Like Moths to a Flame // Sebastian Sallow x Male MC [Book One]

Chapter Thirty-Three: Into the Mountain

Sebastian was not doing well. Not even a little.

The pounding headache he'd been nursing for days showed no sign of relenting, and the constant buzzing in his head was only growing worse. It clawed at the edges of his mind, seeping into his sleep, leaving him drained, irritable, and simmering with, well, to be totally frank, pure, unadulterated rage.

It was no wonder no one wanted to be around him. Fair enough, really. In fact, he'd even snapped at poor, unsuspecting Amit just the other day for walking too slowly up the stairs, a reaction that, upon reflection, was perhaps a tad excessive. Maybe he'd apologize when he wasn't feeling like absolute rubbish.

Damien and Ominis were still keeping their distance, for the most part. Though, Damien had at least sent an owl, which was why Sebastian was here now, waiting.

Damien's owl had arrived before Anne's response, which did nothing to ease Sebastian's foul mood. He could only hope she'd found the note he'd tucked into their family crest. He'd debated sending another letter, just to be sure, but in the end, he decided against it. If Uncle Solomon intercepted it... No. One secret message would have to be enough.

The holidays had come and gone in a blur. In fact, classes resumed tomorrow. It should have felt like a fresh start, but it didn't. If anything, it just felt like more of the same.

He'd had no choice but to travel here by broom, a fact that irritated him more than he cared to admit. He'd "borrowed" one from Imelda, though, if he were being honest, "temporarily stolen" was probably more accurate. Telling her where he was going had been out of the question. Even if she wouldn't care - what with her time being wholly consumed by her 'broom trials' - he couldn't risk it.

The frigid mountain air should have sent a chill down Sebastian's spine, but he barely felt it. Lately, it seemed that cold hardly touched him at all. He tried not to dwell on why - that particular line of thought led nowhere good - but deep down, he knew. Just like the buzzing in his head, just like the whispers in the catacomb, it all traced back to the relic. The very one now tucked away - secret, safe - in his robe pocket.

His fingers ghosted over the relic's smooth surface through his robes, tracing its shape absentmindedly. He suddenly became aware of what he was doing. How long had his hand been there? He couldn't remember reaching for it... 

Startled, he yanked his hand away, just in time too. Footsteps crunched over the frost-hardened ground, and Damien emerged from the path ahead.

"Having a pleasant evening?" Damien asked, breaking the silence that had stretched between them for days.

Sebastian sighed. He considered saying something flippant - What do you think, Damien? Obviously not - just to be difficult. Or, better yet, closing the distance between them and kissing that insufferably perfect moue of a mouth until he forgot why he was so bloody miserable in the first place.

But neither option would end well. At least he didn't think.

So, he swallowed both impulses, and simply settled for: "Nothing pleasant about this coast. I spotted roves of Ranrok's Loyalists. Overheard one of them say they're headed to another cavern, like the one we found." His eyes narrowed. "How are they still one step ahead of us? They can't know about the triptych."

Damien regarded him warily. "I don't know," he admitted, raking a hand through his hair.

Sebastian should have been focused on his response, but for a fleeting moment, all he could see was the way Damien's blond locks, currently unbound, danced in the wind: loose, untamed, frustratingly captivating. He barely registered the words that followed.