Page 30 of Too Dangerous To Die

NORA

The Wastes don’t sleep.

Not truly. Not even when the moons fall low behind the peaks, or when the wind quiets and the ash settles into stillness. There's always a thrum beneath the earth, a soft vibration in the bones of this place like something ancient and restless lives just below the surface.

And tonight, it’s louder than usual.

Rhaegar paces behind me, silent but heavy, the ground grumbling beneath his steps. He hasn't spoken since the last training session—since the moment I shattered not one, but three of his stone targets with a single burst of uncontrolled magic. His expression afterward had been... unreadable.

Not proud or angry.

Just...watchful. Like I’m something that might snap if he touches me the wrong way.

I’m starting to feel the same.

“You’re not focusing,” he says now, voice a low rumble that brushes the back of my neck. “Again.”

“I’m tired,” I say, but it comes out petulant, thin even to my own ears. “I haven’t stopped pushing since sunrise.”

“Good,” he says flatly. “Because the ones hunting you won’t care how tired you are.”

I whip around to face him, eyes narrowed. “They’re not here.”

“Not yet,” he replies, stepping into the dying firelight. “But I can feel them circling. The air has changed. The Wastes remember blood. There are more dangerous things than dark elves.”

“And you think mine will be next?” I challenge, my voice rising. My skin itches with heat and pressure, the kind of tension that builds behind my sternum like lightning waiting to be called down.

“I think you need to stop pretending you’re still the same girl who ran from the forest with poison in her veins.”

His words strike deeper than they should. Because he’s right. I’m not that girl anymore. And I don’t know what I am now.

“Fine,” I snap, turning back to the line of scorched earth. “Again.”

The magic rises in me too fast—like it was waiting. It surges up from the soles of my feet, crawls through my blood like fire, and condenses in my fingertips. I fling it out before I can second-guess myself.

The bolt of silver collides with the rock Rhaegar set as a target and detonates with a cracking burst. Debris showers the area, and a sharp fragment nicks my cheek. I barely feel it.

Rhaegar moves behind me, quick and silent. “You felt that,” he says quietly.

“I felt everything,” I murmur, my chest still heaving, hands trembling. “It’s getting stronger.”

“Not just stronger.” His voice is lower now, almost cautious. “It’s getting faster too.”

I exhale shakily and wipe the blood from my cheek. “Then help me stop it.”

He looks at me for a long moment. His face is still a sculpture of shadows and golden firelight, but something flickers in his gaze—somethinguncertain.

“I’m not sure we can.”

The silence between us stretches, tense and aching. It fills my lungs with a different kind of pressure, one I can’t expel no matter how deeply I breathe.

That night, sleep doesn’t come. Every time I close my eyes, I see flashes of what I’ve done—of that power bursting from me, wild and beautiful and awful all at once.

I get up when the moon is high and the fire is only a ring of glowing coals.

Rhaegar doesn’t stir, though I know he isn’t asleep. He hasn’t truly rested since we entered the Wastes.

I wander, pulled by something I can’t name. My boots crunch lightly over brittle ground, and the wind hums around me like a warning I can't quite translate.

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