Page 91 of Vasmora

“Brilliant. So, we could live or die tonight.”

“We’re not going to die. That much I can promise.”

The sound of approaching footsteps dragged Zevander’s attention toward the cave entrance, where any one of the men from camp stood, holding a tray of meats, dried fruit, a cask of what he presumed to be wine or water, and bread. The stranger stepped past the barrier, as if it wasn’t there, and placed the tray on the floor. Without a word, he exited the cave as freely as he’d arrived.

Without hesitation, Maevyth scrambled on hands and knees toward the food, and Zevander strode ahead of her, gripping her shoulder.

“Wait.” He knelt alongside the tray, smelled the food, the cask, which held a slightly mineral scent, like water. He took a bite of the meat first, knowing damned well how hungry she must’ve been right then, but he refused to risk the possibility of poisoning. Hungry, or not.

Savory and delicious, it didn’t seem to be tainted. He sipped the water next, and at no reaction, he handed it off to her. She gulped the fluids as if she hadn’t been given a sip in weeks. Perhaps she hadn’t, though he was certain humans required water more frequently than mancers. She grabbed one of the legs of meat, and the moment she bit into it, she let out a quiet moan.

Leaving the food for her, Zevander checked the barrier again, attempting to push his hand through. The invisible wall wavered but didn’t give. Frustrated, he turned back to Maevyth, who gnawed at the meat, her fingers and face shining with grease. Starved beyond any sense of pride. Zevander had known that hunger himself.

Loyce had broken countless mancers who were physically stronger, with the ability to heal from the wounds she’d inflicted. He couldn’t imagine a mortal at the mercy of the vile wretch.

He ground his jaw, wishing to gods he’d throttled the life right out of her. However long it would’ve taken.

I failed her.

He screwed his eyes shut, the truth in those words like a blade in his chest.

“I must look unsettling.” Maevyth lowered the meat from her mouth as she wiped the back of her hand across her greasy lips, still chewing her last bite.

Standing pressed against the wall, he rubbed his knuckles against his palm, and gave a slight shake of his head. “I regret my decision to leave her breathing, is all.”

“I’d sooner die than live through what’s coming for her. The things she did …” Whatever horrific visuals passed through her mind had her lips trembling and twisting with disgust. “She deserves it.”

Zevander lowered his gaze, and a quiet seething rage smoldered inside of him, a blazing fire beneath a frozen lake. “I should’ve followed you through that archway. To hell with the rest of them.”

“Don’t.” She shook her head. “Don’t do this. I refuse to let you shoulder this, too.”

He bit his tongue against her words, particularly when he caught a glimpse of her bruises and the healing gash across her lips. “I suspect you need some rest. I’ll watch over you.” He put some distance between them, though the urge to hold her was unbearable. His muscles burned for it. For her.

She stared off, eyes lost to gods knew what. “I felt so much stronger in the thick of it. It’s only now that I’m tired.”

“I know, A’miszhla. Sleep.”

“Maybe just a few minutes.” Abandoning her plate of food, she crawled closer to the fire and curled up beside it, burying her face in his borrowed cloak.

Perhaps not even a minute passed before he could hear her quiet snores.

With his back pressed to the cave wall, Zevander slid to the ground and clutched his skull.

In the silence, he sank into his rage and loathing.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

KAZHIMYR

Hidden alongside the road leading to the general’s palace, Kazhimyr watched a lone guard pace. A short distance up the road stood a second guard. From there, a third. Clad in golden armor, the soldier whistled as he plopped down on a stone wall that lined the road, his back toward where Kazhimyr crouched in the brush. Had his superior gotten a glimpse of him, he’d have been reprimanded for his laziness.

Kazhimyr slinked toward him like a snake in the grass, blade at the ready.

In one swift move, he cupped the soldier’s mouth and slit his throat in the narrow exposure between his breastplate and helmet.

Blood gushed out of him, the soldier gasping and choking, as Kazhimyr dragged his body over the edge of the wall into the brush.

While the soldier sputtered out his last breaths, Kazhimyr quickly donned the man’s breastplate and pauldrons that were still wet with his sweat, then slipped the helmet over his head.