Between Tides Thunder(21)

I shouldn’t think about the way he said Lev’s name—raw and reverent—like it pained him to speak it aloud. Or how his voice broke mid-sentence, like the memory carved straight through him. Or how much I’d wanted, in that moment, to take away his pain and carry it with my own.

Unbidden, another detail returns to me—how he’d called Lev’s parents nonwielders instead of commons. A small thing, maybe. But from the most powerful stormwielder alive, it felt like something more. A crack in the image I’d built of him. A glimpse of the man beneath the thunder.

Zevayr is full of surprises.

And I’d told him of my own grief—of Sura and Tumaas—and he hadn’t offered platitudes or pity. He’d just listened. As though his silence alone could bear the weight of my sorrow.

I shouldn’t notice the way the sunlight brushes against the strong line of his jaw, softening the stubble that shadows his skin. Or the sweep of his lashes against his cheeks, darker than night. My gaze drops, lingering on the solid column of his neck, the breadth of his shoulders, the dip between his thick collarbones. Warmth coils low in my belly, and it has nothing to do with his body heat.

But what of the brother waiting for me in Arbinj? Will he be just as handsome?

A sharp pang of guilt pierces my heart, and I tear my gaze away.

Daak.

He would understand me sleeping in Zevayr’s arms each night—he wouldn’t like it, but he’d understand. He’d want me to be safe and warm and alive. But the thoughts running through my mind right now—those feel too much like betrayal.

I shift more forcefully, putting space between our chests, and Zevayr’s grip tightens around me as if even in his sleep, he can’t bear to let me go. His brow furrows, and his eyes flutter open, clouded with sleep before it’s blinked away. His hand skims the curve of my hip before he realizes we’re still touching.

I stiffen.

So does he.

Realization dawns on him, and he quickly releases his hold.

I inch farther back.

“Sorry.” His deep voice is rough with sleep, and I hate the part of me that wants to hear it again. He clears his throat. “I overslept.”

“It’s all right,” I say softly, offering him a tentative smile. It feels foreign on my face. His gaze drops to my lips. Traitorous warmth rushes to my cheeks, and I pretend I don’t know why.

“Your brother,” I blurt out, rubbing my thumb over the betrothal ring on my finger. “Has he also fought in many battles?”

A shadow settles over his face at the mention of Faramir.

“No,” he says stiffly. “Earthwielder or not, the crown prince is excused from combat. Too risky for the future king.”

“Oh. Are you two … close?”

“No.” The word rings with finality this time.

Zevayr rises before I can ask anything else.


The rest of the morning has been strange. Zevayr and I have reached an uneasy truce—he hasn’t insulted me once today, and I haven’t felt the need to remind him of the blood on his hands. Even the silence stretching between us as we walk beneath the snow-capped trees, normally vibrating with barely repressed disdain, seems—comfortable.

Still I hesitate before I ask, “When do you think I’ll be able to … bathe?” I cringe as the words leave my lips. Most nights, I’ve scrubbed melted snow over my face and neck, then promptly roasted by the fire until I stopped shivering. It’s only been days—I can’t imagine weeks without a proper bath.

Except now I’ve given Zevayr a fresh opportunity to belittle me. Will he call me a pampered princess? A spoiled, vapid girl? Or his favorite insult—a baby.

The corner of his mouth twitches. I bristle, readying a sharp retort.

But surprisingly, he doesn’t insult me. The rhythmic crunch, crunch, crunch of our boots sinking into half-frozen snow is the only sound until he says, “If we keep this pace, the weather will warm up soon. We’ll come across several streams that you can use.”

“…Thanks.” It looks like the truce is holding. Something shifted between us last night, and the animosity that’s lingered between us has dissipated into … something else. I’m not sure if that’s a good thing.

Zevayr lifts a low-hanging, frost-covered branch with his bare hand for me to pass beneath. He doesn’t even grimace.

“You seem well acclimated to the cold.” I fold my arms tighter, bracing against the chill. He glances at me sideways. His lips thin, and he steps closer until our shoulders are almost touching.

“I’ve spent more time in Tundrayn than in Arbinj in the last decade.”

Right—killing my people. Except the thought doesn’t incite the same burning hatred in my heart.

Definitely not a good thing.


We keep a breakneck pace the rest of the day. When we stop at night, every single muscle aches in my legs. The heat of the fire seeps through my numb fingers as I hover them over the dancing flames.

My eyes cut to Zevayr’s slumbering form on the blanket.

I have first watch.

Which means, I have time to think.

Time for intrusive thoughts to bombard me—like how my feelings about Zevayr have grown complicated since our conversation last night. I want to see him as the fearsome Dark Commander—a ruthless murderer.