Page 11 of The Breaker of Stars

“Four years,” Cypherion mused. His horse was behind mine, but without turning, I could picture his thoughtful expression. The determined set of his jaw. Why was he suddenly making conversation? “Tell me something good. Something you liked about living there.”

Something I liked? I’d spent so much time shrouding my memories of Lumin after I went to live with Titus. So many long nights convincing myself those years—the events I’d endured before moving to the capital—had been nothing more than nightmares.

But something good… There were a few moments that had not become horrors. A few that were dazed dreams of the sweetest sun-kissed memories.

“The trees have the best fruit. It bursts on your tongue, and the colors are so rich.”

“What were your favorites?” he prompted, voice melting into the hum of the jungle. Though it was winter, the trees held a warmth that his presence tangled with, wrapping around me.

“Blood oranges.” And the words tumbled from me without my control. “Their juice is sweet with a hint of tart. There was one tree that hung over the lake right outside my balcony. I would climb on the railing, though I was told not to—Spirits, my tutor told me not to each day. I was given extra studies to try to discourage me when I was caught. Had to write the histories of the Fates repeatedly, but it only became a challenge, then. They didn’t understand that I always enjoyed lessons.”

And they didn’t punish us for trivial childhood games. Only for failures in our magic.

“Because your power is important to you,” Cypherion interjected quietly. Like that statement was repairing pieces of me that he’d jumbled up.

“It is,” I agreed. That importance was why I was going back to Lumin at all. If I could sew up the holes in my magic, it would be worth it. “So, the chores didn’t deter me.”

I flashed Cypherion a smile over my shoulder, finding his eyes trained on me, blues burning like the heart of a fire. The horses continued through the jungle as our stares caught, and I said, “When I was first assigned my room, I couldn’t reach the tree, no matter how hard I tried.” Though I had been branded, we were each given a room as students. Fooled into thinking we were cherished guests. “By the time I was seven, though—my last summer there—I was able to stand on the railing, on my toes, and stretch so my fingertips brushed the branches. I only fell in the water once, and H?—”

I cleared my throat and faced forward, hands tightening on the reins as I took a shaking breath.

“My friend laughed about it for weeks.”

Cypherion wanted to ask; I knew him well enough to know he was trying to reassemble my past to make sense of me now. The questions burned into my spine as his eyes stayed locked there.

“When I moved to Palerman,” he began, and I froze, “I didn’t know what to make of those kinds of friendships.”

I nearly balked at him offering up a piece of himself, something he hadn’t done in months, but I didn’t want to scare him into silence again. So, I kept my eyes on the gaps in the trees, the lake sparkling crystal blue in the distance, and I remained the judgment-free, silently attentive audience he needed.

“They—Tolek and Malakai, Ophelia and Santorina—basically forced their company on me. I waited for them to stop.” He’d told me a bit about those early days in Palerman when he was twelve, but mainly about his mother. Cypherion’s friends were…well, they were something even more special to him. Something that brought about a weakness he didn’t often show.

I’d seen it once.

“They didn’t give up,” he continued, a quiet laugh. “I shouldn’t be surprised. They dragged me into their games, trainings, and formal dinners practically the first day we met. I think they recognized something in me that I didn’t even see. Something I still don’t know how to name.”

“It’s almost like they always knew what you were destined for.”

Cypherion grunted in response.

I pressed on. “I mean it. You were destined to be a part of their group. It’s clear to anyone who sees you all.”

“A part of a group, maybe,” he said.

And I corrected, “A leader among the great warriors of our generation.”

Another grunt. He was tending toward the abrasive quiet he’d adopted for the first few weeks of our journey, and already I missed the sound of his voice.

“You don’t believe in destiny? The Fates?” I asked. There. A question he must answer.

“It’s not that,” Cypherion said.

“Then, what?”

“I don’t believe in a title being my fate, no.”

“I’ve never known you to be so wrong, Cypherion Kastroff.” When I used his full name, something like lightning buzzed between us.

He might have felt it, too, because his voice was gravelly as he said, “I haven’t earned it. The title.”

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