Page 100 of Scars Beneath a Serpent’s Scales

Chapter Thirty-One

Emmeline

She didn’t remember passing out. Everything during the visit to the Lair had been swarming with incense. Her magic had pounded through her veins, begging to be unleashed. More and more as they climbed to the stone tower, as if alerting her something was wrong.

When she’d asked Roremar if they really should be going there, she’d been worried the Storytellers of the Fates would expose something about her. She hadn’t thought to worry about being overwhelmed or whisked away.

When she came to, she was surrounded by harsh, arguing whispers.

“It was the Storytellers of Arenothos, Aevollon, and Anphrosia, but for the thousandth time, I don’t know why,” someone grumbled from nearby.

“But they were mostly speaking about Anphrosia?” a second voice asked.

A long pause, as if the two were communicating silently, then the first sighed. “Yes, mostly Anphrosia and her relationship with Arenothos, though it seemed like Aevollon was somehow involved, too. The whole place is a fucked-up tribute to Anphrosia.”

“That whole part of the isle is,” Emmeline whispered, pink flowers blooming behind her still-closed eyes. A forked serpent’s tongue lashed through them.

Her entire being recoiled at the memory of the reptile’s beady eyes and the knowing stare the Storyteller of Aevollon had pegged her with as it slithered about her form. She internally cursed the Fate of Artistry and Trickery for preying on that weakness.

The room went silent for so long, Emmeline finally forced an eye open. Roremar sat in a chair beside her bed, his hair rumpled like he’d been dragging his hands through it and sword propped beside him in easy reach. His thin linen tunic was disheveled and open, tattoos on display.

Myrella perched quietly atop the wool bedspread at Emmeline’s feet, Nico sitting on the writing desk beneath the window, and Desmond leaning against the door.

All quietly staring at her.

“Good morning, darling,” Desmond said. In the ensuing silence, a subtle hiss echoed.

Without moving, bones locked, Emmeline flicked a glance toward the window over Nico’s shoulder, the moon’s glow permeating the aged lace curtains. “It’s nighttime.”

Desmond shrugged, his blond locks swaying, but Nico said, “You’ve been out for a while.”

Nerves laced Emmeline’s bones as the hissing faded through her mind, but it was Roremar’s calming, deep voice that asked, “How are you feeling?”

And Emmeline focused on the way his steel eyes steadied her as she evaluated her body, just as they had when he found her on the floor of her dormitory. As the familiar slimy sensation eased and the music from the dining room of the Hound’s Inn vibrated the floorboards.

Only this time, Roremar didn’t come closer.

Finally, denying how hollow that made her feel, she said, “Fine. Tired. But okay.”

Bracing his elbows on his knees, Roremar studied her. “You’re sure?”

She nodded.

“You don’t need to fret, Rore, she’s okay,” Desmond teased.

Roremar sliced his friend a glare. “She fainted, Des. I wouldn’t call that okay.”

Emmeline placed a hand on his arm. Roremar flinched, and she tried not to let that sting as she said, “I’m okay now, though. Thank you for seeing to that.”

It was unfamiliar, having someone care about her well-being even if he leaned away. Earlier today, when Roremar had promised he would protect her, that vow had burned behind her ribs with the force of starfire, the shock of it a near explosion within her.

Now, as she held his stare and he nodded, the distant threats of the Storytellers and serpents faded to blurry memories.

Fidgeting at the foot of the bed as if dying to speak, Myrella interrupted, “Do you think it was the same cause as last time?”

“Last time?” Roremar straightened. “What happened last time?”

Emmeline sighed. “I don’t know, and I’d rather not discuss it.”