Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 84840 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 424(@200wpm)___ 339(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84840 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 424(@200wpm)___ 339(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
“Quin,” I cry, stumbling up the hill towards them. “Nicostratus. Stop.”
Nicostratus jerks at my voice and his furious, hurt gaze halts me a step from him. He tugs at his belt and casts the dromveske to my feet. “I saw it all. Before we ever met, he dangled off a cliff for you!”
“He dangled off one for you, too,” I cry back. “While being flogged by the enemy!” Listen, please listen. “Your brother loves you.”
His nose and clenched teeth dive towards mine. “Not enough.”
The words hit Quin with noticeable force. He rocks back on his feet like I do. There’s a growing rift between us, and no matter who volunteers to dangle over it, they’re still left with a choice who to save.
From the clashing of magic to dark and silence.
Nicostratus stares at me, stares at his brother. Then he turns his back, his last words left to cleave deeply into Quin’s chest.
It’s cutting more deeply than a sword, and I need to stop it or nothing will heal the wound. Even though it means leaving Quin without a goodbye, even though it means breaking my promise to leave under the protection of his army, I have to do it.
I have to bring back what’s his.
Ibarely catch a glimpse of his shadow before it slips over a rolling hill, through dense forest. Whenever I get close, he spurs his horse on, anger and hurt driving him. And I follow in desperation—somehow, someway, I must bring him back to Quin, to their loving brotherhood.
Each day, each breathless glimpse of his red cloak, feels like a step deeper into the past. We pass through Hinsard, neither of us stopping. The city is a blur of memories—of the three of us. This is where we broke apart. No. The truth sinks its claws in, sharper than I want to admit. We fractured much earlier. Maybe we were never whole to begin with. My attraction to Nicostratus had been a mask, a desperate attempt to stitch myself back together after the last time Maskios left. I’d searched for my masked friend for so long, I’d let myself believe Nicostratus might be the answer. Or at least someone who could help me forget.
I grip my reins tightly, steering my horse—a trade for tonics after my journey back to Lumin—into a narrowing gully. The air grows cooler, and towering trees stretch overhead, their canopies dappling me with patches of light and shadow. Somewhere in these woods is the crusader base. Perhaps, if I yelled out, Lykos, Zenon, and Megaera might hear me. But this is not their fight.
In the far distance, I glimpse a flicker of red flashing through the trees. Slower, this time. My gut churns. He’s letting me catch up. He must be.
The path twists, and I realise where we are. The fortress ruins are rising at the base of Mount Crysippos. Memories flood me as I enter, this time through the creaking front gates. The clatter of hooves echoes off the courtyard stone, the sound swallowed by the stillness. My heart pounds.
This is where Quin and Nicostratus snuck off to as boys, on their travels to Hinsard.
This is where Quin and I saved Nicostratus from the crusaders.
This is where my magic was taken from me forever.
I dismount, the reins slipping through my trembling fingers. There’s a quietness in the courtyard that has me shivering. It’s still. Too still. I see a flicker of movement, a shadow, but when I turn my head it’s gone. My pulse races.
I tell myself it’s nothing. It’s fear. This sense of foreboding is trauma; my body recalling what happened to me here. I shake off a shudder and move across moss-slick stone to a broad back of red: Nicostratus waiting.
“You led me here,” I say quietly.
“You wouldn’t stop following me.” Nicostratus doesn’t turn to face me, his voice strained and sharp.
“So this place was meant to—”
“Yes. Hurt. So we can be on even ground.”
The ache in my chest rises, spreading hollow and cold around my severed meridians. “Now that we are, can you let us talk this through? Yell it through even, so long as we get it through?”
He turns, his gaze cutting through me. “I saw everything. I know your history. I know how he feels about you. And . . .” His gaze falters, his throat working hard as he looks toward the ruins. “I could see in your eyes how you’ve always felt about him.”
“It was never conscious—”
“Whether you realised it or not, I simply wasn’t enough. I was never enough.”
My throat tightens. “It isn’t about being enough. You are an incredible choice. Kind, loyal, always there when I needed help. You’re beautiful. But . . . feelings aren’t simple.”
His laugh is bitter and hollow, bouncing off the crumbled stone walls. “Then feelings should be avoided.”