Page 55 of Captive

He turns and frowns. “You will not even admit to being Bloodstone. You hate your Bloodstone magic, and you hate most of our traditions. Those reasons will make you flee and never look back.”

Olah, help me. He’s right. So very right.

But I cannot stay. My next healing spell could put me into a sleep so deep that I never wake. It happened once to a Kyanite healer at the apothecary. She cast too many powerful spells without renewing herself.

With a shaky hand, I reach for my necklace and sigh. Why can’t it give me the strength I need to do what I must? I want to help when needed. To heal when asked. To bring back life.

Instead of continuing to argue with Hector, I grab my pillow and lie against the mattress. I know how I will escape. It’s planning everything that will take effort. The kind of effort I must do in secret.

Nobody can know.

Especially Hector.

ChapterTwenty-Three

The morning sun casts a golden light on Hector, illuminating his bare chest and thick arms as he spars with Cenric.

As I watch Hector, I decide to push aside the memory of yesterday’s conversation and instead enjoy this moment. The gentle breeze caressing my cheeks. The sun warming my skin. The view.

And oh, is that view captivating.

Perhaps Hector trains to distract himself after everything that has happened the last few days. Olah knows it has been almost more than I can take. When I was in the mercenary army, the higher the tensions got, the more vicious the training was. Our commander used to say exhausting the body quiets the mind.

Maybe I should find a partner and spar. I could use the release. I glance around me, looking for a suitable opponent. Mildred is the only other person who is not involved in a task. The thought of sparring with the Muchrah makes me smile. We’d have to decide ahead of time if Annaleigh would be allowed to help the old woman, or if she would have to sit out.

I nearly laugh at my own jest.

As the two men circle each other, my gaze lingers on Hector’s biceps. His muscles move in a way that makes his tattoo look alive. I imagine running my hands over his smooth skin.

Hector’s muscles strain, and sweat glistens across his brow as he strikes, his moves powerful, bone-jarring. Cenric thwarts Hector with lightning quick moves that steals my breath.

The sound of metal clashing echoes through the clearing, breaking the peaceful morning air. I shift my weight from foot-to-foot, not able to look away as Hector slams his broadsword into Cenric’s. The younger man stumbles backward, his eyes alight with humor as he laughs.

My attention isn’t the only one that is piqued. Luc watches with obvious amusement. Several other warriors have abandoned their tasks and now stand in a large, loose circle around the fighters. Loose because no one seems willing to be too close to the two men.

Before Hector moves again, Cenric spins away, turns back and strikes—his weapon aimed for Hector’s face. A quick breath escapes me as Hector ducks and swings his sword in a deadly arc. The metal whistles through the air as it misses Cenric’s head by inches.

Cenric’s humor turns to a fierce grin as he steps closer to Hector. “You grow slow, cousin,” he taunts. “Or you wouldn’t have missed.”

Hector answers with a quick blow against Cenric’s broadsword that sends his cousin staggering backward again.

“Much better.” A playful gleam glints in Cenric’s eyes as he continues. “Now you might actually be able to hit something.”

My breath hitches as I send a worried look at Mildred standing next to me, but she doesn’t seem to notice as she murmurs to the empty space next to her. I shake my head and turn back to Hector, to that worry drumming in my throat. Worry for him. Worry he’ll injure himself fighting so ferociously.

I even think about pleading for him to stop. Something about his intensity keeps me silent.

Maybe he needs this after our conversation yesterday. This release. This abandonment of duty, of responsibly. Here, in this clearing, there are no responsibilities. There’s only steel against steel. Might against might. Strength countering strength.

And Cenric, of course, taunting Hector.

The sparring duo use every inch of available space. For each move, there is a countermove.

The crowd, now made up of almost every warrior in the camp, reacts to every lunge and parry. Some groan while others cheer.

“You can say it again, Annaleigh,” Mildred says. “But I still won’t understand what you mean.”

Sunlight staggers through the clouds, dancing across Hector’s bare chest and turning my mouth dryer than the Caeve desert.

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