Fugitive of Death

Chapter 21

 The roof of my tent had blown off during the night to no surprise.

Pale early morning light beamed down into the glade, directly onto my face. Birdsong overhead roused me and I sat up, bleary-eyed. Scrubbing a hand down my face I cast my gaze toward Xander's tent—

And found it empty.

That woke me up. I glanced around our makeshift camping site. The horses were still tethered to the trees. All of Xander's belongings, his maps and correspondences, were still tucked away next to his bedroll. Even his food pack was left behind.

Which at the very least meant he hadn't abandoned me out here. But it also meant he may not have left willingly.

Foul play? Death offered up.

No, I don't think so, I said as I stood, continuing my investigation. That was when I noticed the empty scabbard still attached to his horse's saddle. On second thought, it could be possible.

I paused, considering the possibilities as I surveyed the camp for any sign of where Xander may have gone. That was when I heard the distant sound of grunting.

Shit.

With not much else to do, I followed the sounds of struggle deeper into the forest. Not long after, I noticed the accompanying sound of rushing water. A river came into view and with it, a single figure on the bank.

I slowed my pace as I approached.

Xander stood, sword raised and, to my misfortune, shirtless. Sweat ran in rivulets down the toned muscles of his arms, back, and abdomen. His short dark hair was plastered to his forehead, his pale hazel eyes focused on some unseen enemy.

I'd be a fool to say he was anything but captivating.

He turned his boot in the dirt and swung with a soft grunt. Alright, so he clearly wasn't in any danger. But I couldn't turn away as he meticulously practiced his form, the powerful thrusts, slashes, and blocks of swordplay something like a dance. Prince, swordsman, cartographer; he had quite the list of skills.

You find the prince pleasing to look at, Death cut in.

I'd be stupid not to, I answered honestly.

Xander stopped, one knee on the ground, sword raised above his head by both strong hands, the tendons and veins in his arms straining under his bronzed skin. He reminded me of the many marble statues I'd seen erected around Pyrgolis.

"How long are you planning to stand there watching?" he asked without so much as even looking my way.

"You were missing," I said far too quickly. "I thought something bad had happened."

He rose to his full height and retrieved his shirt which I hadn't noticed hanging from a nearby branch. "And you worried for my safety?"

I scoffed. "Worried I would incur King Kostas's wrath should I show up without his son."

A strange emotion flickered in the depths of his hazel eyes, there for a moment then gone just as fast. "Unlikely. My father will no doubt sing your praises from rooftops now that he has a Divine. You could have him parade about the streets in women's clothing and he'd still kiss your ass."

An actual laugh tumbled out of me. "Either way, I don't intend to meet the King alone, or at all if I can avoid it."

He tugged his shirt over his head, the sculpted planes of his muscles disappearing under the fabric. "I took the horses for water earlier. Go find a stone to use as a stool and saddle up. Unless you'd like my help again."