Page 177 of Vasmora

“What did you dream?”

“That I fell into a cavern made of thick roots.” Kazhimyr could see it vividly, as if he were dreaming it right then. “A terrifying being, one I’d never seen in my life, cut me with his nail. From that cut, grew veins as black as bog mud and the sensation of something crawling beneath my skin.”

“And you experienced this dream in the mortal lands.”

“In the rotting tree. When I was swallowed into the ground.” Hands trembling, he raised the leg of his trousers just high enough to reveal the growing scourge beneath his skin, the only element of their surroundings that pulsed so fervently with life. And hellspit, it sickened him. “This plague is my doing.” He swiped up his blade and pierced the bulging abscess, teeth clenched as black oozed out of it and sizzled as it spilled onto the ground.

Dravien sat forward, his eyes fixated, lips twisted with disgust. “Godsblood. You crossed into Aethyria this way? Through the Umbravale?”

“When Zevander opened it. I felt no pain walking through.” Brow furrowed, Kazhimyr shook his head. “But I swear to you, I did not sense the creatures burrowed inside of me either. I feel myself. Except …”

“Except?”

“There are moments when the blackness settles over me. And I hear voices speaking.” Eyes closed, Kazhimyr focused on the sound that droned through his mind like the frenzied buzz of hornets. “There’s this incessant ringing in my ears.”

“And the craving for raw meat.”

“Yes. It’s unbearable and constant. I feel sick.” Kazhimyr grimaced as he lowered his pants leg over it, wishing he could carve it out of himself. “Which is why I want you to kill me. However you choose … just … be thorough about it.”

Dravien stared at him from across the fire, his face unreadable. “You’ve made no move to attack me in the time we’ve traveled.”

A bitter laugh escaped Kazhimyr, recalling the few times he’d been able to almost taste Dravien’s blood on his tongue. “Oh, I have.”

“But you stopped yourself.”

“By the will of the gods, not my own.”

“I don’t believe that’s true.”

Kazhimyr scoffed and shook his head. “Then, you’re a fool who tempts fate. The longer I breathe, the closer you tread toward a horrible death. I am a threat to everyone with whom I cross paths.”

“And you still have your wits about you,” Dravien argued.

“For now. The wound festers. The voices grow louder.”

“Then, silence them yourself.”

“I tried. Back at the boat. I intended to burn alongside them. But the pain, the ringing in my ears … I fell into the water.” He ground his jaw so hard, a spasm of pain struck his skull. “And you keep coming to my fucking rescue. Every time.”

“To be fair, I had no awareness that you were hiding spiders in your trousers.” The amusement in Dravien’s voice grated on Kazhimyr. Felt out of place for the seething rage and hunger that shook his bones. “But even if I had, I’m not sure it would’ve mattered much.”

Kazhimyr sneered. “Then, you are complicit in all of this. An accomplice to the world’s destruction.”

“I am your friend.” The words struck Kazhimyr like a slap across the face.

“We are not friends,” he snipped.

“Then, why haven’t you killed me yet?” That was a question Kazhimyr had pondered every day since he’d pulled him from that iron prison. “You’re starving for meat, yet you’ve not tried to consume me.”

His stomach lurched at the question, as though it, too, longed to know the answer. “I will. As this hunger claws at me, I’ll have no choice.”

“And until then, I will remain your friend. If the time comes, when your senses are drowning in hunger and voices, then I will kill you myself. But not tonight.”

Kazhimyr sneered again. Perhaps he should’ve eaten the Elvyniran as a lesson that there was no room for empathy, or friendship, in this world. And yet, a small part of him was relieved. “You are a shit assassin.”

Dravien chuckled. “And you’re a terrible thief.”

He bit back the urge to laugh. Had he been a better thief, maybe he’d have never landed his ass in a Solassion prison. Would’ve never met Zevander, nor traveled to the rotting mortal lands. No, he’d have starved on the streets. Probably turned Nilivir. Maybe even ended up dead already. “‘Least I didn’t go to prison trying to steal a golden cock.”