Okay. Think about the fish. You don’t have a fishing rod, but you can make a spear.
It was better than nothing.
Rachel gets back to her feet and heads outside again.
Beside the path, she finds a dead branch in the foliage and sharpens the tip into something resembling a spear. Rachel makes her way to the stream, where she takes off her shoes on the bank.
Slowly, she wades into the icy water, the rocks underfoot digging into her soles. Careful not to spook the fish, she makes her way to the center of the stream, where the water laps at her hips.
“Here goes nothing,” she says.
She watches the fish, waiting for the perfect time to strike. Dinner was literally within reach, she just had to suck it up and spear one of the fish. Simple, right?
Rachel stabs down into the stream, but her target torpedoes away before the makeshift spear can hit home.
“Damn it.”
She gets back into position, raises her spear, and studies the fish. One minute turns into five. This time when she stabs down, her foot shifts awkwardly and the rocks give way. Rachel slips, and falls backward with a loud splash. Ice water soaks through her clothes, seeps into her skin, and chills her to the bone.
“Holy snowballs, that’s cold,” she gasps.
She scrambles to her feet and looks around the stream. The fish had scattered, but her spear was luckily in one piece.
You may be cold, you may be ready to throw in the towel, but you can’t. Suck it up. Try again. Otherwise, you’re going to starve.
With a heavy sigh, she picks up her spear, and plants herself firmly in place. She stands absolutely still for what feels like forever, before the fish swim closer again.
As the day turns to night, Rachel gives up on her failed spear fishing. She had staved off the hunger pangs by filling up her stomach with water, but she can’t go on without food for much longer, and her exhaustion is absolute. At least she won’t die from hypothermia.
After a long, hot shower, Rachel goes off in search of something to wear while her clothes dry overnight. A thin, oversized shirt is the best she can find, stuffed into the back of a drawer. She pulls it on, wraps herself up in a blanket, and heads to bed.
Where the previous night’s nightmares were full of skull-crushing monsters, the prospect of starving now consumes her every thought.
Rachel stares at the ceiling, the blanket pulled up to her chin. She inadvertently ponders questions like how long it will take to starve to death and when her brain functions will become impaired. Will she suffer hallucinations? Does it even matter anymore how she goes out? The guilt was still there, just hiding beneath the surface, waiting to remind her of what she’d inadvertently done.
A thud sounds, followed by a muted, “Oomph.”
Rachel sits upright in the bed, her head heavy and thoughts swimming. “Orion?” she whispers, afraid of getting her hopes up.
She gets a groan in response.
She throws her legs off the edge of the bed and walks across the bedroom. There’s a clatter, like pots and pans falling. A drawer opens violently. Steel rattles against steel as the contents are pushed around inside. She slinks into the shadows of the hallway, and inches her way to the modest-sized kitchen, where dim lamp light glows.
“Where is it?”
She knows that voice.
Memories push to the forefront of her mind. “Let’s see where my brother is hiding you.” Rachel stops in her tracks, eyes widening as a cupboard door slams shut. “Do you think I should make him watch while I break you in for my harem, pretty thing?”
Before she has a chance to retreat from the doorway, Nova—the King of Amaris—comes into view. His white hair is pulled out of his face into a low ponytail at the nape of his neck. The purple velvet cloak she’d first seen him wear in Amaris’ gilded throne room is gone. Instead, he wears black breeches with gray side-panels, paired with black riding boots, and a black jacket hangs loosely over a white tunic.
She moves one leg backward, placing her toes gently down on the wooden floor. As Rachel puts more weight onto her foot, a creak resounds in the hallway.
Nova spins on his heels, a blue flame covering the entirety of his right hand and wrist. His quicksilver eyes narrow and lean body grows rigid.
“Is my brother here?” Nova asks. He searches the hallway behind her.
Her chest tightens. Rachel opens her mouth to speak, but no sound comes out.
A tense, pregnant pause falls over him, before Nova extinguishes the flame. He regards her from afar, inquisitive, his brow creasing in confusion.
“My spies didn’t tell me he brought you along.”
Despite the danger he poses, Rachel blurts out, “He didn’t.”
Nova raises an eyebrow. “I can’t figure out if you’re stupid or brave.” With that, he turns back to whatever he’d been doing.
Unsure whether she should run for her life or go back to the bedroom and pray he forgets she exists, Rachel simply stands there in the dark hallway.
Nova walks out of the kitchen with a lamp in hand, his shoulder brushing a hairsbreadth from hers.
“What are you looking for?” she asks, following him into the living room.
“A worn leather folder,” he mutters. He sets the lamp down on the mantle. “I could have sworn I’d forgotten it here last time I visited.” Nova glances over his shoulder. “Did you see it?”
“No.”
Nova returns his attention to searching the living room and pulls white sheets off the furniture, unsettling the dust. The air swirls, tickling Rachel’s nose. Against all reason, she crosses the room and opens the large windows one after the other. When she turns back to Nova, he’s on his hands
