Chapter 53

Chapter 53: Chapter 53

It was bigger than Soren remembered. It’s matted fur was plastered to its body by the rain, revealing the network of scars that crisscrossed its hide. The wound Nyra had given it with her wolfsbane dagger had healed badly, leaving a twisted, puckered scar across its throat. One of its eyes was milky and blind a souvenir from the earlier battle. But the other eye burned with feral intelligence and absolute, unwavering hatred.

This was not a mindless beast. This was a creature that remembered. That held grudges. That had tracked them through the forest for days, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

"Come back for more?" Soren raised his blade. The rain ran down the steel in rivulets. "I thought I taught you your lesson the first time."

The rogue didn’t answer with words. It lunged.

The fight was brutal and immediate. The rogue was faster than it looked, its massive body moving through the rain with a fluidity that belied its size. It feinted left, then lunged right, its claws raking through the space where Soren’s throat had been a heartbeat before. He twisted aside, felt the wind of the strike against his cheek, and countered with a slash that opened a gash across the rogue’s shoulder.

It howled a sound of pure, undiluted rage and spun, its tail catching Soren across the ribs and sending him staggering. He caught himself on a tree trunk, the bark rough against his palm, and pushed off just as the rogue’s jaws snapped shut where his head had been.

Left flank, Kael warned. It’s favoring its right side. The shoulder you just cut—it’s slowing down.

"Good."

Don’t get cocky. It’s still twice your size.

"I’ve killed bigger."

When?

"There was that bear when I was sixteen."

That bear was half this thing’s size and you know it.

"Let me have my moment."

The rogue lunged again. This time Soren was ready. He dropped low, sliding in the mud, and drove his blade upward into the creature’s chest. The rogue screamed a horrible, gut-wrenching sound that echoed through the forest and thrashed wildly. Its claws caught Soren across the ribs, a glancing blow that tore through his shirt and the skin beneath. Blood welled up instantly, hot and red, mixing with the rain as it ran down his side.

He gritted his teeth and twisted the blade.

The rogue collapsed.

Its massive body hit the mud with a wet thud, its one good eye staring up at the stormy sky, its chest heaving once, twice, and then going still. The rain continued to fall, washing the blood from its fur, pooling in the mud around its body.

Soren stood over it, chest heaving, sword dripping. The wound on his ribs was shallow but painful—it would need attention, would need cleaning and bandaging before infection set in. But it wasn’t fatal. It wasn’t even close.

"Stay dead this time," he muttered.

He turned and staggered back toward the hut.

Inside, Nyra was exactly as he’d left her unconscious, feverish, but alive. He checked her pulse, checked her breathing, pressed a kiss to her burning forehead. Then he collapsed onto the floor beside her, his back against the bed frame, his sword across his knees.

You’re bleeding, Kael said.

"I’m aware."

You need to clean that wound.

"Later. I need to rest first. Just for a minute."

Soren—

"Just a minute, Kael. Please."

Kael fell silent.

Soren reached up and took Nyra’s hand in his. Her fingers were still burning hot, but they curled around his a reflex, maybe, or a sign that somewhere deep inside, she knew he was there.

"We’re going to make it," he whispered to her. "Both of us. We’re going to make it out of here. I promise."

The storm raged on. The fire guttered in the hearth. And Soren closed his eyes, still holding her hand, and let the exhaustion take him.

Dawn came gray and quiet, the rain finally softening to a thin, persistent drizzle.

The storm had spent itself during the night, its fury fading to a gentle patter against the leaves and the stone roof of the hut. The forest was still and silent, wrapped in a heavy mist that clung to the ground and blurred the trees into soft, indistinct shapes.

Valeria led her team through the western sector with a single-minded intensity that bordered on obsession.

She had handpicked every member of the search party: Elias, because he was quiet and competent and followed orders without question; Silas, because he was fast and sharp-eyed; Orion, because he was steady under pressure; and two senior trackers who had spent their lives navigating the Mistwood’s treacherous terrain. Five people. It wasn’t a large team, but it was the best the academy had to offer.

They had been walking since first light, pushing deeper into the forest than any search party had gone before. The terrain was brutal broken ground, fallen trees, ravines that hadn’t existed before the earthquake. The rain had turned everything to mud, and every step was a struggle.

But Valeria didn’t slow down. She couldn’t. Every hour that passed was an hour Soren might not have.

"Miss Valeria," Elias said, appearing at her elbow. "The trackers found something. A trail. Fresh. Something large passed through here last night."

"How fresh?"

"Hours. Maybe less. It’s hard to tell in this rain."

"Show me."

He led her to a patch of mud near a fallen oak. The tracks were unmistakable massive paw prints, deeper than any normal wolf’s. A rogue. A big one. And leading away from the tracks, almost invisible in the mist...

"Smoke," Valeria breathed.

It was faint. Barely a wisp, rising above the treeline a few hundred yards ahead. But it was there.

"Move," she ordered. "Now."

They crashed through the underbrush, branches whipping at their faces, mud sucking at their boots. The smoke grew closer, thicker, carrying with it the faint smell of woodsmoke and cooking meat and something else something that made Valeria’s heart lurch.

Please, she prayed, not knowing to whom. Please be alive. Please let him be alive.

The trees began to thin. The ground leveled out. And there, nestled in a small clearing, was a stone hut with a crumbling roof and a thin trail of smoke rising from its chimney.

Valeria stopped. Her heart hammered against her ribs so hard she could feel it in her throat.

"Search the perimeter," she ordered, her voice steadier than she felt. "Make sure there are no rogues nearby."

"Clear," Silas reported a moment later. "There’s a dead rogue near the treeline. Massive one. Fresh kill. Looks like it happened last night."

Valeria nodded. Of course Soren had killed it. Of course he had protected his prince, even in the middle of a storm, even with no help and no hope.

She pushed open the door of the hut.

The scene inside stopped her cold. Soren lay on the floor beside a makeshift bed, his back against the wall, his sword across his knees. His shirt was torn and bloodied, a gash across his ribs visible through the ripped fabric. His face was pale and haggard, dark circles under his eyes, his dark hair matted with sweat and rain. But his chest was rising and falling.

And his hand was wrapped around Nyra’s.

The prince—the girl, Valeria was almost certain now lay on the bed, wrapped in furs, her silver hair spread across a rough pillow. Her face was flushed with fever, her breathing shallow, but she was alive. They were both alive.

"Found them," Valeria breathed. "We found them."

Elias appeared in the doorway behind her. "Are they—"

"Alive. Both of them." She turned to him, and for the first time in days, her expression was something other than cold calculation. It was relief. Pure, overwhelming relief. "Get the others. We need to get them back to the academy immediately. Soren’s wounded, and Thorne has a fever. They need medical attention."

"Yes, ma’am."

Elias vanished, and Valeria knelt beside Soren. She reached out and touched his face gently, the way she had always wanted to touch him and never been allowed to.

"You stubborn bastard," she whispered. "You kept him alive. You actually kept him alive."

Soren’s eyes fluttered open. They were hazy, unfocused, but they found her face in the dim light. "Valeria?"

"I’m here. We’re here. You’re safe now."

He looked at Nyra, still holding her hand. "He’s sick. Fever. It’s been two days. I couldn’t—I tried everything—"

"We’ll take care of him. We’ll take care of both of you." Valeria squeezed his shoulder. "You did good, Soren. You did so good. Now rest. Let us handle the rest."

He closed his eyes again, and Valeria stood, her heart full and aching and confused.

She had found him. She had brought him home. And yet she knew, standing there in the cold hut with the rain dripping through the roof, that nothing between them had really changed. He had held the prince’s hand. He had risked his life for the prince. He loved the prince.

And Valeria would have to learn to live with that.

"Let’s move," she said, her voice steady. "We have a long walk ahead of us."