Daughter of the Sword

12 || The Camp

THE STRANGLED GURGLE OF the man's gasps for breath stalk me for the remainder of the ride up into the mountains, three days of more silence that offer me a chance to sort myself out, turning over every possible thought in my head. I have more than one power, one trait. Even if it has happened before, I know, at the least, that my father has only one. Which means him discovering my strength is not an option.

A chill descends on me as we roll through the outskirts of the camp, far greater than I had anticipated. What I had envisioned as preparation for a singular battle rapidly morphs into a deep dread—this is a full-fledged offensive, not over a small slice of land, but for the whole war. I tear a single stitch and peer through, taking in tents rising like ghosts as we pass.

The army looks far from ready—in one of our final talks of the war, Beckett had told me a true, final push was still months away, and while Hallar was scrambling to push back, they were losing territory by the day. Our naval forces vastly overwhelmed theirs, costing them the majority of their expansive coastline. But they could not chase down the capital from the south alone. That is why we, from the west, had to push in.

I frown, each jostle of the carriage rattling me more as anxiety hollows out my body, and I'm thankful for the privacy of the carriage for hiding me as I lean over and heave, fighting to hold back the contents of my stomach. I breathe hard and swallow. Braced with my head between my knees, I wait for the feeling to pass, the late afternoon light filtering through the curtains just strong enough to illuminate the crusted blood on my boots. I killed a man. Me. Mera Calloway.

I sit up, a jarring motion that jolts me out of my own thoughts. I am not in the manor anymore, or even the castle, even with all its cold stone and locked cell doors. I am at the main camp of Lyria's war against Hallar, alone, able to fall back on nothing—not the safe solitude of my bedroom, not Beckett, not the caution of practice fights and fantasies of only ever defending myself. I am in far over my head. But if I do not learn to swim, and fast, this world will drown me and devour me and then blame me for my own demise.

I look down at the blood on my boots. It will not be the last I spill.

The carriage stops. Dizziness washes over me, but I grip the seat and close my eyes, feeling the air enter my lungs, burrow down to my belly, fill me with just enough confidence that my feet do not give way when they open the door and usher me out. One step at a time. Until I know more, that is all I can do.

But when they bring me into a tent, even that isn't enough to keep the air from rushing from my lungs as I come face to face with Luke.

The last time we stood this close was five months ago. As he fixes his eyes on me, on my clothing, and the blood and mud on my clothes, something flickers in his eyes--something that I, for the first time in my life, cannot read. My escort recedes, and I realize for the first time that we are alone.

"You're taller," I say. My voice scratches against my dry throat.

He's silent for so long that I worry he won't speak at all, that I've condemned myself to abandonment. Then, at last, he clears his throat, an awkward sound. "So are you."

I cringe inside, watching him take in the muscle on my arms, my legs. Even my face has changed, my delicate cheekbones filled out as Beckett changed my diet to help build more muscle. "What happens now?" I ask.

"We haven't decided."

"Oh."

Another silence.

"Where will I sleep?"

"Your own tent, far from the eyes of the soldiers."

I glance around. A woman, sleeping alone in a tent surrounded by her kingdom's military.