She settled on her knees and stared into the flames.
This is not the end.
The sun set.
Dawn came.
Went.
Shadows moved across the ground, and the bright sky outside their window bruised with the coming twilight.
She had kept the fire burning for twelve hours. Then twenty-four, using every scrap of wood from the stack outside.
But just as the fire dwindled, so too did Veronyka’s hope.
She was cold. Bone-chillingly cold. The steady heat that had warmed her all night and all day was gone, the fire nothing but a pile of ashes, softly stirred by the evening breeze.
Her tears had stopped, her eyes so dry that Veronyka didn’t know if she’d ever be able to cry again. They were itchy and swollen and heavy with sleep, but Veronyka continued to watch.
She watched until the last flickering ember went out. It echoed something inside her, some lost piece of herself that Veronyka knew she’d never get back.
Is this what the end feels like?
As intently as Veronyka had watched the flames, so Val had watched her.
Now she put a hand on Veronyka’s shoulder and opened her mouth to speak.
Veronyka jerked away and gathered her belongings. She felt stiff and disconnected from the world, numb in a way that had nothing to do with the cold outside and everything to do with the cold inside.
“Veronyka,” Val said, her tone measured. “Talk to me.”
Veronyka ignored her, tugging on her warm leather boots and grabbing her cloak from the hook by the door.
“Xe Nyka—you need me. Don’t do anything stupid.”
“I do not need you,” Veronyka snapped, her voice raw from the smoke.
Val bristled. “Oh, yes you do. This cabin, that food—the clothes on your back. All of that comes from me.”
Veronyka glared at her. Despite Val’s sharp tone, her eyes were glistening with unshed tears. The sight made Veronyka’s fists clench. Val had no right to sadness, not in the face of what she’d done.
“Fine,” Veronyka said, kicking off the boots and flinging the cloak onto the dusty ground, leaving behind anything Val had given her. She stood in nothing but the threadbare, undyed tunic and pants she’d been wearing since the previous day—clothes she had made herself. Val called them “farmer’s dreck” and hated the practical worker’s attire. She preferred scraps of expensive silk and faded embroidery, no matter how old, dirty, and worn-out.
“Veronyka, you’ll freeze.”
“No I won’t,” she said, marching over to the edge of the cold hearth and picking up the soldier’s knife from the dirt. “This,” she said, holding it outward and causing Val to stop in her tracks, “does not belong to you.”
“You don’t know what you’re doing!” Val shouted to her retreating back, following Veronyka as she marched out the door.
“Yes I do,” Veronyka said, whirling around. Val stood on the threshold of their home, looking strangely small and forlorn. Veronyka was repulsed by the sight of her. “I’m getting away from you. As far and as fast as my feet will carry me. I would rather die than stay here one second longer.”
Val’s face twisted with rage. “Where will you go? Off searching for Phoenix Riders?” she sneered. “They are gone, Veronyka, and not even your foolish hope will change that.”
“Nothing about hope is foolish,” Veronyka said, turning her back on her sister once more. Val was a determined person, almost to the point of obsession, but one thing she’d always lacked was imagination.
Veronyka couldn’t see the end of the long winding path before her, but she could see the first step. The rest she’d make up as she went along.
“If it’s eggs you’re after, you won’t find any without me,” Val called out, almost desperately, as if searching for some way to slow Veronyka down or make her turn around.
You’re wrong, Veronyka thought, her mind locked tight as she pressed on. About everything.
First she would go to Vayle and Wise Queen Malka’s abandoned outpost. If Val didn’t want her to be able to find an egg on her own, she shouldn’t have told her exactly where to find one.
After that . . . she didn’t know where, and she didn’t know how, but Veronyka would find other Phoenix Riders if it was the last thing she ever did.
That was the day her loss became my victory, and everything changed between us.
- CHAPTER 9 -
TRISTAN
TRISTAN PERCHED ON THE edge of the rocky cliff, staring down at the steep, jagged drop. The sky was vast above him, with barely a cloud to break the endless blue, and below, his phoenix’s scarlet feathers were the only pop of color among a sea of gray stone.
The other Apprentice Riders, along with their instructor, stood behind him, awaiting their turn.
Tristan took a deep breath, steeling himself. It was no small thing to leap blindly into the abyss, timing his jump just right so he landed on the back of his phoenix as he soared far below.
But this, believe it or not, was the easy part. The hard part? Rex, his bondmate, was supposed to be in full flame when Tristan landed.
It didn’t get much worse than being a Phoenix Rider who was afraid of fire.
Maybe, Tristan thought darkly, fighting to keep his legs from trembling, being afraid of heights would be worse. Maybe.
Logically, Tristan knew that, at least when it came to his bondmate’s fire, he couldn’t be harmed—their bond protected him. An animage bonded to a phoenix had a higher tolerance to all fire, though Tristan had yet to test the theory. Would never ever test the theory.
He squeezed his eyes shut. Focus.
Rex’s fire couldn’t harm him—that was what mattered. When an animage and a phoenix bonded, their magic intertwined, and their beings became inextricably linked. Emotions and internal sensations were shared, so that when Tristan felt angry or scared, Rex did too. The same was true of certain abilities. Rex’s immunity to fire extended to Tristan, and likewise, Tristan’s use of language and communication expanded the phoenix’s mind beyond what it would become on its own.
Tristan repeated the reassurances over and over in his head, trying to bury his fear in facts and centuries-old knowledge, but it never worked. Fear, he’d learned, didn’t leave room for logic. It didn’t leave room for much of anything, except mistakes.
Fear is a luxury.
It was one of his father’s favorite maxims, lifted from some ancient bit of Pyraean poetry. When Tristan thought about luxury, he imagined fine silks, expensive Arborian honey wine, and gilded furniture. Not a ridiculous fear of fire. But he supposed that while he couldn’t afford those luxuries—not anymore—he could afford his fear even less.
Rex would try to help, of course, but while their bond would make it easier to time the landing, Rex couldn’t very well stop in midair if Tristan’s muscles refused to make the leap. All their bond would do then was allow Rex to feel Tristan’s terror before he plummeted to his death.
Calm as the mountain, he told himself, repeating one of the phrases his mother used when he was angry or sullen as a child. She would tell him to look up at Pyrmont and imagine himself as stone, still and quiet and unchanging. He tried it now, pressing his feet into the steady, solid ground beneath him.