Page 124 of Elysian

“I—” I swallowed. I caught the gaze of the young man watching me, standing a few paces behind. A wealth of hostility lay there.

Let me think!

I hissed a breath out. “Pardon me for not watching the path.” I forced a smile and freed myself, walking around him. He continued to watch me with a frown, but nodded.

I hurried away.

It was a given that no one had fond feelings for Cassiel. If I let emotions rule and exposed his weakness, would some retaliate while he was ill?

I let out a breath and straightened, entering where Vera, Branwen, Lucinda, and Damien still sat.

“I thought you were going to rest!” Branwen called, grinning at me. Seeing her wearing a basic tan gown was a nice change.

“Ah, yes, I was just curious about something Al mentioned and hoped to consult Lucinda.” I slowed my exhale, relaxing my shoulders.

“Sure,” Lucinda said, standing.

“Amara, is something the matter?” I followed Vera’s gaze to my drenched dress. I had not felt it.

“No.” I relaxed my smile.

Lucinda gave me a perplexed look and followed me out of the chamber.

“One moment,” I croaked. She eyed me with concern, but continued to follow. I didn’t speak until we reached the door. “Something is wrong with Cassiel.”

Her eyebrows flew up, and she entered. “Other than that monstrous thing between his legs?” she teased.

“Lucinda,” I huffed exasperatedly. She was already crouched near his head. I rushed to the bed and grabbed a fur blanket to toss it over his private area.

“I have read about this in one of Al’s notations.” She looked up at me. “It’s withering.”

“What is withering?”

“It is not something withering. This illness, it is called ‘withering’.”

“And what is it? An infection? A different type of plague?” Exasperation filled my voice.

She swiped her hands on her gown draped over her knees and stood.

“There is no single cause to withering. It describes an issue that stems from the mind that turns physical. It can be anything–wait, your wraithling,” she gasped. Her eyes flicked to Cassiel on the ground. “Did you complete the Elysian bond?”

I shook my head, the thickness in my throat not letting me speak. Her mouth dropped.

“What is it?” I exclaimed.

“Has he been keeping you tethered to life with his gift?”

“I—yes.”

She nodded, crouching and peering at the lines spreading from his breastbone. “Something must have set it off. Do you by any chance have injuries?”

How she phrased it seemed as if she believed this had recently appeared . . . but that was not the truth. His little shows of weakness—a bloody nose, the blackening at his chest—all began earlier than I had noticed. This was the reason. Not only was he keeping me alive, but bit by bit, he was fading.

She continued looking at me expectantly, and I numbly lifted my wrist where I had cut the unblemished skin I had sliced open repeatedly.

“No, I heal quickly.”

“There it is.” She pointed her finger at me. “It is not you healing. At least not yet, it is him. You hover between life and death with only him as a tether. Feeding helps him, but the tether is a hemorrhage."