out of the woods. He'd been hunting for herbs and root vegetables while checking his traps and snares. Now that darkness had descended, he had no desire to continue to search, as the low light made it difficult for him to see anything.

As he came to a clearing, he caught sight of his village, Drakcombe, in the distance, surrounded by rich farmland. Lights glimmered from the windows of the few homes nestled in a valley between the Ferrum and Validus Peaks.

He kept walking, ignoring the wooden houses until he came to a path that trailed off into the trees. The path, barely more than a goat trail, led up the mountain and stopped at a cabin—his home—surrounded by towering pine trees.

He opened the door, rested his staff against the wall, and removed his cloak, hanging it on a peg that jutted from the wall. Greyson's home was a one-room cabin with a bed pressed against a wall, a stone fireplace with a wide mantle, a table and chairs, and a simple kitchen to the left. It was not large nor did it hold any luxuries, but it suited his purposes.

After he started a fire, he set a kettle on a hook hanging above the flames. With a sigh, he sank to the oval rag rug in front of the fireplace, warmth seeping into his chilled limbs. Once the kettle released a shrill whistle, Greyson tugged it off with a thick cloth. He put some leaves into the plain white teapot before pouring the boiling water into it.

His shoulders relaxed as he closed his eyes, leaning back on his elbows. Finally, Cyrus would never bother him again. Nothing like a spot of tea to celebrate, he mused.

With a deafening crash, the ground trembled, shaking the cabin. His eyes shot open. Light flashed an instant before another peal of thunder roared. The pitter-patter of rain started to beat against the roof. Greyson glanced out the window next to the door as another strike of lightning lit the sky, illuminating the forest.

The image of Cyrus lying on the ground swelled in his mind. His jaw tightened. Greyson had intended to leave him to die of exposure or blood loss. Why should it matter if it started to rain?

Knowing the tea had steeped, he poured a cup and took a sip. The usual pleasure that permeated him at a nice cup of tea did not come. Instead, the bitter flavor clung to his tongue as the hot liquid hit his empty stomach uncomfortably. Greyson clenched the warm porcelain and refused to budge.

It doesn't matter.

Another clash of lightning lit his home, and the ground quaked from the force of the thunder. The pounding of rain grew louder and louder with each passing moment until it was deafening.

Snarling, he slammed the cup down, hot tea sloshing over the rim and scalding his fingers. He collected the cup and teapot, then deposited them onto the kitchen table so he wouldn't trip over them later. Greyson donned his cloak, and, staff in hand, he threw the door open. It almost ripped out of his grasp from the force of the howling wind.

Head down, shoulders hunched, he marched into the pouring rain, prodding the ground with his staff. The darkness plus the rain made it difficult for him to see much, but his feet knew the way. Lightning arced in the sky, making a shiver go down his spine.

I'm going to die trying to save my enemy, he thought, swearing, not that it could be heard over the thunder.

In no time at all, the rain soaked his clothes and made him shiver. By the time he reached Cyrus, he was thoroughly miserable and silently cursing him with each breath.

"I hope you're dead," he muttered, stalking toward the inert man. He nudged Cyrus with the butt of his staff. Unfortunately, he released a whimper. "Well, shit," Greyson said. "You're alive."

He shoved a hand through his dripping hair. His lips pursed as his brow furrowed. A choice lay before him—save Cyrus or leave him to die. Greyson stared at him as it continued to pour and a fierce wind ripped through the trees.

"Shit," he growled.

Grunting, he shifted Cyrus into his arms. "Goddess above and serpent below, you're heavy."

Greyson groaned, knees cracking, and stood with Cyrus thrown over his shoulder like a sack of grain. Using his staff as a cane, he trudged home. The rain did not slow in the slightest, but, thankfully, the thunder grew fainter as the storm moved over Validus Peak.

His back throbbed and his legs trembled while his knees threatened to buckle. Greyson swore again. A spell that could assist him had to exist, but he used magic to fight, not to carry unconscious men. In his exhaustion, his brain refused to produce anything useful. His boots sank and slopped in the mud with every step. And with each step, he cursed himself and his lack of resolve as well as Cyrus.

What the hell is he even doing here?

Finally, the village came into sight, and Greyson wished to abandon his unwanted burden on the ground and leave him behind, but he didn't act on the impulse. Growling, he continued through the downpour. The only good thing about carrying Cyrus was the sweat he worked up had banished any trace of cold.

When he reached the trail to his home, Greyson fought back yet another string of swear words. The rain had made the path slick with mud as rivulets of water cascaded down the hill. Slowly, painfully, he trudged up the steep track until he reached his cabin.

Greyson dropped his charge on the floor with little care. When Cyrus groaned, he smirked. "I'm so sorry," he muttered, sniggering. Greyson left him where he fell and stripped off his wet clothes, then hung them on a rack not far from the fire.

He dried off before pulling on another pair of trousers and a long sleeve shirt. While he rubbed the cloth over his wet hair, Greyson shifted to Cyrus, who lay in a heap. He rolled Cyrus onto his back. Despite the coldness of his soaked clothes, a fire raged under his skin.

"Great," he said. "Now, I have to play nursemaid."

Briskly, Greyson removed Cyrus' clothes, then chafed his skin with a towel. The slice on his side was red and puffy, but it had stopped bleeding. He dried Cyrus' dripping hair before dragging him to bed. By the time he maneuvered Cyrus onto the bed, his back throbbed and his arms ached.

"I swear if you die after all of this trouble, I will find a way to curse your soul in the afterlife," he growled, kneading his tight back.

Stiffly, Greyson removed a simple poultice from a kitchen cabinet that should help with the infection. He smeared the green concoction over the wound, wrapped a bandage around the injury, then tucked the blanket around Cyrus.

Greyson put the kettle on the flames to make tea for himself and some willow bark tea for Cyrus that he would probably have to force down his throat. The willow bark should help with any pain and bring the fever down, though.

He leaned his arms on the back of a chair, and his head slumped. Once the kettle screamed, he poured most of the water into the teapot, leaving some to simmer for a few minutes with willow bark, then he poured it into a cup for Cyrus. He took a drink of the warm tea and his tight muscles relaxed as heat spread from his stomach to his chilled limbs.

After he finished and the willow bark tea had sufficiently seeped and been strained, Greyson sat on the edge of the bed and lifted Cyrus so he rested against his shoulder. Greyson raised the mug to Cyrus' lips. The tea dribbled out the side of his mouth and onto Greyson's shoulder.

Sighing, he wanted to pinch the bridge of his nose, but he had no free hands. "I'm trying here, Cyrus. A little effort would be nice."

Of course, he did not respond.

Containing a snarl, Greyson attempted to get the tea down his throat. Slowly, Cyrus drank the entire cup. When it was empty, he settled Cyrus on the bed.

He stretched his arms over his head, his back cracking in a symphony of pops. Greyson groaned before twisting one way, then the next. He glanced at Cyrus and shook his head. "I should've let you die. I can already tell you're going to be as much of a pain in the ass as usual."

It was too late now.

Shrugging, Greyson poured another cup of tea.