Page 79 of The Coven of Ruin
Trista shook her head, her hand clasping his harder. Before she knew it, he picked her up, cradling her in his arms. He was the sturdiest thing she had ever felt, like the cliffs of Vale Island reigning over stormy seas, refusing to bow no matter how many times the waves beat against it.
Leaning, he swiped something out of the way before her back met the soft mattress again. “I’ve got you. But you have to take slow, deep breaths.” His low tone finally broke through. “You are the ruler of your lungs. Just breathe. Slowly.”
The bed dipped beside her with his weight. She was against him, her face so close to his hip that she imagined her tears were soaking through the fabric of his trousers. Her knees were curled up to her chest, pressed against his leg. But those small points of contact and his voice were an anchor grounding her.
“What do you need?” he murmured.
“Talk, please,” she gasped out, whatever embarrassment she felt long gone. They were even. They had both given up too much armor.
She was adrift, but then his deep voice found her again. “Prince Nero beat Grae and me the other day in cards, and Grae was quick to accuse him of cheating. I believe the prince saw his life flash before his eyes.”
Any other time Trista would have laughed—as it were, she was too busy trying to control her breaths that were still coming in quick and shallow gulps.
“If you haven’t figured it out yet, Nero knows who we are. It was a risk we had to take,” he explained, “and it has worked out well as our cover story. Though sometimes he looks at us as if we have grown multiple heads. But he’s a good man, even if he is a mage.”
She used his voice as a lifeline, guiding her from the deep.
“The lengths he has gone to find his brother and save his coven is admirable, if not reckless. His betrothal to Princess Rianne could be problematic for him. And for us, depending on what side of this she stands on, and where exactly the prince, soon to be King, does as well.”
Trista had managed to calm her breathing enough that she didn’t feel like she was going to pass out anymore. Ares fell quiet. His voice had done so much for her, but she didn’t want to keep discussing what was going on in Spellspire.
“How did you learn to dance?” she prompted, her words cracking with the effort.
Inhaling, he let his breath out in a sigh. “It would seem that you can’t expect a godling to train and spar all day without incurring injury and picking up sloppy technique. So, when I could no longer hold a blade or throw a punch, I practiced control and balance by way of dance.”
Oh.
“That’s awful.” She pictured him as a godling, tired and aching but set on perfecting both his skill with a blade and the poise of a dancer. A youth desperate to please his father.
Ares made a rumbling noise of indifference. “The suffering made me a stronger fighter. Better to be sore and exhausted in training than dead on the battlefield.”
He shifted his weight, and then she felt hesitant fingers whisper across her temple, moving curls from her face. She closed her eyes against the gentleness, a soft sound escaping her lips as his fingertips ghosted her scalp before they were gone again. “Do you suffer from these attacks frequently?”
“I did for a while at the Akeso,” she admitted. “It’s part of the reason why I am here. I couldn’t stand the sight of blood anymore, and when I tried to share magic with my althea”— grief ran through her at the mention of Eral—“it would act erratic. How do you do it? How do you keep from being pulled under by it?”
He was silent for such a long moment that she thought he might not answer her at all. “I’m The God of War, witch.” That was his only explanation, and she supposed he had already shared more than he had planned with her. They fell into a shared silence for a time, her forced breaths the only sound.
Finally, he asked, “You couldn’t heal anymore?”
“No,” she breathed.
“They expect you to offer your magic freely—to kill yourself?”
She nodded, her inhales easing back into a normal rhythm.
“Why?”
Trista snorted quietly. “Because of you. Whatever you did to our magic—“
“No,” he said, unbothered by the accusation, “why do they deem your life less than another witch’s?”
The question took her off guard. “I’m covenless. My parents gave me to the Akeso. They own my life and magic in trade for housing, feeding, and training me. There are other healers from the covens, but they dedicate themselves willingly.”
“And…” he trailed off as if unsure he wanted to ask the question, “you accept that fate?”
“I didn’t have a choice.”
“And if you did?”
