To Bleed a Crystal Bloom

by Sarah A. Parker

  Something about his touch makes me feel a little less hollow.

  His companionship, I realize, is one I take for granted. Even his closeness seems to loosen my knot of anxiety and plant little seeds of fire in my veins, taking away just a smidge of this bone-jarring cold.

  He leans in, breath cool on my ear. “You okay?”

  I nod, resisting the urge to rest my head against his arm and use it as a comfort pillow. “I’m fine.”

  The conversations ease, and the room gradually becomes quiet.

  Baze’s hand shifts, but he stays standing behind me and Rhordyn. A sentry at our backs.

  “Do we give him another hour?” someone asks, and I seek out the long face of a rusty-haired Eastern male. He’s slight like a thistle weed and just as prickly looking, with a sharp, beady stare the color of pine needles. But there’s power in the way he holds himself.

  “No,” Rhordyn answers. “He’s not coming.”

  “Who’s not?” I ask Baze, trying to ignore those crystal-blue eyes assessing me from the opposite side of the table.

  “The High Master of Fryst,” Baze whispers in my ear, and Zali rises from a seat four spaces away.

  The vision of her makes my breath catch, her willowy beauty a stark contrast to a room filled with mostly men.

  She’s dressed in tan leather pants and a chestnut top, armor hugging her curves—a breastplate that’s made from what appears to be bronzed scales. It looks impenetrable, yet the way it dips and bulbs enhances her lithe, feminine form.

  Her rosy hair is pulled back and secured in a tight bun, cheeks flushed from the chill she’s probably not used to—not with being from the Eastern Territory of Rouste where the sun burns the dunes into rolling hills of desolation.

  I barely recognize her; awed by her confident stance in front of this room full of people.

  “You all know why we’re here,” she announces, voice clear and lilting. “So I’m just going to cut straight to the point.”

  I glance at Rhordyn, who appears comfortable in his chair ...

  Perhaps Zali is running this meeting.

  “There’s been an alarming number of Vruk attacks across Fryst and Ocruth over the past four years. Not only are their pack numbers swelling, but these beasts are growing in both size and cunning at a discerning rate. Equally disturbing is that entire families have gone missing without a trace, children snatched in other circumstances.”

  An icy chill slithers up my spine.

  “These possible abductions often leave a scene too clean to be pinned on a pack of rogue, blood-lusting mutts,” Zali continues, spitting the last word with distaste. “Which means the disappearances and frenzied Vruk raids are either entirely unrelated or someone is governing both; weakening our smaller regions, instilling fear, and bleeding our populations.” She plants balled fists to stone while she surveys every person sitting around the table.

  Bodies lean forward as if lured by her pause ...

  “I know it seems like a stretch after years of relative peace, but we need to prepare for the possibility of a territory war.”

  A second of silence beats by before a riot of yelling erupts—Low Masters and Mistresses tossing verbal blows back and forth across the table. The sharp scent of fear makes me want to breathe through my mouth.

  As far as I’m aware, the boundary fences have been in place for years. There have been small, regional battles between neighboring Low Masters and Mistresses, but nothing that has threatened the walls that bind us to our overriding territories.

  Nothing that has threatened the colors we wear.

  Blunt voices bounce off the curved stone walls, assaulting me from all angles. The Bahari male sitting opposite me is picking dirt from under his nails, wearing an expression akin to bone-deep boredom.

  He obviously has very little skin in the game.

  “What are you suggesting we do?” a man with chocolate hair and piercing green eyes bellows. I recognize him as one of the Low Masters from Rhordyn’s territory who often shows face at the monthly Tribunal.

  “Unite,” Zali remarks without hesitation.

  “And what about High Master Vadon?” someone yells from my left, and my brow buckles.

  “He stopped trading with us four years ago,” Rhordyn states, his low voice rolling through the room like thunder, cauterizing every other spill of sound.

  He’s reclined in his seat, arms knotted over his chest, not even looking down the table at the man who just asked that question ...

  He’s looking at the Bahari male.

  “Neither he nor any of his Regional Masters are here today, and every sprite I’ve sent his way since trading ships stopped traveling down the River Norse has not returned. You do the math.”

  “Perhaps he’s simply been affected by the storms!” someone yells, and more chaotic muttering ensues.

  Zali stalks to the edge of the room where she heaves a large sack off the ground, cheeks reddening as she hauls it over her shoulder. Once standing in front of her seat again, she lugs it onto the table with a heavy thud.

  The noose of bodies seems to tighten as we collectively lean forward, even the Bahari male.

  Everyone but Rhordyn.

  A smell hits me, but it’s not the chafing odor of partially rotten flesh that has my throat cinching. It’s the underlying waft of wet dog—a scent that casts a line into my memories, hooking on something too big and vicious to pull to the surface.

  I’m about to stand and walk out of the room when Rhordyn snatches my hand and pins it against his thigh.

  I turn to hiss at him, but Zali grips the corners of the sack and tugs, sending a big, fluffy, frozen head rolling across the table.

  My hand flies to my mouth in an effort to catch the garbled sound that rushes out.

  People stand and point and gag, screams bouncing off the curved walls. Sour-smelling vomit spills across the table, though the putrid stench is swiftly lost to the cinder scent of pure, undiluted fear.

  Rhordyn’s hand tightens, offering me a frosty anchor while I’m caught in the crossfire of that vacant stare ...

  Vruk.

  I gawk at a wide, flat maw—at blood-stained teeth exposed by its peeled back lips, as though the creature died mid-snarl. The gray, shaggy mane has been hacked through, leaving a slice of exposed meat and bone and dried blood.

  A thick neck that used to be attached to a hulking body.

  “Breathe, Orlaith.”

  I try, but my lungs are made of stone. If I force them to inflate, I’m certain they’ll shatter.

  The trembling ground.

  That awful screeching sound.

  No.

  No, no, no ...

  Baze’s warm hands land on my shoulders, pinning me to the chair with their comforting weight, but it’s not enough to tamp that pressure bulging inside my skull.

  “Look at me.”

  I can barely hear Rhordyn’s voice through the ringing in my ears, but I can’t do what he’s asked. I can’t peel my eyes from that devastating maw—worried that if I do, it’ll come back to life and snap at me. Rip me up until I’m nothing but scattered pieces.

  Rhordyn drops my hand, and for a second I’m adrift; floating without anchor. But then he grabs my thigh under the table, and a breath strikes the back of my throat.

  “Look. At. Me,” he growls against my ear so ardently that it shoves through the haze.

  I peel from my nightmare and stare into eyes that are ruthless. Stark, frozen lakes that take no mercy.

  “It’s dead, Orlaith. Nothing can hurt you so long as you’re with me. Do you hear?”

  I think I nod.

  “You’re going to breathe,” he orders, fingers digging in, grip tightening to the point of pain, and I suck a sharp gasp.

  The icy wave of oxygen barrels into my lungs, enriched with the scent of him. It’s a balm for my insides, the instant relief tempering me.

  The shrill sound in my ears tapers enough for me to hear the ongoing commotion, voices
rioting back and forth.

  Baze lifts his hands.

  Rhordyn’s throat works, and he loosens his grip, though he doesn’t let go. His hand stays wrapped around my thigh as he surveys the room.

  “Silence.”

  He doesn’t have to yell for his voice to rip through the tumult.

  Some sit, others continue to stand, our combined attention on the decapitated head. Swallowing thickly, I notice the stark difference to the Vruks that haunt me in my sleep ...

  This one has a long, shaggy coat.

  “Why is it so ... fluffy?” someone asks, pointing an unsteady finger.

  “Almost all the Vruks I’ve been encountering over the past few years have the same thick winter coat, no matter what time of the year it is,” Zali responds, gaze falling on me. A small line appears between her brows, and then she’s rolling the frozen head back into the sack.

  I try to avoid looking at the dark smear on the table as Zali treads to the edge of the room and lets the head thunk to the ground, swiping her hands on her pants. “These days, Fryst is almost entirely frozen all year round. Based on the evidence, it appears these mutts are growing in strength and numbers in the Deep North before venturing over the alps.”

  My stomach threatens to turn inside out.

  More whispers spill from tight lips and bared teeth.

  “What does that mean?” someone asks from the other side of the table.

  “One of two things,” Zali states. “Either Fryst is overrun by Vruks, to the point where they’re running out of food and spilling across the mountains in search of fresh game ... or High Master Vadon is purposely breeding and feeding the mutts, then setting them free by the border and letting them do his dirty work.”

  The room goes so silent you could hear my needle drop. I can feel the weight of a thousand thoughts settling upon my shoulders; can see it in the many pairs of wide-open eyes—some staring at the High Mistress of Rouste, others at the empty space before them.

  “Neither option is ideal,” Zali tacks on, her honey eyes lacking their usual warmth. “If the Vruks keep growing in numbers, strength, and cunning ... then bunkers may no longer be enough.”

  “They’re not enough now!” the thistly man yells, spittle flying, and a number of people mutter their agreement. “We’re cowering when we should be fighting!”

  “We should be preparing,” Zali corrects with a raised voice that silences the room. “Rhordyn recently sent a scouting ship down the River Norse, and there’s now a gate larger than this castle barring the border entry.”

  Eyes widen and gasps spill. I try to look equally shocked, as if I’m not a cloistered hermit who has a limited sense of the world beyond my Safety Line.

  “We don’t want to be caught unprepared if those gates crack open and something nefarious spills out,” she continues. “A territory war on anyone’s terms but our own could shrink our borders, decimate our populations, and set us back centuries. Nobody wants that, and nobody wants to continue living in fear of Vruks tearing through our villages and ripping apart our loved ones.”

  People nod, eyes turning cold and grim, while I try not to wither under the darting glances that dare to pick at me: the living reminder of just such an attack.

  “So, the question is ...” Zali pulls a tawny badge off her lapel and throws it at the table. It comes to a halt next to the rusted grate—only a few inches away from tumbling through one of the holes into the unknown abyss. “Do we sit back while our smaller villages are plucked off one by one? While our people are taken or left mauled in a field, and we’re forced to feed liquid bane to anyone left alive but wounded? Or do we unite, combine our assets, strengthen our walls, and prepare to not only defend what’s ours, but to stake the problem in the heart and ensure the thriving future of our lands?”

  The grip on my thigh tightens.

  Rhordyn tosses a black badge on the table—one stamped with his lone-sword sigil—and murmurs follow.

  A stout man with red hair and a crooked spine stands with the help of two younger males wearing the same rusty-colored garb. Years are etched around eyes that regard the High Mistress of Rouste with tenderness, and he tosses his own tawny badge on the table. “My region is small, and I have limited resources since a pack of mutts tore through my village a month ago, but I’m happy to honor this pledge if it comes to it.”

  I glance at Zali, noting her smile that looks more sad than happy.

  Badges add to the growing pile, and I find myself avoiding the source of a heated audit branding my face from across the table.

  Rhordyn’s like a rock beside me. I’m not even sure he’s breathing as that pile grows and grows ... until there’s nobody left but the Bahari male who wears the sun for skin.

  My gaze finally lifts, breath catching when our stares collide, and I swelter from the scorch of his narrowed focus. I can’t breathe under the force of which it’s branding me, but I refuse to let that show.

  He clears his throat and slips his leg off the arm of his chair before leaning forward. Seconds drip by, but they feel like minutes before his eyes flick to Rhordyn. “I request a private audience.”

  The words are deep, husky bolts that echo through the room suffering in otherwise stark silence, striking me over and over again.

  I look sideways, hear Rhordyn grind his teeth, and something heavy lands in my stomach ...

  “Fine.”

  I wiggle my fingers into the leather glove, another layer to help ward off the chill as I descend Stony Stem, seeing but not seeing, stepping but not stepping, mulling over everything I just heard.

  A week ago, my world was huge ... at least in my mind. Now, it feels tiny compared to the bigger, overriding picture Rhordyn shoved down my throat when he dragged me to that meeting.

  He must know I’m simmering. Probably the reason he had Baze escort me to my tower post-Conclave whilst he stormed down the hall in the opposite direction, leaving my curiosity to feast on that wealth of startling information like a starved child.

  I have questions.

  The man has me just where he wants me—interest piqued, rattled enough to want to know more. He’s not forcing me over my Safety Line, but instead, threading his arm inside my cage and feeding me scraps of the outside world. Perhaps trying to prove how fragile the bars I’ve put around myself really are.

  The bastard.

  Battling my other glove, I’m exiting the stairwell into the fifth-level hallway when the hairs on the back of my neck lift ...

  I spin, drive my bare foot into an unprotected kidney, and corral a man twice my size up against the wall with my hairpin pointed at his carotid.

  He puffs out a startled sound, cradling his abdomen, eyes wide with surprise.

  The Bahari male.

  “Well,” he chokes, “I wasn’t expecting that.”

  My hair unwinds, seeming to realize it’s no longer clipped in place, falling heavily around my shoulders.

  “Do you make a habit of sneaking up on women?” I hiss, digging the weapon deeper, almost enough to draw a bead of blood.

  It’s tempting. I’m on edge, and this asshole keeps dropping in on my alone time, reminding me the castle is swarming with strangers—something I’m trying so very hard not to think about.

  He lifts a brow. “If I’d wanted to sneak, we certainly wouldn’t be in this position right now.”

  “You’re suggesting you let me get the better of you ...”

  Those eyes gleam like sky-born crystals, and from this close, I can see specks of purple around his irises.

  “I’m suggesting that I’m not opposed to being pinned to the wall by a beautiful woman.”

  I shove back, leaving him lounging against the stone, a smooth smirk kinking the corner of his lips. There’s a mark where my hairpin was dug into his neck, and the sight of it gives me an odd sense of satisfaction.

  Baze would be proud, even if this male is insinuating he purposely let down his guard. No man would happily allow someone to kick him in
the kidney.

  His eyes narrow, head tilting to the side, revealing a glimpse of his undercut. I spot the scrawling lines that are barbered into it—like an artist took a blade to the half-shorn canvas and turned it into a work of art.

  Suddenly self-conscious, I hold the clip between my teeth and sweep my hair back, twisting it into a heavy knot at the nape of my neck before securing it in place.

  His gaze doesn’t waver, hunting every movement like a shark who just caught the scent of blood. Though there’s something ... more about it. Like those eyes are peeling back my layers, one by one, assessing me for flaws.

  “What a pretty flower to keep locked in a big, rocky tower.”

  My head snaps back. “Excuse me?”

  He jerks his chin toward the entry of Stony Stem.

  I realize with a start that he’s insinuating Rhordyn keeps me imprisoned.

  “No—” I shake my head, tone adamant. “He doesn’t. It’s not like that.”

  “Doesn’t look that way to me,” he purrs, crossing his arms and ankles, looking far too comfortable at the foot of my tower. “Has anyone ever told you how striking the color of your eyes are?”

  I ball my hands into tight little fists that hang at my sides.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Cainon,” he answers far too swiftly, like the word was already sitting on his tongue, waiting to be thrown. “But you can call me Cain.”

  “Do you want something, Cainon? Did you lose direction on your way to your meeting with Rhordyn? Or perhaps you require an escort back to the guest suites on the ground floor?”

  He pushes off the wall and pockets his hands, shoulders lax as he strides forward a step. There’s a shift in his eyes—the lofty sharpness falling away, replaced with liquid swirls of a summer sea. “I wanted to apologize. For earlier.”

  My mouth falls open, closes again, throat tightening.

  Oh.

  My feet move of their own accord, sending me on a mindless trail down the hall underwhelmed by shafts of gray light diving through the windows, putting that particular conversation well and truly at my back.

  I don’t want his apology. I want him to forget it happened and leave me the hell alone.