Page 37 of Daughter of the Drowned Empire
He leaned his forehead against the bars. “Lyr?”
I exhaled sharply, a tear rolling down my cheek. “I’m scared.”
He nodded. “I know.” His thumb circled soothingly over my hand. “It’ll be all right.”
“No, it won’t.” I shook my head, more tears falling. “I’m not hiding a vorakh,” I confessed. “I have no magic. No power.”
“Are you sure that’s what happened?”
A choked laugh came out. “Do you think I’d be in here if it wasn’t? If I’d had a vorakh, it would have been obvious by now, and if I had power, I’d have expressed it and gone home.”
“But everyone….” he trailed off, not saying what we both knew to be true. Everyone born of Lumeria had magic, even if one parent did not. The ability was strong; it always, always passed down. He shook his head. “That’s not possible.”
“These prison cells say differently.” The tears escaped, freely flowing down my cheeks.
He flinched watching.
“You don’t have to do this,” I said. “Why are you really helping me?”
Rhyan pulled back, but I held tight to the fingers entwined with mine, refusing to release his hand. Our eyes met again.
“Please,” I said. “Don’t go.”
His fingers tightened around mine in response. His breath deepened, like he was settling into his spot there before me.
“You didn’t answer my question,” I said.
Rhyan’s jaw clenched, his hold on my hand steadying, though his eyes shifted, glancing nervously around the cell before focusing once more on me. “Because I’ve been where you are. More or less.”
“Imprisoned in your own home?”
“I’ll spare you the gory details.” The muscles in his jaw tensed. “The cells in Glemaria are...well, they make this place look like a palace.”
I shuddered. “When did you become forsworn?”
“A year ago. Right after,” Rhyan swallowed, his features hardening, “my mother died.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You’re not going to accuse me of killing her?”
“No.”
“You should. That’s the reason I was named forsworn. Her death.”
“I don’t believe that’s the truth.” Growing up in the court of the Arkasva, I’d seen killers, liars, two-faced courtiers, and worse, like the Bastardmaker. Rhyan wasn’t like any of them. Murderers didn’t hold your hand and breathe with you through a panic attack.
“You’d be the first.” He bit his lip, his free hand rubbing the back of his neck.
We were silent, and the steady rhythm of his breathing mixed with the crackling flames in the corridor until my own came easily and matched his.
“That’s new.” His eyes darted to my tattoo.
But before he could ask any more about it, there was a commotion in the hall. We both turned, breath sucked in.
He slid his hand away, stepping back from the cell. His fingers lingered an extra second against my skin.
“Sorry,” he said.
