The Heirs of Death

17.1 Singed Heart

SINGED HEART

The earth was cool and hard under my sore back, adding to the pain biting my spine. Five days of trekking on foot had done nothing but wear us to the last bit; even nights were not for rest if we wished to reach the witch's house and the port within the deadline Téors had mentioned. There had been a couple of nights in which we didn't sleep nor rest, instead moved fast through the woods encircling cities and villages, staying hidden from every single soul.

I rolled to one side, eyes still heavy as I stared at the dead cinders remaining from last night's fire before they darted at the empty spot opposite me. There was only Leon's cloak, a tattered piece of black fabric-a twin to mine-that we'd picked from a sleeping house yesterday. We left enough coppers for the family to get at least four new ones, but the nights were getting colder and our poor clothes that barely covered us were doing nothing against the cool winds.

Stretching, back still pressed against dirt and grass and mud caused by dew, I pulled myself up, stares taking in quickly the dying night, a few strokes of colors washing the dark sky. It was another day of walking before we reached first destination; hopefully, we would be at the witch's tomorrow at best, the day after it at worst.

I turned to the stream hidden not so far behind the bushes we'd settled next to, fingers running in my short, tangled hair, the stickiness of mud and dirt clinging to my skin and under my nails. My entire body was covered in dirt and spots of Gods-knew-what and sweat even when I had already washed twice in the streams we'd crossed.

It was only a few steps past the bushes and thickets that I caught Aedis sitting in the meadow, a torn piece of his cloak helping him drying his hair. His skin was so pale under the dimly growing light, glowing beneath the runes etched on him. What was supposed to be a top was laying next to him, leaving him shirtless, his figure as slender as a knife. It was so unlike the Leon I knew who wore glorious muscles after years of intense training and hunting. But the demon in front of me wasn't looking like he was starved to the point of dying, some muscles lining his back and arms. Apparently, our form was changeable, making us capable of reducing how catastrophic we looked like.

Windreapers, or the now called Fallen, had stronger bodies that could grow almost twenty times faster than a normal Ardorian. The week we would have before the tournament would be enough to return to full, well-kept form so we could show our enemies just how powerful we were supposed to be.

There was an unspeakable sort of relief and peace within me in knowing that this specie was gone and to never come back, thanks to Sorcha and Ramos and everyone that fought to bring them down, including Kallin.

I stopped next to Leon, crouching to untie my worn out boots as his eyes ran all over me more than twice. I only held his eyes, raising my eyebrows at the ghost of a smirk playing at his lips. I kicked my boots away and fell next to him, crossing my legs as I kept eyes on him, waiting.