Between Tides Thunder(20)

At least that’s what I tell myself before I speak.

“Who did you lose?” I ask softly, eyes focused on the steady rise and fall of his chest. It feels too intimate to lock gazes with him.

He doesn’t answer. I would’ve assumed he didn’t hear me, but his body stiffens, so I know he did.

I begin to think he might not answer at all, when he finally speaks.

“My best friend.” His voice is hoarse, arms tense around me. “Levaint. We grew up together. Zev and Lev.” A brittle, humorless laugh escapes him. “His parents were nonwielders—simple farmers. Imagine their surprise when their five-year-old son grew a giant tree in the middle of their cottage. They brought him to the palace for training. We were inseparable after that.

“He was a powerful wielder—and all wielders must join the army. We fought our first battles side by side before I was assigned to a different squad. Stormwielders are lethal even from a distance, but earthwielders are more effective in close combat. He—”

Zevayr swallows deeply, his throat bobbing.

I don’t know why I do this—I reach for his hand and lace our fingers together. His hand twitches, like he doesn’t know what to do with my kindness. But the small gesture gives him the strength he needs to continue.

“Lev—” Zevayr stutters over his friend’s name. He clenches his eyes shut tightly, as though holding the memory in place. “It was after a brutal battle. Your side won. We retreated. I was settling down for the night, tending to my wounds, when a soldier rushed into my tent, said I needed to come immediately. In that moment, I knew. I just knew what was waiting for me.”

“What happened to him?” I whisper, though I’m afraid to hear the words.

“Waterwielder. Forced water into his body and froze it. He couldn’t see, couldn’t speak. We had fires burning around him, blankets covering him to try and melt it, but wielded ice is cruel. He was in unimaginable pain, and there was nothing I could do for him. Lev suffered for hours before he died.”

I swallow hard. “I’m so sorry.”

“Me too.”

I never would have expected to share so much pain with the Dark Commander.

My lips speak the words before I can cage them. “My best friends were Sura and Tumaas,” I say quietly, voice catching. “Twins. Their mother worked in the palace kitchens. We grew up together—three shadows always getting into trouble. They called me Mayah-bear. Because I’m ferocious when I’m mad.”

A watery laugh escapes me, and it coaxes a small smile to Zevayr’s lips. “One time, we snuck into the palace laundry and stole every piece of clothing. Knotted everything together and strung them across the banisters like garlands.” I shake my head. “Father was livid. Tumaas made up a song about it. We were inseparable. Sura always had this hope that Tumaas and I would get married, and we’d be a real family.”

My smile slowly fades, and Zevayr’s grip tightens around me. “But they were nonwielders. And in Tundrayn, that means you’re expendable. They were sent to the border five years ago, despite my begging. Father wouldn’t make any exceptions. Not even for me. Especially not for me.” My voice thickens. “They wrote to me every week—long, silly letters. Tumaas would dictate to Sura—I’d always teased him about his atrocious handwriting. I kept each one. I used to reread them when I couldn’t sleep.”

I pause, bracing myself.

“There was a big battle. One of the worst. So many wounded, so many dead. We won—barely, but we won. They made it back to camp. I know because Sura wrote me a letter. Said she was safe, that they’d survived. And that maybe, in a few weeks, they’d come home. I slept with that letter beneath my pillow. Clung to it like a promise. Her letter made it, Zevayr, but she never did.”

He’s deathly quiet.

“Hours after the battle was over, they were attacked. In the dark of night. Tidescursed cowards,” I spit, cheeks wet with tears. “Everything was incinerated. No survivors.”

Zevayr swallows. He draws me closer until I’m pressed flush against his firm chest. “I—I’m sorry,” he whispers. A muscle ticks in his jaw, his breathing shallow.

“It’s all right. There’s no healing this,” I say, almost to myself. “Some wounds never close. No matter how many times you pass glowing hands over them.”





CHAPTER ELEVEN




SLEEP EBBS AWAY THE next morning, slowly, languorously, like a gentle receding tide. Every inch of me is pleasantly warm. I try to shift, but I can’t—there’s a heavy weight settled over my legs and waist.

My eyes flutter open, squinting against the sunlight.

I’m met with a strange sight—Zevayr asleep next to me, my limbs tangled with his. Though we sleep beside each other each night, I always wake alone. He’s the first to rise, already dressed and brooding.

But not today.

I frown, scanning his face. Is he coming down with something? He’s never slept later than me. Gingerly, I untangle my arms and press my palms to his neck, sending a soft, probing wave of my power through him. He seems fine—no sign of sickness.

A gentle snore escapes him, and I can’t help but smile. His brow is smooth, relaxed, his full lips slightly parted. It’s a stark contrast to the raw anguish on his face last night when he told me of his friend.