Cyrus sighs, reaching over and bear hugging me before I can react. His sudden nearness overwhelms me, and I brace myself against his chest, trying to quell my first instinct to push him away. When my hands hit his bare skin, I feel even more awkward. “Thank you,” Cyrus breathes into my hair, the strands near my ear standing on end. He cradles me a heartbeat longer than necessary before he finally releases his hold.
“Come on then,” I growl when I’m free to move. A strange sensation prickles in my hands, and suddenly, the further I move from Cyrus, the colder my world becomes. Cyrus doesn’t seem to notice, staying a few steps behind me like a watchful puppy. Yet I feel the shift, and it terrifies me. For better or worse, Cyrus is becoming a source of comfort, an emotional crutch that I just cannot allow myself to indulge. My vision alone was proof of that—if I allow my heart to get too involved with him, if I allow the coupling that Siri says is inevitable, then surely, I am setting the stage for that vision to be fulfilled. And the thought of watching him and Siri die at the hands of Wolf brings bile to my throat.
However, I cannot deny Cyrus’s pleas for help, especially when it was my orders that caused him to endure the nightmares he’s faced. I cannot abandon him to the ghosts in his mind. I’d never forgive myself if I woke up one morning and found him dead by his own hand.
“I…I sleep here.” Cyrus interrupts my brooding, pointing to a tiny crevice in the wall. “It’s a tight squeeze to get inside, but I figured that would keep me safe.” He slides a hand into the crack, pawing at the ground on the right side. Within a few seconds, his hand snakes out of the hole with a carefully tied shirt that’s serving as a makeshift knapsack.
“You…you were already packed?” I exclaim, wondering if I’ve just been duped into some strange seduction plan he’s concocted.
“I never unpacked my stuff,” Cyrus mutters, unable to meet my eye. “I guess I haven’t felt safe enough to call this home.”
Instinctively I brush his arm, whispering, “I’m sorry, Cyrus.” Heat erupts under my fingertips, searing my skin until I am sure my fingers are charred. When I move my hand away, I still feel the pressure of Cyrus’s skin against mine like an after-image from looking up into the sun. “Let’s just go,” I hiss, falling back into brooding silence before I can do any more damage.
***
“What’s your greatest fear, Helena?” Ithel wonders aloud as they take a break during their third day of training for another meager meal of stew and stale bread.
“Heights,” Helena retorts sarcastically as she slumps into a chair beside the guard, wishing she could knock him to the floor for all the horrible things he’s made her endure. Right now, her nerves still flutter from her last attempt to climb up the palace ramparts.
Ithel had been truly sadistic this time and forced her to wear a blindfold, leaving her completely dependent upon her sense of touch. “Remember, your Windwalker magic won’t be able to save you in the tunnel. You fall there, and you will die,” Ithel whispered into her ear just before he secured the blindfold over her eyes.
Helena’s heartbeat hadn’t slowed since not even when her feet finally hit the infirmary’s stone patio once more. “I thought we were supposed to run the tunnel, Ithel. Why do you keep forcing me to climb up the palace walls? Shouldn’t I be focusing on building up my leg muscles and my endurance?”
“Climbing does that,” Ithel bites back, stirring his broth with a crooked spoon. “The fact that it works your arms too is an added bonus. Besides, you don’t know what’s actually in the tunnel, do you? Maybe you’ll need upper body strength too.” Ithel smirks when he notices Helena’s pinched, sour expression and reiterates his first question. “Now, what is your greatest fear?”
“Do they have anything other than broth in the kitchens?” Helena whines, refusing to answer as she slurps loudly. “Meat? Cheese? Even a few onions or greens would help give it some flavor. Or maybe a piece of bread that doesn’t make me fear breaking a tooth as I bite down.”
“This broth provides your body with all it needs to function. And that bread may be tough, but it’s filling,” Ithel answers, pointing his spoon at her with a low growl in his throat. “And you’re damn lucky you get it. Now, quit complaining and eat.”
“What do you mean?” Helena wonders, mopping the remnants of her soup with the hardest crust of her bread to soften its texture. The formless, tasteless lump is gummy in her mouth. Still, it’s better than starving, she reminds herself, forcing her body to swallow the sticky mass before it becomes too thick to move with her tongue.
“I mean, oh Entitled One, that the kitchens don’t supply any of this for you. I make your meals, so you’ll get what I give you or nothing at all,” Ithel grumbles, lowering his gaze to the table as he waits for her to respond. “You think I like spending my evenings skulking in the kitchen kneading dough and stirring a kettle while you dream of finer things in the infirmary beds?”
“I’m…I’m sorry,” she chokes, wondering when Ithel finds the time to shop for
