Page 13 of A Song of Air
Bryson tried not to flinch away from the harshness of his tone when he was still in front of her, and it felt like he was screaming in her general direction. Like he knew there was a small flame of hope inside, and he meant to tamp it down.
Arlo sighed. “I know I sound harsh, but where has a war ever gotten us? Fae in power will always command others to do their bidding. To fight and die and eventually to lose. We’ve seen it once, and we will see it again with the Seelie monarchy. They led us to war, and in turn, we all lost our homes and our lives. We have become a mere fraction of what we once were, and now they’re on the rise, and I can bet you they would ask us to fight again. Andwhatdo we say to their war?”
“No!”
Voices shouted together. Voices of people Bryson considered friends and allies. All except her own and Malika’s. Bryson’s mind was moving too fast; it felt like the wind was blowing every single thought away.
When Arlo spoke again, there was smug satisfaction in his voice. “This so-called Resistance is no more different than the emperor and his ideals. They’re fighting on opposite sides without realizing that they’re both tyrants. And we at this camp do not follow any faction but our own. We take care of each other. We survive and we thrive. And we are loyal to no one but ourselves.”
“Here, here!”
Shouts of agreement went out. Finally, Bryson heard Malika’s voice join the fray. Then the pressure of Arlo’s presence right in front of her became almost suffocating. He stared down at her, and she forced herself to look up at him. He was waiting... like a thunderstorm on the horizon ready to snuff out the fire that blazed inside her soul.
She tilted her head sideways and whispered quietly, almost angrily, “Here, here.”
His lips curled into a smile as he stepped away from her. His throat cleared and for the moment, that was all he would say, as Ev took over the rest of the meeting.
“Now, onto far more important things... Our trackers have noticed that several faunas of the area have been going missing. We believe that despite the claims of the West Isles being blown up, the Kurreen are still at large. We’ll be separated into groups to do a fell sweep of the area. Be careful and be vigilant, and if you see the Kurreen, do not hesitate to use deadly force. Because if they catch you, they’ll do worse to you. Understood?”
There were calls of agreement.
“Malika, you’ll stay behind to keep an eye on the newbies. The rest of you, here’s how you’ll be paired up...”
Life was hard. It knocked you down, fucked you up, and when you thought you were safe, it did it all over again.
At least, that was Bryson’s experience.
After the meeting, she’d wandered on what felt like dead legs, lost in her mind, trapped in the spaces of Arlo’s words. Like always, she was stuck with nothing more than thoughts and anger, and absolutely nothing to do with it.
Nothing exceptbrood,apparently.
She huffed, and a gust of her magic pushed out to the skies. She wanted to stop in the middle of the forest and scream, to put that anger to use like her father always told her to do the moment her mother didn’t come back from the war. Ever since then, she’d been riddled with emotions she didn’t understand. And ever since she lost her father and sister, she’d been living on a precipice, waiting for something to give.
If the Fae were taking down entire human kingdoms, then it was possible that they could rise again. That her mother hadn’t died for nothing. That all this suffering could have been worth it, if only it meant freedom.
An ache spread down her spine, pressing against the scars on her back like a warning; scars that had been there since before she ever stepped foot in the human lands. The ominous feeling against that part of her had Bryson remembering the night it happened.
How she was walking beside her sister one moment and the next her legs buckled beneath her. Agony had spread like fire through her spine, in her veins, to her bones, down to her soul. She’d tasted dirt as she fell, screaming until her throat was hoarse with the action. She was sure she’d blacked out at one point, and when her eyes opened, she watched her sister run to get their father.
And she blinked, and there he was, lifting her. But the action pulled at the muscles on her back. It felt like she’d been carved open from the inside out, and warmth soaked through her clothes, and the wind drifted the coppery scent of blood into her nose, making her nauseas.
“What’s happening to me?” Her lips trembled, and it was a struggle to release every word.
She wasn’t sure she heard the answer, if he even gave one. All she remembered was that they’d hauled her up as carefully as they could manage, though the agony was jerking through every nerve-ending. It wasn’t until they’d cut off her shirt and cleansed the blood from her back that her father gasped and stepped away, staring at her backside with grave sadness.
“What?” she’d demanded, pushing herself up on her palms.
When no one answered her, she’d stumbled from the table. Every move was full of anguish, and yet she somehow made it over to a mirror. She twisted, crying as her body screamed in pain. But when she caught a glimpse of her own reflection, tears streamed down her cheeks at what she saw.
Wounds were embedded in her flesh, like they’d been carved there with a knife, a searing hot knife. Three circles starting at the base of her neck down her spine; stamped within each one were intricate images of whorls and curves like clouds.
There was something artistic about the scars down her back. So much so, in fact, that it made her want to weep. She did. With her eyes full of tears, she turned to her father.
“What is this?” she asked, her voice breaking.
He didn’t answer her right away. He regarded her with sad eyes, his own brown ones wide and glossy. “It means,” he whispered, “you are the last.”
Bryson didn’t understand the words at first. They didn’t register in her mind. “The lastwhat?”
