Page 53 of Forged in Fading

Boden rolled over, eyes closed, likely hoping she would leave the topic alone. If he thought that to be the case, he knew her even less than she had assumed.

“What happened?”

He scrunched his eyes shut even tighter. “Take a guess. I’ll give you a hundred coins if you’re right.”

King Einar. “But why?”

“It was his favorite punishment for when I didn’t deliver the right information or prisoners. Or, many times, just because he wanted to.”

But with the abundance of healers in Ela, he should have never had any scarring. Not that it would have made it any better. “But the scars⁠—”

“He denied me access to the healers unless I was in danger of fading. He did the same to the servants as a constant reminder of his power over us.”

And healers were unable to fix wounds that had already healed themselves, so Boden would bear those scars for the rest of his life.

“Did your father…”

“No. Only Rav and—” He paused, and his jaw tightened. “Only Rav knows. And you now, I suppose.”

She should have shown pity or even apologized for what he had gone through, but rage drove her words. “We’ll make him pay. I promise. No one who did that to you should be allowed to draw another breath.”

He turned his body away from hers. “I have told myself the same thing each night for over a decade, and yet he still stands.”

Alvara dreamed of blood. Not her father’s or her sister’s. Not even Pyry’s, but Boden’s. His back in shredded crimson ribbons, King Einar standing above him, a wicked whip in his hand, gore dripping from its end.

When the sun rose the next morning, Alvara’s pillow was dry with no signs of tears or her magic. Hopefully she still hadn’t woken Boden with any nightmares. She peered over at his sleeping frame, where his head lay nestled in his pillow, surrounded by a dried puddle of sweat.

Perhaps he had been entrenched in nightmares of his own.

The rest of the week passed by at the pace of a lumbering walrus. Alvara rarely hoped these days—she found it such a fickle thing, unreliable and weak at best. But this time, she did allow herself the smallest bit of hope that news would come from King Ulivar, and he would show her people mercy by lending even a few elves to their aid.

She and Boden spent the days wandering the city and avoiding any places Alvara had been known to frequent, which thankfully besides an embarrassing number of bakeries and taverns, had been few since Eloisa’s fading. Vorianta bustled with preparations for Jolval, and the fresh scents of pine and festive songs of the season filled the streets. Alvara shared what she could of their traditions with Boden to distract herself from the news she so desperately awaited.

Through questions peppered into every conversation with shopkeepers and the like, they had been able to piece together some information. The queen had quietly dealt with any humans sent by King Einar, apart from the man who had taken Alvara’s father’s life. For reasons she couldn’t fathom, fate had spared him. He had somehow escaped the capital without harm.

If she ever came face to face with her father’s murderer…the mere notion had pushed her close enough to the edge that Boden had led her into the woods without a word and handed her a branch.

The day before the official start of Jolval, a flurry of raps landed on the door. No one ever came by, so it could only mean one thing. Alvara almost couldn’t decide if it was worth letting the news in or if it was better to stew in hope a little longer.

More knocking. Alvara tucked her knees up to her chest where she sat on their bed. If the Malvan king had ignored their pleas for help, she would be the only one left to defend Vorianta.

Boden let Kat in without a word, and she eyed their shared bed. “You two have been very cozy⁠—”

Alvara had waited long enough. “Just tell us.”

Her friend’s expression collapsed, and Kat stared into the mug she held out to Alvara. “I’m sorry, I really am, but with the Dalvian queen not even willing to protect her own people, King Ulivar wasn’t willing to risk his.”

And just like that, hope faded, its heart plucked from its body before she could draw another breath. She took the mug from Kat and sipped on the warm liquid. Gods, whatever stale tea Kat had bought managed to be intensely sweet and bitter at the same time. It must’ve been years old.

“How are Lilja and my mother?” Boden asked. Such a simple question, yet one that would never leave Alvara’s lips about her own family as long as she lived.

“They’re both good. Still settling in, but safe. Everyone in Ilmanir is safe, for now.” Kat’s eyes flitted to Alvara’s tea. “I’m sorry about Vorianta, and I really wish we could do more. Are you ready to leave, or do you need time to say goodbye?”

Leave? No. She would stay and fight for her people, to what would likely be her last breath. “I’m not leaving. I have to help.”

The mattress groaned under Boden’s weight. “Alvara, there’s nothing to be done. The only thing you will accomplish by staying is fading.”

“I would rather fade fighting for my people than live knowing I didn’t even try to help them.” She would at least try to warn the people of Vorianta of the attack, but they would probably dismiss her as a madwoman, out of her mind from too many nights spent at taverns.