Page 128 of Cage of Starlight
Tory thrusts his left hand forward.
It’s such a ridiculous thing, that it’s his left. Tory isn’t left-handed, and the only way Sena can think to explain it is maybe he’s either noticed that Sena is having difficulty moving his right at the moment or that Sena is, in fact, left-handed. It’s such a small thing, a gesture to meet Sena where he is. He aches with it.
Tory’s radiant smile crinkles his eyes, and he looks so young, his stance loose and open, extended hand an invitation to something Sena has barely dared to hope for.
Steady, like taking what he wants could really be so simple.
Star-blessed, Sena’s mother called him. To everyone else, he was strange, uniquely dangerous.Sena got the message quickly enough; he was something to be used and feared. No one offered nearness. It was easy enough, after a time, to avoid it entirely.
He’d do anything to keep this. Yet here he stands, frozen like a fool.
Tory’s smile flickers, fingers curling and eyes flashing doubt.
Sena wants this and more. He’s wanted it since he knew his hands could make things grow. Drawing as deep a deep breath as his chest will allow, Sena peels the glove from his left hand and drops it onto the moss between the tree’s roots. He extends his hand. The trembling is faint enough that Tory won’t notice, surely.
He regrets it instantly. There are so many reasons why it could be a bad idea, and maybe Tory doesn’t even want—
He gasps as a strong grip closes around his hand, warm skin callused and real against his. He loses an embarrassing amount of time looking at the way their hands meet, skin against skin. Tory is so warm.
Tory clears his throat, but he’sbeaming. “It’s called a handshake for a reason. You shake it, and then youlet go.”
Sena laughs. He doesn’t mean to, and it startles him. Startles Tory, too. Sena withdraws his hand, tingling with the heat of anotherperson’s touch for the first time since he was nine. He feels lit up, like he’s bumping against the netted dome over the tree and could slip through and float up into the sky. Laughing hurts, but he can’t stop.
Tory joins him. “You’re so weird,” he says. Then, “You know, you owe me.”
Sena frowns. “Owe you what?”
“A story. You never finished telling me about that—sky-dog or whatever, and the Seeds.”
Sky-dog. Something in Sena shrivels. “Celestial Beast,” he says. “And you keep saying my stories are terrible. I don’t owe you anything. Anyway, my mother tells it best.”
Traitorous, his mind spools out images of his mother as he last saw her, and Hina as Sena imagines her, and Tory listening raptly to the tales that gave Sena such hope when he was small. It’s nice, like all impossible things are.
Dark haze closes in around his eyes, and he squeezes the bridge of his nose and breathes until it recedes.
Tory opens his mouth like he wants to say something, but Sena shakes his head.
“The compasses. We should get started.”
“Yeah. Let’s cause some chaos. Oh. Speaking of! They brought those prototypes your dad made with your blood. I ruined them all, just like you asked me to.”
He did ask, didn’t he? By the fire. “I would have liked to see that. Thank you.”
“Any time.” Tory claps a hand down on Sena’s shoulder—the shoulder with his decaying Core, with the wound, the arm blistered by Helner’s injection—and Sena makes a sound he’d be ashamed of if his whole body weren’t burning.
He flinches, crumples—barely manages to catch himself with his left hand, splayed bare on the moss, grass, and gravel.
He tries to force his feet to lift him. He can’t ruin this fragile peace. “Sorry,” he slurs. “I’m . . .”
“Sena.” Tory’s voice from above him is quiet. “What’s that on your neck?”
Sena burns with something hotter than pain. He lifts his shoulders to hide it, but it’s too late. The roots of his dying Core must be visible. If he’s lucky, Tory won’t understand. “Let’s just go.”
He can’t look at Tory’s face, at the dawning horror on it.
“Sena, are you—”
Obligingly, the world falls apart to spare him having to answer.
