The Gathering of the Hunt

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Aesira had prepared herself for a fight before the shadows had faded and firelight had refilled the room. With a flick of her fingers, she caused the flames to swell, chasing any of the lingering shadows out of the room, and revealing the defiant form of her once best friend. 

Zyanya blew out a frustrated breath, curling her hands into claw-like fists. Aesira followed the path of her eyes as they flicked over each of her companions. They lingered on her own face for a little longer than everyone else before flicking back to Kaedon. 

Her face schooled itself back into a facade of cool indifference. “Commander,” she greeted coolly, sounding very much like she wanted to claw his face off with her nails. 

“I would like to say that your greeting takes the prize for the most hostile reception of a figure in power, however I do seem to think that I have already taken the prize for that. Sorry to disappoint you on that front,” Aesira drawled, walls up so high and tight that her mask was completely unshakable. 

“It’s good to see that six months locked in a dungeon hasn’t ruined your sense of humour,” Zyanya replied, fighting to keep her voice steady. Her hands didn’t relax, muscles wound so tightly that Aesira was surprised that her muscles hadn’t snapped yet. 

“I don’t think anyone could possibly stand a chance at ridding Saa Mahana—” she jolted at the respectful use of her mother’s—her—title, “from her sense of humour. Honestly, most of her sarcasticness could rival our own master.” 

Aesira watched as Zyanya swallowed sharply, eyes flicking to the possible escapes—the still open window, the door that remained firmly shut—and came back to squarely meet her gaze, raising her chin and straightening her spine. She recognised that posture—it was one that she wore most days, betraying false confidence and forcing herself to act like she was in complete control of her life. “At least you’re unharmed,” she amended, this time managing to keep her words steady. 

A startled laugh burst free of her lips, complete shock overriding any feelings of apprehension that she still held. Kaedon shifted his body closer, fingers wrapping around the hilt of his sword, the closest thing to violence he had shown since climbing into his office.

“Unharmed?” she questioned, voice trembling with emotion—anger, fear, or something else that she couldn’t quite place—as the scones that lined the walls flared higher, sparks kissing the ceiling with a burning caress. Ignoring Kaedon’s quiet warning to be careful, she continued. “You knew—” she trailed off, not quite knowing what she was going to say. “You knew them. Don’t try to tell me otherwise, because even if you didn’t meet them in person, or weren’t on friendly terms with the royal family, you knew them. You knew what they had done to others that had been caught and exactly what they were capable of—what they would gladly test on me, and yet you truly think that I stand here unharmed?”

“You aren’t dead, are you? Where I come from, you would be considered unharmed.”

Aesira took a startled breath. “People can do worse things than kill you. You should know that by now.” Her words seemed so much older, more ancient than ones from a seventeen year old girl should ever sound. 

Zyanya took a step back. And another.  And another. Three more steps and she would be at the door, able to flee if she truly wanted to.

Would I let her go, Aesira wondered. She was tired. So damned tired, and not really wanting to confront the only friend that had once been the only person that didn’t treat her like she was more divine than human. 

"I did what I had to do," Zyanya repeated, and Aesira knew from the empty look plastered over her face, that the repeated words were beginning to sound empty, even to her own ears. Aesira retraced the paths of Zyanya’s gaze once more, narrowing when they rested on Talen for longer than nessecary.