Page 12 of On Broken Bonds

4

Nyx

If it were not for the furious throbbing in my head, perhaps I would be handling this situation with more grace. But my head is killing me. It throbs with every step I take, and that’s only the second most painful thing I’m experiencing.

Every time I close my eyes, I see Lyra.

Her face streaked with dirt and tears. The wild terror in her eyes. The way her bound hands reached for me as they dragged her farther away, as though she still believed I could stop them.

The memory tears through me fresh each time it rises.

I should have fought harder. I should have ripped her from that horse, thrown myself between her and those monsters, done anything but crumple uselessly into the dirt while they carried her toward the capital.

My stomach twists so sharply I have to brace a hand against the edge of the bed.

I will get her back.

I don’t yet know how. I don’t care what it costs. I only know that every second I waste here is another second Lyra is alone, frightened, and waiting for me to come for her.

“Darling, please, listen to me,” Hilda says, fluttering anxiously around the outskirts of my bed as I continue packing my things. “Nyx!”

Her voice pulls me fully into the present.

She and Ivor had both been leaning over me when I blinked awake scarcely a minute after the vampires rode away. My head still aches from that blow now as I turn to look at the woman I would ordinarily trust over my own instincts.

Hilda has been sent by Ivor, who was unable to sway me in the parlor and possesses far too much decorum to follow me into my bedchamber. Even now, I can picture the look he wore when I refused him downstairs, that desperate mixture of fear and helplessness etched into every line of his face.

Anything to make me stay.

Anything to keep me from following the path I’ve already chosen.

“I’m listening, Hilda,” I say, as I carefully fold several undergarments and pack them into a bag. The very act of it feels odd. I’ve never been away from this manor long enough to warrant a changing of the undergarments. And now, here I am, preparing to leave with the knowledge that I might not return at all. Not if I anger the gods enough.

Which I probably will.

“You’re listening, but you’re not heeding the words,” she says, pushing a hand up into her frizzing gray hair. “You can’t go to the city alone. It’s not proper⁠—”

“With the utmost respect, Hilda,” I say, exasperated as I reach into the next drawer and pull out several socks, darned and mended by Hilda herself, “we are far past the point of what is proper, don’t you think?”

She’s quiet, seeming to bite her tongue as I carefully pack two pairs of socks into my bag. It’s not as though I can bring my whole chest with me, as much as I would like to. I’ll need to only bring the bare minimum, to keep my horse from being over-encumbered. He’s earnest, but aging. Just like the rest of this place.

“And even if we weren’t,” I go on, when Hilda says nothing in response to that statement, “I’m more than willing to sacrifice my honor, my public reception, for the sake of my sister. And I think we both know I have no other choice.”

“This is a suicide mission.” I turn to find Ivor standing outside the doorway, his arms crossed petulantly, his thick gray eyebrows drawn low. Despite his objections, and how he frustrates me, my heart warms at his worry.

He’s the closest thing I have to a father, and I don’t blame him, or Hilda, for trying to stop me. If it was Lyra jumping on a horse to ride off to the city and face the gods, I’d be doing much more than trying to argue with her. I might lock her up if I thought it would keep her safe.

So, how can I blame them for wanting to keep me alive? I’m not the only one who has suffered.

Perhaps the blow of my parents hit me, and Lyra, the hardest, but my parents were dear friends with Hilda and Ivor, and grief is a cruel weight on us all.

Moving with purpose, I drop my bag on the bed and turn, striding for the doorway and throwing my arms around Ivor, hugging him tightly.

Like I might a father.

His honor, his decorum, his manners, stall him, clearly, as he must be thinking how improper it is for a male servant to hug the lady of the house, but then that falls to the side, and he hugs me back.

For an instant, it’s like being in my father’s arms again. Feeling like the world might not be so big and intimidating with strong arms nearby. “I can’t stomach the thought of losing you.”