We Three Heroes

by Lynette Noni

  His lungs burned as the roses gave way to a topiary maze, but he didn’t slow, the note clutched desperately in his fist as he navigated his way to the centre and towards the pond at the heart of the labyrinth. He knew it was Luka’s favourite place to visit when he came home, somewhere far away from their mother and father, a hidden world surrounded by majestic willows and nothing but the serenity of nature.

  It was pristine… untouched… peaceful. The only thing Luka liked about Chateau Shondelle, the only sanctuary he’d ever known while growing up in their ancestral home.

  It was there that Jordan was certain he would find his brother.

  And he soon discovered he was right, since he arrived at the icy pond just in time to watch as Luka dropped from the branch of his favourite willow tree… with a rope noosed around his neck.

  In the split second that passed as he fell, Luka’s brilliant blue eyes met Jordan’s, an apology and a plea for understanding in his teary gaze. And then the rope caught, the echo of cracking bone filled the clearing… and Luka’s bright eyes never looked at anything ever again.

  “Jordan—Jordan!”

  A rough shake to his shoulder brought Jordan back to the present, and he looked up to see Hunter standing before him and leaning down to eye level, his normally stoic features flooded with concern.

  Jordan understood why when he realised that there were dots at the edges of his vision—a side effect of the short, shallow breaths he was unable to control, with them not pumping his blood with enough oxygen.

  Overwhelmed by the memory of his brother’s death—something he never wilfully allowed himself to recall—Jordan struggled to regulate his breathing. His lungs burned almost as badly as they had that day six years ago when he’d run faster than he’d ever run before in his life, and yet he’d still been too slow.

  If only he’d made it there sooner. He could have saved his brother—he could have stopped him.

  Instead, Luka was dead.

  And now, Skyla was dead, too.

  Next, D.C. would be dead. And Bear. And Alex. And everyone else Jordan cared for. Aven had told him as much—shown him as much—over and over, every single day when he’d been Claimed. The Meyarin had shared in vivid detail exactly how he planned to kill them all, how he was going to torture them until they begged for death. He’d shown Jordan fabricated visions of their final moments, the images so realistic that Jordan didn’t need to close his eyes to recall them; they were burned into his brain.

  The Aven who haunted his nightmares was right. Jordan’s will might once again be his own, but a part of him was still Claimed, and would be forevermore.

  ‘You’re mine, Jordan Sparker. Forever.’

  He was never going to be rid of the taint Aven had left in him. He was always going to be scarred. And despite what Hunter had said, Jordan could see no beauty in what he had been through, in what he had survived. Because while he may have lived, others had died. And no matter how much he’d wanted to, he hadn’t been able to save them.

  Death, death, death. It was all Jordan saw when he closed his eyes. Day after day, night after night. Luka. Skyla. Everyone else he loved. Real and false—so much death.

  “I was hiding.”

  Three words. Jordan had no idea how long Hunter had been trying to break through the haze surrounding him, but those three words managed to finally penetrate.

  “I was hiding when Aven Claimed my brother,” Hunter said. His voice was husky, the emotion he’d been holding back earlier evident in every line of his body. “Callum made me promise, made me swear to stay out of sight, no matter what I heard. No matter what I saw. He knew—somehow, he knew what was going to happen.” Hunter pulled in a rough breath. “I was hiding when I heard Aven give the order, and I stayed hiding as Callum raised the dagger and plunged it into his own chest.” Whispering now, he shared, “Not a day goes by when I don’t wonder what would have happened if I’d tried to save him.”

  Hunter was breathing almost as heavily as Jordan, but he continued, his voice growing stronger, “Only time and experience have helped me realise that there was nothing I could have done. Callum was given a direct order, and there was no way he could have fought it.” Hunter’s gaze locked on Jordan. “I need you to hear me on this, Jordan: you are not responsible for Skyla’s death. You had no choice but to follow orders—the fault lies with Aven, and Aven alone. Not even Calista Maine bears the burden of judgement on this, despite it being her who dealt the killing stroke. From beginning to end, it was all Aven.”

  Blood pounding in his ears, Jordan tried to process all he’d just heard. Logically, he knew Hunter was right. He’d known it even while Claimed at the time, having fought in vain against Aven’s will for weeks, having searched for any kind of loophole that might allow him to warn his friends, having tried with all his might to keep the Meyarin’s plans from succeeding. But in the dark of the night, logic didn’t keep the guilt away, even if Jordan knew better.

  Still, hearing Hunter verbalise his beliefs so succinctly certainly helped Jordan begin to breathe a little easier.

  “As for Luka,” Hunter said, and Jordan found his chest tightening all over again, “I know all about your brother, Jordan. Possibly more than you would believe. And I can tell you with absolute certainty that if he was intent on taking his life—which he was—then there was nothing, absolutely nothing you could have done to stop him.”

  Having gone from hyperventilating to now scarcely being able to draw a mouthful of air, Jordan whispered, “You don’t know that.”

  “I do,” Hunter said with a confidence Jordan couldn’t ignore. “You might have managed to stop him that day if you’d arrived in time, but it would have only delayed the inevitable. He would have made sure that his next attempt wasn’t interrupted.”

  “How do you know all this?” Jordan demanded. “You don’t—How can—” Unable to stay seated while Hunter stood above him, Jordan jumped to his feet and cried, “You weren’t there! You have no idea what you’re talking about!”

  “You forget, Jordan, that Luka was once one of my students,” Hunter said, unfazed by Jordan’s outburst. “And much like with you, my gift allowed me to understand him better than I’m sure he would have liked.”

  That was something Jordan could believe, even if he struggled with all the rest.

  His focus intent, Hunter said, “Your brother was smart, funny, full of compassion and kindness to those around him. He was a rare human being, beloved by all who had the pleasure of knowing him.”

  Jordan grit his teeth, doing everything he could to hold back the emotions he was barely managing to keep from erupting again.

  “Yet despite all that,” Hunter continued, “he struggled to fit in. To feel accepted for who he was. He found it difficult to ignore the pressure of expectation he felt was placed upon him at birth.” Quietly, Hunter added, “No matter how many of us tried to talk to him, tried to help him, that pressure eventually became too much.”

  Jordan thought his lungs might collapse if his teacher didn’t stop talking soon.

  “There was nothing you could have done for him, Jordan,” Hunter said softly. “You know as well as I do that Luka never would have been able to follow through with those expectations forced upon him. And he never would have tied someone else to his fate and made them suffer through the future he believed he had to endure. So he made a decision.”

  Hunter placed a hand on Jordan’s shoulder again, his grip much gentler this time. “It was a horrible, sad ending to his life, one that neither he nor you should have had to suffer. But it can’t be undone, and there is little point in blaming yourself for something that was never within your control.” His hand squeezed lightly as he finished, even softer than before, “You need to let your scars start to heal, Jordan. Luka would have wanted that for you.”

  Jordan turned to look at the fire, blinking quickly to keep his tears at bay. For six years now, he’d managed to push back all thoughts about his brother, to repress the gu
ilt and anger and self-loathing. But ever since Aven had taken away his willpower and stripped his soul bare, Jordan had been drowning.

  It wasn’t just that he’d been forced to lie to Alex, D.C. and Bear at Raelia, telling them that Luka was alive when he’d known without a shadow of a doubt that his brother was dead. That had been agonising, and yet it didn’t compare to how Aven had made him re-live the hanging scene, over and over for five weeks, never giving him a moment’s peace or letting him forget what he’d witnessed, what he’d failed to keep from happening.

  Now, taking in Hunter’s words, for the first time since he’d skidded to a halt beside the frozen pond and watched the rope catch around his brother’s neck, Jordan almost felt as if he… understood. Or at least, understood that there was nothing he could have done. Because Hunter was right—the reasons motivating Luka’s decision never would have disappeared. Without learning to accept that, to accept himself, he would have tried again… and again… and again. And eventually he would have succeeded, with or without Jordan there to watch it happen.

  The truth wasn’t easy for Jordan to acknowledge. But as he stood staring at the fire, something loosened within him, something that had been locked up tight for years. A scar beginning the long process of healing.

  Hopefully the first of many.

  And when he finally found the courage to turn back and look at Hunter only to see tears shining in his teacher’s eyes, Jordan realised that he wasn’t the only one choosing a path of healing tonight, just as he wasn’t the only one still dealing with the loss of a brother who had taken his own life, willingly or not.

  “Does it get any easier?” Jordan rasped out.

  “Some scars never heal,” Hunter whispered again. Only, this time he added, “But with time and care, they can fade.”

  Jordan allowed the hope of that to settle somewhere deep inside him.

  “Here’s to fading scars, then,” he said, raising his nearly empty mug to Hunter, who, after hesitating only a moment, collected his own and clinked it against the side.

  “To fading scars,” the teacher agreed. “And the hope of healing.”

  And together they drained the last of their mead before calling up another round, taking their seats again in front of the fire, and basking in the comforting silence of each other’s company.

  Seven

  Jordan was bleary-eyed and headachy the next morning as he made his way across the grounds towards the food court for a late—very late—breakfast.

  His uncomfortable state was partly due to his lack of sleep over the course of the week, in particular the late night he’d just had, having not left Hunter’s quarters until dawn. But more than that, Jordan was mindful enough to realise that he was also hungover, since despite knowing better, he hadn’t stopped at just two mugs of spiced mead in front of the fire.

  In his defence, he’d needed it—which was also the only reason why Hunter had allowed it. The emotional upheaval of their conversation was not something Jordan wanted to repeat in a hurry—or ever—and that wasn’t even taking into account the physical strain of their hours spent hunting in the forest beforehand.

  Physically, mentally, emotionally—in every possible way, Jordan was shattered. Enough that he ended up deciding to bypass the food court and instead stumbled straight towards the Med Ward, knowing that even though it was Sunday, he wouldn’t last the day without some kind of medicated assistance.

  Unlike his visit with Hunter a few hours earlier, when Jordan entered the Ward this time, Fletcher was already there. The doctor glanced up upon Jordan’s arrival, a smile overtaking his features that was almost as bright as his pristine lab coat.

  “Hunter mentioned you might drop by this morning.” Fletcher’s smile widened as he added, “You look terrible.”

  Jordan pulled a face. “I feel worse than I look.”

  Chuckling, Fletcher said, “Usually it’s the other way around.”

  “You’ve obviously never sampled Hunter’s wares.” Jordan groaned when his stomach lurched, then winced as pain stabbed between his temples. “I think he poisoned me.”

  Fletcher was altogether too amused for Jordan’s liking. “That’s what you get for imbibing.” His face softened. “Normally I maintain strict rules about students and recreational substances, leaving them to suffer the consequences of the morning after so they might make better choices in the future. But like Hunter, I believe your circumstances are unique enough to allow for a free pass. Just this once.”

  His final three words were a clear warning, and Jordan nodded his understanding—a mistake, he learned quickly, as the room began to spin enough that he had to close his eyes and take a deep breath to keep the contents of his stomach from resurfacing.

  Another light chuckle had Jordan reopening his eyes, if slowly, only to keep them narrowed at Fletcher. “This isn’t funny.”

  “On the contrary,” the doctor disagreed. “You should see yourself right now.”

  As his headache stabbed again, Jordan hissed through his teeth, “You’re the most sadistic doctor I’ve ever met, you know that?”

  “You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Fletcher replied, walking a few steps away to rifle through the closest medical cabinet. He came back and handed over a light green vial along with a small packet of orange powder. “Drink first. Then swallow the powder.”

  Jordan didn’t need further encouragement. He downed the pain reliever in one go, his headache disappearing almost instantly. He then tore open a corner of the clear packet and threw back the powder, the dryness of it needing a few chewing swallows before it was all gone. He scrunched his nose at the mix of flavours—on its own, the pain reliever offered a fresh, minty taste, while the unknown powder was a blend of citrus fruits. Separately, they would have been pleasant. Together, not so much.

  “Mmm. Minty oranges. My favourite.”

  Fletcher’s eyes twinkled. “You’re welcome.”

  Jordan smiled back at the doctor, and not just because Fletcher’s merry attitude was contagious—also because the powder had made his nausea disappear entirely.

  “Instant hangover cure, huh?”

  “Don’t ask me what’s in it,” Fletcher warned, “or you’ll be feeling sick all over again.”

  Jordan raised his eyebrows but decided to heed the doctor’s warning.

  “Here,” Fletcher said, pushing one final item towards Jordan.

  Recognising it as a rehydration toffee, Jordan said, “It’ll be like a party in my mouth.”

  True enough, as soon as he placed the toffee on his tongue, the sweet flavour mingled with the mint and citrus, but he knew better than to complain. It was, after all, his own fault. And despite the unpleasant taste sensation he was experiencing, he was grateful Fletcher wasn’t leaving him to face a day of pain and sickness.

  “I really appreciate this, Fletch,” Jordan said around the toffee. “Sadistic or not, there’s no one I’d rather have my back.” He paused, then clarified, “At least medically.”

  Fletcher huffed out a laugh before he turned serious. “I don’t suppose you’d like to have a chat about the dark shadows under your eyes?”

  Jordan stilled but he recovered quickly enough to play it off. “I’m hungover, remember? You’ve already said I look like utter—”

  “I’ve been watching you closely all week, Jordan. The shadows were there before this morning.”

  Jordan’s stomach tightened but he attempted a quirky grin. “Watching me closely? Stalker, much?”

  Apparently Fletcher wasn’t willing to let it go. “I know you haven’t been sleeping, Jordan. Even if you weren’t exhibiting physical signs of excessive fatigue—which you are—my personal quarters overlook the lake. I’ve seen you out there most nights. You and Delucia, both.” His green eyes were filled with compassion. “It’s understandable, given what you’ve been through. And healing takes time, especially for psychological wounds. But I want you to know I’m here if you want to talk, and that there are sleepin
g aids I can provide you with, if you so wish.”

  Emotionally spent from everything he’d already offloaded in the last twelve hours, all Jordan could do was nod and say, with feeling, “Thanks, Fletch. That means a lot.” Then, sensing a spark of his old self returning, his lips twitched as he added, “And it’s good to know you’re so quick to offer drugs to your favourite students. Why didn’t I know this about you before?”

  Fletcher watched him closely for a moment, reading him carefully, before his mouth curled up at the corners and his eyes twinkled once more. He quickly schooled his features, though, and after raising a single arched brow, he said, “What makes you think you’re one of my favourites?”

  A laugh left Jordan, the sound genuine and leaving him feeling better than he had in a long time. “Don’t kid yourself. We both know I’m a favourite for every faculty member here at Akarnae.” He grinned roguishly. “What’s not to love?”

  Making a scoffing sound, Fletcher pressed a hand to Jordan’s shoulder and gave him a hearty nudge towards the exit. “If that’s your perception of reality, then I think you might still be a little drunk.”

  “It’s okay, Fletch,” Jordan said, somehow managing to keep a straight face. “I won’t tell anyone how you feel. We wouldn’t want to make the other students jealous.”

  “Get out of my Ward and go do something useful with your life,” Fletcher said, shoving again, harder this time.

  “Hey, psychologically wounded here, remember?” Jordan said, rubbing his shoulder while hiding another grin, amazed that he could joke about it and do so with such cheer. “No need to add physically to that, too.”

  Fletcher pointed to the door. “Out, Jordan.”

  Jordan couldn’t contain his humour any longer and he chuckled quietly as he gave a mocking salute, before turning and heading towards the exit. Just as he reached the door, Fletcher called his name, so he paused to look back over his shoulder.