Ch. 21

“Wynorrific”

It is wet. What is wet?

Am I wet? Maybe. I feel soaked through — sticky, too. Sticky…why am I sticky?

My eyes flutter, but everything is a blur. My muscles twitch. There’s this dull, pulsing pain crawling down my neck, through my shoulders, and settling like a stone in my back. No, everywhere. It is everywhere, and it hurts.

What happened?

The cold from the rain trickles across my skin, not coming close to the ice that still flows just beneath my flesh, but there is a tacky layer on my skin that makes my skin crawl, and unsettles me the most. Something sticky.

I blink hard, raising my arms to shield my face. A pounding headache hits, and the dizziness sways me — each pulse sending the world tilting like a ship in a raging storm. I don’t think I have ever passed out this many times in such a brief span. Each muscle feels like it was being crushed under an unseen weight, a chorus of sharp stabs echoing through my limbs as if they were pleading for relief. The faint light fills my vision, too bright after the blackness I just came from. Each time it hits my eyes, the pain in my head flares, a sharp, unrelenting throb.

I squint against the light, struggling to focus. As my eyes adjusted, I become aware of the cramped space around me — the canvas walls sagging slightly with each gust of wind, the freshness of rain falling, the scent of damp earth mingling with the sharp tang of metal. The entrance must be behind me, because that stupid bright light creeping in cuts across the wall in front of me.

Daytime. The sun is up.

Outside, I hear the soft patter of rain against the tarp, and just as I begin to gather my bearings, a face appears upside down, leaning over me.

“Hello, sleepyhead…”

That voice.

“I’ve been waiting for you to wake up.”

A pause.

“Took you long enough.”

The snarky voice fills my soul, wrapping around me like a long-lost friend. It is a voice that has drilled into me, laughed with me, and now, it is a voice I am incredibly relieved to hear. Right now, at least — not when it is barking, twenty more push-ups! first thing in the morning.

Her short, wine-colored hair falls around her face as she tilts her head toward me. The cleanly shaved sides of her head reveal intricate swirls of tattoos, flowing past her neck and cascading down her body, embracing every curve like living art. A rare smile graces her lips — an expression I rarely see. Usually, it is just a distant stare, her cold, steel-colored eyes locked in place, but now those same eyes soften as they meet mine.

A smile tugs at my lips, stretching past my teeth to meet hers. I try to sit up, but the moment I move, a jolt of agony lances through my neck, forcing me back down with a heavy thud.

“Princess, quit moving.” Her voice snaps, sharp and commanding, her warm smile vanishing in an instant — fading like a flickering candle, leaving a cool wave in its wake as she turns to me, her expression hardening with concern. “You’re covered in blood — and some of it is yours.” The sternness returns full force as she barks out orders. “Someone, get Gaelira!” she shouts toward the tent’s entrance, her voice carrying authority.

As her fingers touch my shoulder, I flinch, a wave of soreness radiating from the contact, making me bite back a groan. Every part of me aches, a dull reminder of my vague past couple of days. The weight of my aching body pressing down, each breath flaring up a wave of pain that pulses through me, recalling flashes of chaos that I am struggling to piece together. The hand on my shoulder tightens, she knows I will try to move again if she doesn’t keep me grounded. With a slow, deliberate motion, she shifts to sit beside me, her presence steadying me more than her hand ever could.

“I waited until you were fully awake to start any healing. I know how you get — might throw some hateful words my way or even rocks,” she says, a teasing smile tugs at her lips once more.

“Who says I still won’t…” I throw her a sideways glance. “And don’t call me that…” My voice comes out raspy, barely a whisper. Every part of me is wet and sticky, but my mouth feels like the ash of a long-extinguished fire. I need water.

I get only a stern look in return, her gray eyes cutting through my soul. Just beyond the thin fabric of the tent, muffled voices murmur, the distinct cadence of scouts mingling with the clanking of metal — guards, no doubt. Mother likely commanded them to accompany my snarky-toned friend, anticipating they would have to drag me back kicking and screaming. And honestly, they still might have to.

Halfy is next to me, and I didn’t realize it at first — Goddess Nyx, I must have been out of it. My cot rests on the ground, and Halfy’s paw press gently into my side, as if checking to make sure I am still breathing. My guardian beast. I adore him. I reach out to pet the sides of his paws, feeling the warmth beneath my fingers. His ears are angled back, listening intently to the world outside. Always on guard, even among those sworn to protect me.

But I doubt the mumbles from the others outside the tent are about Halfy. Despite his fearsome presence, he is a familiar sight within the castle walls for the scouts and guards. There is something else capturing their attention, something more noteworthy than their wounded princess lying on the ground, bloodied. That sight isn’t new — though perhaps not to this extent — and usually, it’s not my own blood in the mix. No, it is definitely something else.

The light shining on the wall in front of me dims, casting a creeping shadow across the tent’s fabric. A chill runs down my bruised spine as my snarky friend looks up quickly — her eyes narrow ever so slightly before her calm facade returns. She turns to meet the figure entering the tent, and I can’t shake the feeling that something is off. A piece of fabric, dripping ominously, is handed to my friend. I hear a dull thud of a bucket hitting the hard earth outside, followed by the unsettling sound of water splattering against the tent walls.

My friend places the damp fabric on my neck, applying pressure. A small yelp escapes me through clenched teeth, a sound I can’t suppress. Betrayed by the touch. As the fabric presses against my skin, I feel a sharp, prickling sensation spreading like tiny needles down my spine, an unwelcome reminder of my vulnerability.

The figure’s feet shift, the crunch of dirt beneath them breaking the tense silence. I glance past my snarky friend, past her firm gaze that fixates on the wound I assume is from my last encounter. Bits and pieces of my last few days trickling into my mind. Though I take the forms of other creatures, my true form is still the body that bears the scars of my battles.

I notice a shadow move across the tent wall, and his scent floods the small space — fucking mint, tinged with pine, but no trace of sweat. It hits me like a wave, reminding me of the mortal man who had once been a vampire. The whispers outside grow louder, their attention drawn to him. Memories flood back, fighting the Balaur and the Samca, the desperate escape from the castle walls that imprisoned me. And there it was again, that minty smell — a haunting reminder of the baggage I have added.

I recall our encounters — the way shadows moved from him the first night we met, the sly glint in his flaming cerulean eyes, and his subtle tells that most would miss. I despise his mocking, nonchalant demeanor, yet I find my eyes wandering to his presence against my better judgment. That minty smell lingers just on the edge of my nose.

The man moves past my friend to the corner of the tent opposite of us, settling into a small chair, his sharp face peeking curiously from behind my friend’s shoulders. Faint drops of rainwater cling to his brow, a storm still falling outside. He is dressed in a ragged scout’s attire — an ill-fitted shirt beneath a tunic, and dark pants that do little to hide the fact he still can get under my skin, annoyingly so. His dark mahogany hair, once disheveled, is now brushed back, though it still conveniently obscures his ears. A single braid snakes down his temple. It seems someone took the time to clean themselves up, and I can’t help but roll my eyes at the effort.

Annoyance bubbles under my skin, prickling, but it is more than just irritation. A sharp twist coils in my chest, spreading like wildfire through my icy veins. It’s a quiet rage, simmering, every second with him fanning the flames.

His eyes, sharp and knowing, hold something beneath his surface, a pull that unsettles me. I want to scream at him, but why does his smugness make my pulse quicken? As if every glance from him scratches at something buried deep, a part of me I am not sure I even want to face. The last thing I want is to be drawn to him, yet there is something infuriatingly alluring about the way he carries himself, the way he seems so effortlessly at ease while I am a tangled, beaten mess.

He shifts slightly in his chair, casually adjusting the sleeve of his shirt, but there is a tension in his shoulders that betrays his calm exterior. As I grumble under my breath, I catch him tilting his head just a fraction, as if he is tuning in to my quiet irritation. His lips curve into a small, knowing smirk that makes my stomach twist, and for a moment, I wonder if he is truly oblivious or just playing the part. He leans back, his gaze drifting lazily toward me, yet there is an intensity in his flaming eyes that suggests he is absorbing every word I don’t say. It is infuriating and oddly magnetic, and I can’t decide if I want to throw at something at him or not. Where is a rock when you need one?

Just as my annoyance solidifies, a hint of understanding moves in his fiery cerulean eyes — like he knows exactly what I am thinking. I am surprised he was not locked up by the guards yet.

Zanir’s face peeks around my friend once more, finding my lavender eyes. A smirk moves across his fangless mouth. His eyes narrow as he moves down my friend’s body before glancing back at me. The flame dies in his eyes, only the cerulean blue swirls in his irises, and for a heartbeat, something flickers behind his smirk, but it vanishes before I can read more into it.

Come to think about it, I have never seen my friend with a man, she prefers women, but that is none of his business. Plus, I am not letting him anywhere near my friend — like that.

I run my index finger across my throat and stick my tongue out, shooting him a disdainful look as if I could freeze him on the spot — which, I mean, I could. But I can feel someone else’s eyes on me, sharper than anything look I could manage. My friend’s stare cuts through me like daggers. It is like she is mentally cataloging my every move.

Our eyes meet.

“Making new friends?” She whispers, and the smallest hint of teasing in her voice.

“Absolutely not, Devlyn.” I scoff, my voice spiked with mocking indignation.

Zanir returns the noise with a scowl, though a smirk plays at the corners of his mouth, as if he is amused by the entire exchange.

I wouldn’t go as far as to call us friends, or even acquaintances. Goddess Nyx, I only need information to prove my value to the clan, to Mother, and this, mortal vampire, may hold something that may help me do that, so unfortunately, he is essential for that. He might also provide some insight about vampires in general that we could use. He mentioned there was more than one vampiric clan in the Endless Forest. What other information does he have that we do not have? Such as information about the changes occurring within the forest, and why its creatures are changing and being bound — all while being a smart-ass the whole time. The same smart ass who threatened to eat me before I took all his powers — let’s not forget that. Just your typical two powerful strangers, really.

I blink my lavender eyes twice at Devlyn — our code for later. I’ll tell her everything… well, maybe not everything.

—

Devlyn’s voice is steady as she recounts how they found me unconscious beside this man, my body covered in blood. “When we got here, it was a scene,” she says, her eyes narrowing at Zanir. “You were out cold, and he was sitting over you.” The tension in the air is palpable as she continues, “We had no idea what transpired, why you were in such a state, or how he ended up here with you.” She glances to Halfy, who still sits beside me, and then she turns back to me. “We didn’t take him into custody because, honestly, given that Halfy hadn’t dragged into the lake, or left pieces of him for us to find… I assumed him to be harmless.” Devlyn starts wiping an area around my neck, her expression focused. “Besides, he was trying to stop the bleeding.”

The fabric is trying its hardest to absorb all the redness that has stained my skin, and as it does, images flood my brain. I see the Samca being dragged by Halfy into the lake, its memories of screaming children — a boy in particular — haunting me with eerily familiarity. Then comes the vision of the Samca screaming as I ripped out its throat, followed by the Balaur’s blood raining down over me from where its head once sat. I can almost hear the Balaur’s roar beneath the water, bubbles rising to the surface, and the taste of the buck’s flesh against my fangs, the sickening snap of its neck echoing in my mind. My head begins to throb once again, all the chaos that has unfolded. To say the least, I had a long night is an understatement.

Devlyn notices me wince and moves the fabric to a different spot. “We heard you, and came as fast as we could.”

Devlyn is one of the select few who knows of all my powers. She is Mother’s right hand — her second in command, leader of the scouts, and her most trusted ally. But she is also my friend, the one who would stick up for me, sometimes making my warded time outs not as long as intended.

I doubt she has realized yet that the man in question is actually a 300-hundred-year-old vampire who can control shadows and who knows what else… well, not now. Or that I followed him into the night, only to later strip him of all his powers, leaving him his mortal husk. We are only putting up with each other for now because I plan to make him divulge all his juicy secrets. I hope to claim some worth within the clan and in Mother’s eyes, while he probably just wants his powers back.

“Although, Iamys shot before we got too close…” Devlyn says, rolling her eyes as if it were the most predictable thing in the world. “Always acts before the command.”

“Harmless is a little harsh, by the way. But that is thanks to your Princess,” Zanir finally quips, a smirk playing on his lips as he stands behind Devlyn now. His face is illuminated by the light from the tent entrances, and the scar along his jaw shines. I can’t help but wonder, what it must feel like to have the sun on his face after so long without it.

Zanir glances up at the light filtering through the entrance, a wistful look crossing his features before his cerulean eyes find mine, he leans closer to us, and I catch the sight of a deep gash across his neck. His shoulders brush the canvas of the wall of the tent behind me, sending a ripple through the fabric as his shadow looms over head.

“He has good aim,” he remarks, gesturing to the fabric Devlyn removes from my neck and hands to him. I noticed his eyes linger on the fabric as his jaw ticks. He then strides over the bucket, the sound of water sloshing against the side echoing in the small space. “Doesn’t he, Princess?”

I hate the word, Princess and all that it suggests. I am more than just a title someone else gave me. I can shift into anything within my mind, control the fire, the wind, and the ice in my soul, and unleash a beast of true power — fucking Goddess Nyx, I am so much more than just a princess.

Yet here I am, in this small tent, feeling the weight of that title like a shackle. I shoot Zanir a glare, willing him to see the truth behind the facade because he has seen what I truly can be. He may call me Princess, but deep down, I know I am a force to be reckoned with, even if he can’t fully grasp it... yet.

“Did I threaten to eat you like a snack, like you did?” I snap, my irritation bubbling up. It is almost amusing to hear Devlyn call him harmless, as if she doesn’t already suspect I am the reason he is, in fact, harmless. The title of Princess irks me though, and Zanir has quickly found that out, but it is my actions that turned him into a mere shadow of his former self. Don’t forget it.

“For someone who keeps stumbling into danger, you' have managed to survive a lot,” Zanir says. His eyes meet my glare with an infuriatingly calm expression as he rinses the fabric in the bucket below him. He shakes his head slightly, a dismissive gesture that sends an unexpected chill down my spine. There is something off in the air between us, an undercurrent I can’t quite place.

How can he be so calm, so controlled? He had his powers stripped, he was shot at, and now he is surrounded by the toughest of my clan, yet still, he is nonchalant. So unbothered on the outside. I hate how he does that, but I can’t shake the odd draw I feel toward Zanir, as if our thoughts might be brushing against each other, or my face is just that easy to read — revealing more than I intend. Before I can dwell on it, a woman enters the tent.

“Lady Mihaela,” she says, quickly moving past Zanir. She nearly presses herself against the tent wall to get into our view before bowing deeply before me.

Not an ordinary woman. Her ears taper to sharp points, and she stands taller than many in our clan, even some guards. Her features are crisper and more defined. Long, flowing red hair cascades around her bright green eyes, and her pale skin glows even in the dim light of the tent. A satchel adorned with numerous pockets hangs at her side, brimming with herbs, leaves and twigs.

Gaelira.

Once a resident of the high fae lands within the luminous borders of Naflary, Gaelira’s reasons for leaving remain a mystery to most, as does her motivation for coming to Adros. Mother is welcoming to many kinds and is always seeking skilled healers to tend to the scouts and guards. As a high fae, Gaelira possesses powers beyond the ordinary healer. Her healing abilities exceed those of your average potion or salve. She swiftly kneels beside Devlyn, her gaze sweeping over me as she assesses the damage. Goddess Nyx, I must look like a shipwreck.

“Is there anything you need?” Devlyn asks.

“Lady Mihaela usually heals quickly on her own, but this may require some…” She pauses, her eyes moving to Zanir, a hint of something flashing in her eyes as they widen before she can mask it. Her forest green eyes lingering on him, searching for something, and that something slipped, a knowledge not meant for this moment. “Bandaging and stronger healing salves. I will need to gather supplies from the other healers.” Gaelira glances at Devlyn, who simply nods in agreement. With a slight smile, she bows her head and steps back toward the entrance. Her head sways to Zanir, who is now standing, and her eyes burrow into his placid presence, knowing something well out of my grasp. She quickly leaves the tent, but as she turns outside the entrance, I can see her hands shaking.

I watch Zanir, looking for anything that resembles the look that Gaelira just had, but there is nothing — just the normal overall calm, annoying way about him.

The voices of the scouts and guards swell, rising in a chaotic buzz, as if something significant is stirring outside.

“Sounds like you brought some friend, Devlyn.” I wince, pushing myself into a sitting position on the cot.