“Because of you. You see the good in people, even when they don’t deserve it. Your heart is pure, untainted. Mine...” He draws back slightly. “Mine’s scarred beyond recognition.”
“Scars tell stories of survival.” I touch the scars on my face. “They remind us of what we’ve overcome.”
“My little philosopher.” The corner of his mouth lifts. “Always finding light in the darkest places.”
I press my palm against his chest, feeling his steady heartbeat. “You survived Jerrod, and you protected your people.”
His fingers thread through my hair. “You make me sound like some kind of hero.”
“You are to me.”
Chapter Sixty-Seven
Annora
After spendingtime with Jasce in the valley, the first thing I think about doing is throwing myself into work. Working with my hands silences my mind, and the gods know I need that more than ever.
The soft, rhythmic chopping of vegetables fills my ears as I bring the knife down again and again. Carrots, potatoes, and turnips pile up under my steady hands.
“Will you stir the stew, My Lady?” the cook asks as she gestures toward the massive iron pot hanging over the roaring fire.
As I grab the spoon and plunge it into the bubbling mixture, my thoughts shift to my younger sisters, and I say a silent prayer for their safety.
Hopefully, Emerin and Tahira are well, and they are waiting for me to take them to Sharhavva. How I want that more than anything—to have them nearby, to watch them thrive.
My muscles strain as I continue to stir the soup, making sure nothing sticks to the bottom or sides of the pot. Such a simple task, yet it makes me feel like I’m contributing.
More vegetables need chopping. More water needs hauling to quench thirsty throats. More bread needs kneading to satisfy rumbling bellies.
One menial task flows seamlessly into the next, each requiring just enough of my attention to keep my thoughts from wandering back to those darker places.
My shoulders ache, and my feet throb by the time we finally serve the evening meal, but when I see the grateful faces of the warriors as they receive their heaping portions, something warm blooms in my chest. Something that makes me feel less broken inside. More whole again. Fractured, perhaps, but even fractures can be healed over time.
After I help serve the last warrior, I return to the cook’s fire, grab a piece of bread, and tear off a small piece, knowing I need to keep up my strength. The crust crackles between my fingers as I bring it to my lips.
Sillhavva Village.
The name echoes in my mind as I force myself to take that first bite. I discovered the name of the village three days ago on one of Jasce’s maps while he was meeting with his brothers.
I had traced the careful ink strokes until I found it—that tiny dot marking where homes once stood, where families once lived.
My fingers tremble as I tear off another small piece of bread. Tears prick at my eyes, but I blink them back. I won’t cry. I can’t anymore.
Tears won’t bring those people back. Won’t heal the fracture I ripped across this land.
I finish the last of the bread, then head toward Jasce’s tent. Maybe he’ll be back from meeting with his brothers.
As I step into the tent, my breath snags in my throat. Dozens of sketched seashells cover every surface. They’re pinned to the tent walls, scattered across his desk, arranged in careful patterns that make my artist’s heart ache with their beauty.
Jasce sits on the bed, watching me with those intense eyes that see straight through to my soul.
“Did you do this?” I ask as I take a step closer to where he sits.
“Yes.”
Something breaks inside me as I cross the space between us in three quick steps, settling onto his lap, and throwing my arms around his neck. “I don’t deserve you, Jasce.”
“Yes, you do.”
