Heat rose in Veronyka’s cheeks, but he didn’t need to thank her. She’d do anything for Tristan. “Of course, sir,” she said, unable to meet his eye and uncomfortable with his gratitude. It was her fault; fixing her mess was the least she could do.
He cast a look over his shoulder at his son, then sighed. “Despite your impressive individual performance, however, I’m afraid this counts as a failure,” he said regretfully. When Veronyka continued to stare at him, confused, he added, “For the trials.”
Oh. Right. Her hopes and dreams. Her chance at becoming a Master Rider and joining Tristan’s patrol so they could garrison Prosperity outpost. After everything she’d discovered the night before, Veronyka’s life as a Rider felt extremely far away. This news should sting, but right now she couldn’t seem to muster the feeling. She’d almost killed Tristan. Nothing else really mattered.
She bowed her head, at a loss for what to say, but that act of resignation seemed to be enough.
“The rules are very clear on the matter,” he continued. “A Master Rider can only be tested early as a part of a full patrol, and a failure in any one of the trials results in a team failure. You may audition again in six weeks or continue on with your regular lessons and be elevated to master when you are deemed ready by your instructors.”
Veronyka nodded, and the commander turned to go, Beryk waiting for him by the door. He hesitated, putting a hand on her shoulder. “You’ll stay with him?” he asked softly, and she looked up into his familiar light brown eyes. Tristan’s eyes.
“Yes, sir,” she said, and he squeezed her shoulder appreciatively before departing.
The other Riders checked in throughout the day, even Elliot, and Morra brought Tristan’s tea herself.
Xephyra kept prodding at Veronyka through the bond—Okay? Okay? Okay?—and Veronyka wasn’t sure if she was asking about Veronyka herself or asking about Tristan on Rex’s behalf. The growing closeness between the two phoenixes was one more thing Veronyka couldn’t think about right now. The last few hours had been a startling whirlwind, and the only way she knew how to keep going was to stay busy and stop herself from dwelling.
That didn’t make it easy. Veronyka had decided that who Val was didn’t matter anymore. She’d been determined not to let the past, the mystery of her own identity, weigh her down as she moved into her future. She knew that in order to block her shadow magic, she had to block it all.
But now? How could she? Val was still her family—and would have been regardless of what that birth certificate said—but now Veronyka was an Ashfire. The royal line. Descended from queens.
The line was broken. That was what everyone thought.
The queens had failed; the empire belonged to the Ashfires no longer.
Veronyka thought of the Ashfire family tree…. She thought of the two branches splitting: Pheronia on one side, Avalkyra on the other. And now Veronyka on one side, Avalkyra on the other.
Why did it feel like her identity was just another way for her to be controlled by Val? Another reason for Val to lay claim to her and her life? Veronyka didn’t want that legacy…. She didn’t want to be a queen. She didn’t want a war. She wanted peace. She wanted to protect others like her, to make the world safe for animages again. Veronyka wanted to fly in a flock, to be a part of the Phoenix Rider resurgence, to stand among her fellows with pride and confidence, not above them.
She never wanted to be isolated again. And to be Val’s sister… to be Avalkyra’s sister… was to be alone. To stand apart. It was everything Val needed and nothing Veronyka wanted.
To pass the time, Veronyka had helped remove Tristan’s armor and cleaned the leather, she’d gotten fresh hot water for Morra’s tea when the first pot got cold and rinsed the cool cloth on Tristan’s forehead every time it went dry. She’d made sure Rex and Xephyra were fed and trusted in her bondmate to comfort Rex just as she was comforting Tristan.
She’d also tended her mental walls brick by agonizing brick, focusing on the minute details of the task and not on how easily Val had breached her walls or when she might choose to do it again. Veronyka had opened herself to Val, and she feared there was no turning back. She had been thoughtless, reaching out to Val the way she had, and ultimately selfish, too.
She was not alone in her mind—she had to remember that. Veronyka didn’t exist in a vacuum; she was inextricably linked to those around her, and she’d endangered them. Things could have been much worse, too. What if Xephyra had been the one to lose consciousness? What if all three of them—Veronyka, Xephyra, and Tristan—had gone under?
The thought made a shudder rack her body. Veronyka needed to stop listening to other people and start listening to herself. Morra counseled caution and seclusion, while Val had taught lies and defenses and impenetrable walls—even as she used her magic to manipulate and control. One felt like cowardice and the other felt like giving in to the darkest part of herself. Neither would work for her.
Veronyka would do the only thing that made sense—the right thing, no matter the cost to herself. She’d be open and honest and give Tristan what he deserved: the truth. They’d figure this out. They had to. They were in this together, and it was too late to pretend otherwise. Awareness might make him vulnerable, but it was also the key to self-defense.
Next to her, Tristan stirred. He looked younger in sleep, despite the ghost of stubble that shadowed his jawline. His hair was plastered to his forehead and temples, sweat combined with the damp cloth the healer had ordered placed there. Seizing upon the distraction, she reached across him to remove it, intending to rinse it with fresh water and reapply, when his hand reached up to grab her wrist. Her pulse jumped in her throat—both with relief and wild fear. He was awake. He was okay.
It was time to talk.
His eyes opened, hooded and drowsy, though they fixed on her. He held her hand pinned to his forehead, before his arm slackened slightly, drawing her palm down the side of his face to rest against his cheek.
“Strange dreams…,” he murmured, voice hoarse.
“Here,” Veronyka said, tugging her arm free to grab hold of the tea. She’d had the presence of mind to have them send a warmer along with the most recent pot. Morra had also sent food—Veronyka had been there all day—but she’d had no appetite.
She held a cup of tea under his nose, and he drew back as soon as the tendrils of steam reached him, causing the towel on his forehead to slip off his face. He jerked his head side to side.
“Not that again,” he said, more alert now, and Veronyka held back a smile. Anyone who’d been the slightest bit ill or tired in the stronghold had been subjected to Morra’s pungent tea. “Water?” he asked hopefully, and Veronyka obliged.
Tristan emptied his cup before handing it back to her and scrubbing a hand across his face. He glanced past her, taking in his darkened room.
“What time is it?”
“After dinner,” Veronyka said, staring at the cup in her hands. Dread was a living thing inside her chest. Tell him tell him tell him.
“What happened?” he muttered, sinking back against his pillows.
Veronyka swallowed. “I… There’s something I need to tell you.”
The tone of her voice made him pause. He tried to sit up straighter, but his body was still boneless with exhaustion.