Page 65 of This Vicious Dream

Yesterday, while we were setting up camp, I asked him to pass me a water skin, and he stared at me for a long moment, as if he couldn’t understand what I was saying.

This morning before the sun rose, he was sleep talking in a strange language that sent a chill down my spine.

And then there are his eyes. Even now, they’ve darkened, until they’re almost black.

Something in my chest wrenches. Calysian’s vow to kill Vicana is exactly what I want, and the fact that he feels for these people is exactly what I was hoping for.

And yet…

“You won’t even care about this world when you get your grimoires,” I snap. “Everything I’ve heard about Calpharos has made it clear you will burn this world as you take your revenge.”

I’m not sure why I’m lashing out. He can’t help who he is.

Perhaps it’s the arrogant gleam in his eye when he declares what he will do. Perhaps it’s because I barely recognize this man as the same man who glowered at me when he realized I’d tricked him, or the man who vowed he would stop at nothing to make me his. Themortalman.

Confusion darts across Calysian’s face, and he looks suddenlylost. “In that case, why are you helping me with this task?”

“I don’t know. I suppose I hold a glimmer of hope that you will take your revenge without destroying everything in your path. And because if it does seem like you’ll turn this world to ash, I’ll do everything I can to kill you.”

We both turn quiet, saying little over the next few hours. Gnarled trunks claw upward, roots knotting together beneath the horses’ hooves.

Our conversation has one effect. He’s no longer watching the world through cold, distant eyes. And those eyes have lightened slightly.

Finally, he pins me with a look. “Will you tell me where we’re going now?”

“Blightmere.”

“Blightmere?” The word is incredulous, and Calysian stares at me, nostrils flaring.

“Yes.”

“You hid my grimoire in the swamp?”

I sniff. “Yes. And thanks to my foresight, it has stayed safe all this time. You’re welcome.”

He gapes at me, and I continue riding.

When he catches up with me, he rides too close, and Hope snaps her teeth at Fox. I stroke her neck. “Good girl.”

Calysian lets out a low growl. “If I’d known we were traveling through the swamp, I would have stopped for supplies.”

“The innkeeper from the village you defended…she has an aunt who traveled to Blightmere. She told me there’s a small village that borders the swamp along the route we need to take. It’s not ideal, but it will have to do.”

We ride in strained silence. At least, it’s strained on Calysian’s side. I won’t apologize for not giving him the information he would need to leave me and go after the grimoire himself.

Finally, the swamp begins to creep into the forest. Vines choke the life from trees, pulling down branches weakened by their attentions. The closer we get to Blightmere, the heavier and stickier the air becomes. When I visited the swamp that day so long ago, I’d returned to Daharak’s ship covered in mud and insect bites. But beneath the irritation I’d felt a strong sense of satisfaction. The knowledge that I’d done my part to protect this continent.

Now, my stomach is churning with anxiety, my palms slick with sweat.

Within a few hours, we’ve reached the outskirts of the swamp. We haven’t seen any signs of Vicana’s soldiers, which means they’re likely already traveling within the swamp.

We’ll need to move quickly.

I pull the hood of Calysian’s cloak up to cover my hair. If Vicana’s soldiers have come through, it’s likely they’ve questioned the villagers, and my hair is memorable. The road turns into a narrow track, the mud sucking at the horse’s hooves as the village comes into view, and voices sound in the distance, raised in either barter or argument.

It’s impossible to know if this place has clawed its way out of the swamp, or if the swamp itself has encroached on the village. Wooden buildings are streaked black, slick with moss, while roofs sag beneath the weight of rot and neglect. A few crooked chimneys release a trickle of smoke, curling up into the murky sky and mixing with the already heavy reek of wet earth and mildew.

A cart rolls past, its wheels fighting the thick mud. When I peer into it, I find it filled with some kind of tiny fish.

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