Page 34 of Scars Beneath a Serpent’s Scales

Part Two

Artistry & Trickery

Chapter Twelve

Roremar

He had to suck up his fucking pride, that was for sure. Roremar forced himself to remember the woman who had been killed, the blood splashed across her skin, and the hollow look in her eyes as he prowled the Lyra Temple Academy the following afternoon.

A cool breeze wafted through the arches lining the zig-zagging walkway that connected the sparring ring to the main halls, moss crawling over the stone exterior. Echoes of conversations from students who were done with lessons for the day tangled on the air, gossiping about the brutal death that to them, was only another bout of crime in Lyra’s history.

Ahead, a pair of grand wings were carved into the dark wood doors leading inside the Academy.

Roremar had been to most of the Constellation Isles, and Lyra was the only one that consistently included the Angel in their artistry. Despite the fact that the twelve-pointed star and serpent backed the island’s sigil, as he strode purposefully toward the doors, Roremar appreciated the fullness the symbol conveyed. Starsearchers were more than just their fucking Fate ties, though some seemed reluctant to acknowledge that.

A growl rumbled through his chest at the notion.

Sweat clung to his skin, his wavy hair disheveled after a few hours of sparring lessons. He couldn’t wait to get home, rip off his thin tunic, and dive straight into the ocean.

But he couldn’t head there yet.

He had business first.

Or…maybe he could come back later. Or not at all. If he was serious, did he truly think this was a good idea? In fact, as the events at Fortuna yesterday morning swam through his memory and he paused in his tracks, he was positive it wasn’t.

As if the Fates knew he was a step away from abandoning his plan, the winged door flew open, and Emmeline stood before him. A halo of afternoon sunlight streamed through the windows lining the corridor, framing her. Chestnut waves swayed around her slim shoulders as she halted and her hazel eyes widened, one hand flexing against the wood, silver rings sparkling.

“What are you doing here?” Roremar asked.

And spirits, what was she wearing? Sure, mystlight kept the temple halls warm enough, but the sage sleeves cascading past her hands were sheer chiffon. He doubted the bodice or skirt were any warmer despite the thick embroidery accenting the waist. Hadn’t she ever heard of a cloak?

Even as he wondered it, a breeze spiraled down the walkway. The wind got aggressive sometimes at the Academy given that they were at the highest point in the isle’s hills and didn’t have any land to block them. He used to sit on the balcony of his dormitory for hours on the stormiest nights and watch the jungle sway beneath the gusts, something both terrifying and placating about the strength of the world and his small position within it.

“Looking for you,” Emmeline answered, and Roremar’s gaze snapped up to hers. He hadn’t realized his eyes had still been dragging over her body.

“For me?” Roremar echoed. Why was his voice so thick?

Emmeline’s brows rose as if to say were you not looking for me? And though she was correct, he didn’t want to admit it. Didn’t like the way something in him sparked at the fact that she predicted him, paired with those three words: Looking for you.

Roremar sighed, nodding over her shoulder. “We should go inside.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s cold out here,” he said, tone conveying the obviously he kept himself from tacking on the end.

“I’m fine,” she insisted, despite the pink tinging her cheeks and the tip of her nose.

“So fucking stubborn,” Roremar muttered as a few straggling students passed them on the walkway, hiking back for dinner. He dropped his voice. “We should at least go somewhere private.”

“That’s why I came out here.” Emmeline gestured to the arena behind him, and Roremar had to admit she had a point. He’d sent his last session of the day—the group of sixth-year boys preparing for their rituals—back inside as soon as they were done, staying to finish cleaning up himself. The training circuit was now empty and pristine, and a flush of pride straightened his spine at the sight.

Without answering, Roremar stepped aside to let Emmeline go first. He followed her sauntering steps back down the walkway and across the arena. She didn’t seem to mind that the hem of her skirt dragged through the dirt, though the rest of her clothing was as immaculate as he kept his blades.

She was so composed all the damn time, but those smudges of dirt made him suspect it was an act. Like she didn’t truly care about being so perfect. So why did she try? What would it be like to puncture that facade?

He doubted she let herself be that vulnerable often, if ever. Did she even know how freeing that could be? Roremar may have had his life ironed into neat rows now, but his reputation—as aggravating as it was—hadn’t written itself. He had snuck into enemy camps. Stolen plans, artifacts, and even soldiers.

As much as the name made his teeth grind, there was a liberty to it. Back then, he didn’t have to be anyone in particular.