Ch. 22

“Companions”

The steady patter of rain still drums softly against the canvas of the tent, its rhythm moving through the air, leaving a residue on the inside walls. My mouth suddenly feels unbearably dry. Water would be nice right about now.

Devlyn’s hand gently squeezes my shoulder as she helps me sit up fully. Halfy shifts beside me, his paws still needing to touch me now press lightly against my legs. I am glad Devlyn was the one who was sent to find me. Despite how her presence sometimes made me want to crawl out of my skin — in a strange, comforting way — like an older sibling. I look up to her, and I never want her to see me fail. At least she was someone I can deal with. I couldn’t imagine some high-ranking scout or guard barging up to me, lecturing me about how terrible I am, and how dare I leave… blah, blah, blah.

The tent flap rustles in the breeze, and before I can get lost further in my thoughts, a voice cuts through my haze.

“I need to take lessons from whatever did that to you because you still kick my ass during spar training sometimes.” The voice quips, his brown tawny eyes glinting with a smug grin.

And, of course, he would be the one stirring up a commotion outside. His voice seems deeper than I remember, though it is only been… what? A week since I last saw him? Wait, maybe, two weeks? No… one. Shit, I can’t remember. I try to twist toward him, wince.

“Stop moving,” he laughs, pushing a canteen toward me. The sloshing inside is like music to my ears — delicious flowing water. My fingers fumble to take it, and the first sip is nothing short of bliss. Cool and crisp, it soothes the dryness in my throat, washing away the tightness. Relief floods through me, and for a moment, everything else fades.

His laughter grows as the water coats my throat. I glance up to see his sunlit blonde hair, as bright as the sun itself. He still looks like a kid — though I know he is almost eighteen. The day should be getting close if he was allowed to join the scouts in retrieving their disobedient Princess.

As his laughter falls, my eyes drift to Zanir, who walks past our new occupant to this small tent. The tension between them is always tangible, thick enough to cut both of them. Zanir moves smoothly around the young man, navigating his way through the small tent, feigning indifference.

I guess that gash on Zanir’s neck may have hurt his feelings — good.

I can see Zanir’s eyes dart toward me, assessing as he strides over, offering the damp cloth again. As I reach for the cloth, I catch a glimpse of the faint line of my tattoos beneath the dried blood. The Samca tattoo, a twisted reminder of my encounter, is obscured but ever-present — its sunken eyes haunting my thoughts, echoing the words it spoke. I can’t shake the feeling that it knew something about me that I still don’t know. A shiver moves down my spine, and when I look up at Zanir, he is gazing at me with that exposing stare that I hate.

I yank the fabric from, careful to avoid our fingers touching. Not dealing with that again. I press the cloth to my skin, scrubbing at the blood with more force than necessary. It clings to me like a second skin, the rich, metallic scent filling my nose, and with it the familiar stir. A dark, primal pulse that beats beneath my surface. My breath hitches as I scrub harder. I need it off. Now. Every drop of this cursed blood. The more it lingers, the more it awakens something deep within me — something hungry. Something that needs to be buried even deeper.

From the corner of my eye, Zanir retreats to the chair, his posture relaxed but his attention too sharp. His eyes skim past the young man, disinterested, but then they flick back at me, lingering on every movement as I scrub at the blood. The more desperate I become, the more focused his gaze grows.

I catch his eyes, and my pulse stumbles. His expression remains indifferent, but there is something in the way his lips twitch. I scowl, trying to shake the discomfort, but the weight of his attention presses in on me, too heavy, too precise. Like he knows exactly what I am trying to erase from my skin.

Devlyn casually glances between Zanir and me, an amused eyebrow raised. “Careful there, or you’re going to wipe your skin off,” she remarks, her tone teasing yet with an edged concern. She outstretches her hand to me, a silent demand to hand over the red soak vice I am putting all my frustration into.

Not wanting to linger under her knowing gaze — or worse, Zanir’s stare — I force a smirk and shift the conversation. “It was a Balaur, Iamys…Let me know how those lessons go. I’d love to watch.” I say, quickly turning to the young man before me, Iamys, anything to break me away from the weight of Devlyn and Zanir’s eyes as my teeth grind together.

I stay sitting, every muscle in my body trembles from any movement. If I stood, I might just fall on my face. I hand Iamys back his now—empty canteen, finally lifting my eyes to meet Iamys, the boy I have always seen as the younger sibling I never had. His deep brown eyes are wide, his mouth slightly agape.

“A water dragon? A three-headed water dragon? Before any of us? Before me?” Iamys glances at Devlyn, then at the person standing to his left, someone I hadn’t noticed until now. But that was the point — that is his job. To go unnoticed, to remain in the background while gathering information. It is almost absurd, considering he is basically a walking fortress. Seriously, this man is massive.

The man next to Iamys, has dark skin, with long, meticulously braided onyx hair that flows down his back. His guard leathers cling to his solid frame, two daggers strapped to his hips and a long sword slung across his shoulders — the hilt just barely peeking behind him. I doubt I could even lift that thing off the ground. His hazel eyes flick over me, then shift to Zanir, narrowing with a hint of suspicion.

Devlyn smiles, her cheeks pushing against her steel eyes. “Iamys, Sadar, and I have fought more dragons than you can count — among other things. We even fought alongside the dragon riders of Uscia in the last great war.”

That is a story I’ll need to ask about later. Sometimes I forget how much older they are compared to Iamys — or even me. That last war I read about was over four hundred years ago. We all have stories… thought theirs might be a bit more legendary than counting cracks in the castle walls.

Sadar, his gaze still focused ahead at Zanir, arms crossed and posture unyielding. I see Sadar’s nostrils flare almost imperceptibly, his sharp hazel eyes narrowing for just a fraction of a second. It is subtle, a shift in the air, but it catches my attention. He tilts his head slightly, inhaling deeper this time, the muscles along his jawline tightening. Something is… off.

It is strange. Something has his attention.

My fingers pause mid-wipe, and I narrow my eyes, watching him closely. His face hardens, just for a split second, before he glances back at Zanir, his eyes sharper, calculating. Whatever it is, it’s making Sadar’s usual calm veneer slip. His jaw clenches, and he turns ever so slightly in my direction, his gaze flickering to me. It is quick, almost like he is searching for something in my expression, but I don’t know what.

Does he sense something?

A faint tension lingers in the cramped small space. Sadar looks back at Zanir, but now his posture is different, less causal, more alert. Something about the way he stiffened makes my stomach churn, though I can’t place why. I glance at Zanir, who seems unbothered, but I feel like I am missing a piece of this grand puzzle.

Sadar’s gaze flickers back to Zanir for a fraction of a second before his attention shifts again — this time, briefly, toward me. He must have noticed my eyes on him, the way I have been tracking his subtle changes. His posture remains unyielding, but there is a new edge in the moist rain-filled air, almost like he is aware that I have caught on to something.

But just as quickly as the tension sparked, it fizzles. His face smooths into its usual stony expression, his tone flat and unaffected, as if the brief moment of tension between us never happened. “Might want to keep the metaphors simple, Devlyn. Iamys might not be able to count that high,” Sadar says, delivering the jab with all the emotion of someone going through the motions. Not a twitch of a smile or a glance at Iamys, despite the boy’s offended huff. Absolute indifference.

Sadar’s words land with the precision of a well-aimed dagger. Iamys shifts his weight, arms tightening across his chest as his jaw clenches. He is trying to brush off the insult, but the furrow of his brow and that gleam of irritation that I know so well are clear. Sadar’s jab hit a mark.

But I can’t help the feeling that Sadar is trying to push the conversation back to where it was, back to Iamys. Away from what just happened. Away from me.

But I know I saw something.

Iamys will not let this jab slide easily. He shoots a look up at the giant man next to him, his grin twitching at the edges.

“I don’t know Sadar. Maybe you’re just afraid to smile because you don’t want to crack that pretty face of yours,” Iamys quips, voice light, though there is a trace of challenge behind it. He is fully aware of the risk of poking fun at someone who could toss him across the tent with a small flick of the wrist, but that is part of the game. And besides, Iamys never backs down from a challenge. That is why he and I get along so well.

Sadar remains stone-faced, but there is the slightest twitch in his cheek, a tell I know I am getting better at spotting. No response — just the same unreadable stare from those sharp hazel eyes. Iamys takes that as a small victory.

Feeling the sting of Sadar’s earlier words most dull a bit because Iamys crosses his arms with more confidence, raising an eyebrow. “How do they even train creatures like dragons, anyway? They could bite your head off whenever they feel like it.” The previous jab lingers in the air as Iamys tries to draw attention back to something more impressive — dragons and danger. A boy after my own heart.

Although Sadar barely reacted to Iamys’ jab, there was a flicker of something behind those hazel eyes — a slight acknowledgment of the younger man’s attempt to push back. Instead of rising to the bait, Sadar lets the silence stretch just long enough to make Iamys shift every so slightly.

“It’s all about give and take, Iams,” Sadar’s voice sounds against the silence of rain pattering outside. His tone is calm, though there is a glint of dry humor that we all know and love. He looks down at Iamys, towering over him with an almost casual dominance. “Halfy is trained and would probably still take your small head without a second thought.”

I readjust myself, wincing as I roll my shoulders and feel the sting of my wounds, lesser than before. The air in the tent is thick with camaraderie, despite the blood caked on my skin, and I can’t help but relish in the bickering. Halfy grumbles beside me, probably in disagreement — not about Iamy’s small head, but about the notion of training dangerous creatures.

“Have any of you fought a dragon, as that same dragon?” I chime in, my voice dripping with mock condescension. Bragging rights are a rare treat, and crushing dreams one friend at a time is always satisfying.

Sadar and Iamys are in a stare-down that we already know the winner of, my words not registering with them yet. I can’t help as my mind wanders like it usually does. I start to reflect on the unique abilities that we share in one shape or form. Most shifters, as we call ourselves, within the clan, can only shift into one or two forms. In contrast, Mother and I can transform into anything we’ve studied, witnessed, or experienced. We also possess what we call our true beast — the feral inner beast, Kiza. It is a privilege tinged with a hint of mystery, especially considering my unknown family history that seems to be locked away, a topic Mother avoids as deftly as she handles a blade. Shifters are unique in this world, and I am even more of an anomaly even among them.

As laughter and playful jabs bounce around the tent, I glance at Devlyn, her stern look returns as she says something about Sadar and Iamys better cut the boar shit.

Devlyn, is a puzzle in her own right. She has never shared her full background or history, leaving me to wonder about the mix of blood in her veins. Something magical and powerful, I’m sure, but also something that feels dangerously intimidating. If looks could kill, they were made from Devlyn. I would bet be some of her glares only have taken down more than a few foes.

Devlyn possesses the rare ability to shift into creatures she has slain, a skill rooted in some blood connection. The sheer amount of blood that has touched her skin is probably infinite, and I know she could transform into anything — perhaps even a dragon — if she chose to. Yet, she prefers the deadliness of a weapon in her hands, honing her skills rather than relying on her shapeshifting abilities.

Devlyn lets out a sharp laugh, her gaze cutting to Sadar as if daring him to challenge her. My eyes wander away from her lethal focus and land on Iamys, who is now swatting at Sadar’s arm after one of his sarcastic remarks. Iamys’ reactions are always so animated, a harsh contrast to Sadar’s quiet strength. The boy still hasn’t grown to his full potential, though he’d argue otherwise.

Iamys is special, in his own reckless way, and still so young. Only ten years younger than me, but mentally? Sometimes it feels like a lifetime. His father serves in the scout legion, a shifter like the rest of us, while his mother — a human — works among the castle’s handmaidens. They only arrived at the clan a few years ago, though it feels longer given how much of a pain he has been since day one.

Unlike Devlyn or me, Iamys can only shift into one creature, but it’s impressive — a lion, much like the ones that roam the Zis mountain ranges. His lion’s fur isn’t the usual tan or brown, no, it is the same golden shade of his hair, as if his form reflects his personality, all light and untamed energy. He can also shift into inanimate objects like chairs or candles, which is as unique as it is annoying — especially when your relationship is more like that of an older sister and her bratty younger brother.

As I glance up, I catch Sadar watching Iamys with that unreadable expression he always wears. It is hard to tell what goes on behind those sharp hazel eyes, but if anyone has earned Iamys’ admiration, it is him. Stoic, deliberate, and built like a mountain, Sadar hardly ever cracks, even during moments like these, when the rest of us are bantering. He is the kind of man you don’t want to cross, but you can’t help but respect.

It makes sense, though. Sadar isn’t just any shifter — he is a Varcolac. A pureblooded werewolf, different from the rest of us in more ways than one. His strength, his silence, it all stems from his brutal history. He fled his clan when the purebloods, his own family, began slaughtering halfblood and the turned to purge the diluted bloodlines. He had no choice but to survive alone, hiding in human villages, though how someone like him ever hid is beyond me. Towering over everyone else, human or otherwise, Sadar is hard to miss.

My friend’s stories are just a few of the many in our clan. Mother always praises that we are open to all kinds — shifters, humans, and even other creatures. It is one of the reasons she took Sadar in, offering him refuge from his past. I have even seen a few trolls wandering around outside my window before, just to remind me how broad our reach is. All shapes, sizes, and forms are welcome here. No orges yet, though. A shame, really.

I’m pulled from my thoughts by the weight of their eyes. All of them — Devlyn, Sadar, Iamys — even Zanir — waiting for me to break the silence that has engulfed every corner of this small tent. Waiting for the story they know I have been holding back. My skin, still stained red with dragon and my blood, feels raw under their scrutiny.

Devlyn’s eyes meet Sadar’s, something unspoken passing between them, a subtle change in the air that I can almost feel. There are no words exchanged, no overt sign, but the way their gazes lock, just for a second too long, suggests more than indifference. It is as if they’re drawing a silent conclusion, a shared understanding that I am not privy to. Then, slowly, their eyes move in unison, settling back on me.

Even Zanir, his cerulean eyes sharp as ever, is watching me closely. His index finger traces along his temple, brushing against the braid there, while his thumb rests thoughtfully against his mouth. Studying me. That familiar, unwelcoming, exposed feeling creeps up my spine. Under the weight of their collective stares, I feel stripped bare, as though every secret, even the ones I don’t remember, are already out in the open.

Iamys moves in his spot and gives a casual shrug, breaking the tension with a teasing grin. “So… are you going to explain how you ended up fighting a dragon? And, while you’re at it, who’s your brooding tree stalk of a friend over there?” He jerks his chin toward Zanir, adding fuel to the unspoken questions I left hanging between us.

Iamys’ question hovers in the air, but instead of answering right away, I try to move — just a little. My body protests immediately, a reminder of the wounds and bruises I have collected. I stretch my arms, slowly, carefully, but the ache runs deep. Every muscle feels like it is been through a forge. Needing something, anything to distract me from their stares.

My gaze drifts around the tent, searching for something. Where is Gaelira? I need something, anything, to distract me. My fingers clench the edge of my torn sleeve, grasping for control. I fight the urge to bite the inside of my cheeks.

Why do I do this to myself? I think, trying to push through the soreness. I look down at myself, bruised and blood-stained. My bruises are turning to a deep purple with yellow edges. My meat suit has certainly seen better days. I look down at my more than worn-out mortal meat suit. I stretch, or at least try to, every muscle screams. My tunic is long gone, my shirt is shredded into what is barely covering the essentials, stained in more red than I would like. I trace a finger along the clotted blood streaking my neck and shoulders, feeling the fresh row of teeth marks. Great, another scar to add to the collection.

I can still feel their eyes on me, watching my every move, every wince. It is like they are still all waiting for a grand story while I am deep down still trying to just hold myself together. I turn, trying to sit up straight, but my shoulders protest — a hard, unforgiving no. “Let’s just say the Balaur left with one working head,” I mutter, glancing around, avoiding every one of their stares. “One was barely hanging on by a few ligaments, and the other is resting at the bottom of the lake.” I can feel the weight of their eyes, and I can’t tell if it is awe or concern — probably both.

The silence thickens, their stares pressing in on me. It is as if the air between us is shrinking, forcing me to meet their eyes one by one, no escape.

My causal description of slaying a Balaur has caused Iamys mouth flopping, and if it could reach the floor, it would be there, no question. But it is Sadar, ever the responsible one, who pulls the conversation back to the important parts. Party pooper. He changes his stance, his arms tighten across his chest like he is about to start a lecture, his hazel eyes narrowing at me in that no-nonsense way of his. My moment of glory, shattered. Typical.

“What was a Balaur doing in a lake in the Endless Forest? And not along the coastline or, I don’t know… out at sea?” Sadar’s voice is as stiff as his posture, every word sharp and calculated. He doesn’t even blink, like he is drilling me for details, completely ignoring the epic part of the story. Classic Sadar — focused, emotionless. Like I said, party pooper.

Sadar’s intense gaze was locked on me, but before I could even attempt to come up with something witty, Zanir’s voice slides through the tension like a breeze moving out of smoke. Everyone freezes, the weight of his words thick — except for him.

“Because it was bound.”

He stretches his arms behind his head, casually leaning back as though this is the least interesting thing he has said today. His fingers weave lazily through his dark hair, playing with the ends of his shoulder-length hair absentmindedly.

“The Balaur and the Samca.” He pauses, his eyes leisurely drifting toward me, “Which you should ask your Princess about that,” he adds, like we are discussing what the market is selling instead of creatures that could tear us apart.

Zanir — unfazed, nonchalant, as if the world could fall apart around him, and he would still just smirk. I hate it. How can he be so unbothered?

Zanir’s arrogance for a split second makes me second guess if I truly took his powers from him. I felt it leave me, absorbing into him, stripping him of his powers, eating through everything he once was. But there is nothing. No hum, no bitter scent — just mint and pine.

Calm. Deceptive. Annoying.

Zanir doesn’t even look at me, which is a first, but his fingers play with his single braid, almost idly, as if the conversation is beneath him. My pulse quickens, and a cold pricks my fingertips. He can’t still have his powers… No, he couldn’t.

Zanir’s hands fall to his lap, almost in sync with my thoughts. My heart races, a mix of anxiety and something else, something primal, tinged with disbelief. His indifference feels too well-timed, but maybe I am imagining it. As if he senses my turmoil, he shifts slightly in his chair, the corners of his mouth quirking up.

My mind is already spiraling out of control. He knew about the bindings…was that why he was seeking out Muma Padurii?

“How’s your neck?” Iamys’ voice slices through like a blade, cutting my spiraling thoughts, no longer playful, but sharp and protective. His fists clenched into fists at his side, posture stiff, bow and quiver click together on his back. I blink, pulled out of my mental spiral, the dull ache in my neck suddenly flaring as if on cue. Iamys brown eyes aren’t on me, though — they’re fixed viciously on Zanir.

The tension between them is thick, thicker than the scent of blood on my skin.

“It’ll heal. Good thing I’m more than just a charming face and neck,” Zanir says, his words saturated with disregard as he finally meets Iamys’ glare, a smirk pulling at the corner of his lips. Despite the subtle fierceness now mirrored in his gaze, his posture remains casual, as if this confrontation was another game to him.

Two egotistic males in one tent — one very small tent. I turn slightly on the cot, the tension pressing in on me from both sides. Everyone’s eyes move to the movement, heavy with questions they haven’t voiced yet. I know they want to ask why I left, why I ran away, more than the annoying man sitting in a chair across from me.

My gaze moves to Zanir, annoyingly so his presence is a convenient distraction. Better to introduce the wildcard before anyone has the chance to pry on the questions I know are on everyone’s lips. Why did you leave Mihaela? Why didn’t you tell us Mihaela? We can help… and that bothers me more than the beast inside. I am deliberate with how much I want to say — how little, really — but before I can even speak, Zanir moves in his chair, again leaning back with that infuriating air of knowing. His arms cross, no longer playing with that stupid braid. His lips twitch like he is already amused by what I haven’t said yet. At least Halfy doesn’t seem to care as his large snout rests next to my legs. At least I don’t have to worry about this male.

I sigh, glancing at the others. “In case anyone is wondering how we crossed paths, Zanir here, decided to ruin my well-earned retreat from the castle. I had finally found a piece of the world where no one could bother me — far from the castle — and what does Zanir do? Lures a mortal-eating Samca straight to my camp.”

Zanir’s eyebrows arch, and that infuriating smirk reappears. “Retreat? Is that what you call a forest full of naughty, hungry creatures?” He gives a slow, deliberate shrug, his eyes gleaming with that stupid calm of his. “Besides, you followed me.”

I glare at him, refusing to let him rewrite or choose this story. “Everyone, this is Zanir,” I say, before he can make another remark. “Let’s just say he decided to mess with the wrong person and is tagging along to see if Mother can help him retrieve something he lost… but he’ll have to prove himself first.”

Zanir leans forward slightly, that nonchalant attitude radiating off him. “Prove myself?” he muses, the corners of his lips pushing further upward. “I look forward to it. Honestly, all of this has been a highlight for me. Especially you, Princess. You have a knack for making even the direst situation… entertaining.” He meets my look with a slow curl of his lips, as if none of this is serious to him.

I want to punch him. The way his eyes dance with mischief as a scowl leaves my lips.

I can’t help but feel the weight of his words, but beneath his playful demeanor, there’s a tension in the air. It is as if the atmosphere is thickening around us, something unsaid hanging in the humid air the surrounds us.

My attention to draw elsewhere, Sadar, who has shifted his weight between his boots. His expression unreadable, but his hazel eyes are cutting. He seems to sense something beneath Zanir’s bravado, a current danger.

I shake my head. This is just a big game isn’t it?

Sadar exchanges a knowing glance with Devlyn, their silent communication makes me feel like I am at the castle again, always out of loop and left behind walls.

My eyes fall back to where they can’t seem to look away from for too long. Zanir grins at me. Sadar’s narrowed gaze and tense posture suggest that even some of the best players have opponents, and sadly I don’t even know what game we are playing.

“I should have aimed lower than…” Iamys says, his voice low and simmering with tension. Claws can be seen in his clenched fists under his arms that cross over his chest. Protective like a younger brother, he stands ready to defend me from whatever Zanir might throw my way.

Just then, Gaelira comes through the tent entrance with her arms full of bottles and papers. She nearly runs into Sadar as she strolls in. “Oh…” she quickly stops and drops some bottles. Sadar leans down and hands her a bottle with a small smile — the most expressive I have EVER seen him. Gaelira replies with a small smile, too. “Unfortunately, I will need some space for my items to properly begin their healing for Lady Mihaela.”

I appreciate this shift in attention, grateful for the welcome distraction from the chaos that seems to swirl whenever Zanir and I are in the same area.

But the moment is short-lived. Devlyn stands, her gaze intense as she surveys Iamys and Sadar. “Go get the scouts and guards ready to move out on my order. Keep scouts on the look out for anything that taunts to close to camp and appoint some of our water shifters to check the bottom of the lake. I want to know if they find anything.”

Her voice brooks no argument, commanding respect and urgency. This is what she does best — taking charge in moments of crisis, leading us with the confidence of someone who knows the weight of our circumstances.

“If you find that Balaur head, bring it to me. We’ll add it to Mi’s skull collection.” Devlyn shoots me one of those looks that could kill, but there is a twinkle in her steel eyes and a curl of her mouth. It quickly disappears once she turns back to the boys. “We’ll move out for Faymore, the human village past the Zis mountains, once Mi is healed enough.”

Thank Goddess Nyx, she dropped the whole Princess spiel for now. Devlyn always knew how to cut through the formality when she hinted it made me uncomfortable, and I appreciated that more than I could express. I know once we get back to the castle, the formal head of the scouts will resume her usual title for me, but for now, I relish the freedom in her words.

Devlyn turns her attention back to the task at hand. “We will rest once we get to Faymore. Take Zanir with you.” She motions to Iamys and Sadar before shooting Zanir a kill-worthy look, but he remains unfazed. A smirk tugging at the corners of Devlyn’s lips before she turns back to business. “Halfy and Lady Mihaela, may have spared your life…” There was ice in her words that I almost feel like we may share more powers than just shifting. “But if you choose to travel with us to see Queen Zeva, you’ll have to earn your keep. Believe me, she is a harder one to please than I am, so you have a lot of work ahead of you.”

“Of course.” Zanir stands and offers a slight bow toward Devlyn, his smirk lingering as if he is amused by the whole ordeal. “I wouldn’t want to miss a chance to earn my keep — or your favor.” His tone mixed with a playful arrogance, as if he found the entire situation more entertaining than threatening.

“Have fun with the boys,” I say with a slight grin, casting a sideways glance at Zanir. “Maybe you can charm your through, so Iamys won’t shoot you with more arrows.”

Zanir looks at me with such intensity that I feel my breath catch. His eyes narrow, the flame within his cerulean depths igniting once more. I grimace, shuddering at his ability to strip through me with a single look. He analyzes, studies, and unearths my weaknesses, leaving me feeling exposed.

“After you, gash neck,” Iamys says, his voice low and laced with tension as he motions toward Zanir. I can feel the simmering challenge between them. Oh, man, this is going to be entertaining.

As the boys start walking, I notice just how tall Zanir is next to Iamys and Sadar. He is only a couple of inches shorter than the massive fucker that is Sadar. What the hell is Zanir, other than a snarky asshat? A prick who needs a good punch to the noggin, a vampire, and someone who controls shadows. Or at least he did.

As the boys walk out of the tent, Sadar and Iamys are already in what looks like a heated conversation, at least from Iamys’ face. Zanir turns, meeting my eyes, a playful glint in his cerulean eyes. He raises an eyebrow, then places a hand over his heart, something has struck a chord with him. A smirk dances across his lips, both provoking and oddly charming. Wait, no. stop it, Mihaela.

Before I could try to process whatever the hell that was, Gaelira set down her supplies next to the cot I am still sitting on. The sudden thud of potions and powders mercifully breaks the tension. A skilled high-fae healer with everything she needs to work her magic.

Devlyn cuts through the air, unyielding. “What the hell did you get yourself into?” she demands, her eyes fixed on me like a predator zeroing in on its prey. Gaelira, focusing on mixing a potion, barely glancing up, and once again I am the center of unwanted attention.

Fuck. The word moves through my brain like soft silk. This is becoming a normal annoying occurrence for me.