Elara's POV
Again!
I lunge with the dagger, aiming for Kael's chest like he taught me. He sidesteps easily, grabbing my wrist and twisting until the blade falls from my numb fingers.
You're telegraphing, he says flatly, releasing me. Your shoulder drops before you strike. Any trained fighter sees it coming.
I want to scream. We've been doing this for hours under the brutal morning sun, and I haven't landed a single hit. My arms shake. Blisters cover my feet. Sweat stings my eyes.
I can't, I gasp, bending over to catch my breath. I'm not a fighter, Kael. I'm a merchant's daughter who's never held a weapon in her life.
Then you'll die when the Temple catches us. His voice is cold. Emotionless. Pick up the dagger.
Something in his tone makes me snap. I straighten, glaring at him.
Why are you doing this? You said you're transforming into a monster anyway! Why waste time teaching me to fight?
His jaw clenches. The curse marks on his neck pulse—they've spread further overnight, creeping up behind his ear, down past his collarbone. Dark and wrong against his skin.
Pick. Up. The. Dagger.
I grab it from the sand, fury replacing exhaustion. Fine! But stop treating me like I'm worthless!
This time when I lunge, I don't think. Just react. The blade comes up fast, angling for his ribs instead of his chest.
He blocks it—barely. His eyes widen slightly.
Better, he says, and I hear the smallest hint of approval.
We've been in the ruins for two days. After the curse marks spread, I refused to run. Refused to leave him to transform alone in the desert. So he made a new plan: teach me to survive.
If I'm going to become a monster, he'd said grimly, you need to be able to defend yourself. From me. From the Temple. From everything.
So he teaches me. How to find water in the desert by following birds and insects. How to read the stars for navigation. How to move quietly. How to kill.
The lessons are brutal. He's patient but distant, keeping himself separated like there's a wall between us. When I get too close, he steps back. When I try to talk about anything except survival, he shuts down.
It's like he's already saying goodbye.
Water break, he announces, tossing me a leather canteen.
I catch it clumsily and drink, the warm water tasting like heaven. We found an underground spring yesterday—Kael's knowledge of the Barrens saved us from dying of thirst.
How many times has he been out here? How many bodies has he disposed of in this wasteland?
I push the thought away.
Next lesson, Kael says, pulling out a thin rope. Snares for catching desert rabbits. Watch carefully.
He demonstrates how to tie the knot, fingers moving with practiced ease. I try to copy him, but the rope keeps slipping.
Like this, he says, reaching over to adjust my grip.
His fingers brush mine, and we both freeze.
For a second—just a second—the wall cracks. His eyes meet mine, and I see past the coldness to the man beneath. The one who's terrified. Who's dying. Who saved me anyway.
Then he pulls away, the wall slamming back up.
Practice that until you can do it in the dark, he says curtly, walking away.
I stare at the rope in my hands, frustration burning in my chest. He won't let me in. Won't let me help him. Just keeps teaching me to survive alone.
Like he's already gone.
Hours later, my hands are raw from practicing knots and knife work. When I fumble the dagger for the hundredth time, the blade slices across my palm.
Damn it! I hiss, blood welling up immediately.
Kael is beside me in seconds. Let me see.
It's fine
Let me see, Elara.
I hold out my hand. The cut isn't deep, but it's bleeding freely, dripping onto the sand.
His face tightens. For a moment, I think he'll walk away, leave me to bandage it myself.
Instead, he pulls a clean cloth from his pack and presses it against the wound with unexpected gentleness.
Hold this, he murmurs, then rummages for bandages.
I watch him work, confused by the sudden care. His hands are steady as he wraps the cloth around my palm, tying it securely but not too tight.
There, he says softly, still holding my bandaged hand in both of his. Keep it clean. Change the bandage tonight.
Kael, I whisper, why are you helping me if you're dying anyway?
His hands tighten on mine. He doesn't answer for a long moment.
Because, he finally says, voice rough, maybe if I can keep you alive, all those deaths won't be for nothing.
Then he releases my hand and walks away, leaving me staring after him.
That night, I pretend to sleep.
We're sheltered in a partially collapsed building, the desert wind whistling through cracks in the stone. Kael sits near the entrance, keeping watch like he has every night.
His back is to me. Shoulders hunched. Head bowed.
Then I hear it—a quiet, broken sound.
He's crying.
Trying to hide it, muffle it, but I hear the hitched breaths. The barely contained sobs. I want to go to him. Comfort him. Tell him he doesn't have to carry this alone.
But something stops me. Some instinct that says he needs this moment of privacy. This chance to break without an audience.
So I stay silent. Eyes closed. Pretending sleep.
And listen to my executioner weep for the ninety-nine women he killed.
For the monster he's becoming.
For the girl he saved but can't protect from what he'll turn into.
Eventually, the crying stops. I hear him take a shuddering breath, composing himself.
I'm sorry, he whispers to the darkness. To the ghosts haunting him. I'm so sorry.
I fall asleep with tears on my own face.
I wake to Kael shaking my shoulder urgently.
Up. Now.
What— I start, but he clamps a hand over my mouth.
He points toward the eastern horizon.
A dust cloud. Small but growing. Moving fast across the desert.
Riders.
My heart stops.
How many? I whisper when he removes his hand.
At least twenty. Maybe more. His face is grim. They found our trail.
How is that possible? We've been so careful
Theron's the best tracker in the kingdom. I knew he'd find us eventually. Kael pulls me to my feet, already gathering our supplies. We have maybe an hour before they reach us.
I look around frantically. Where do we go? There's nowhere to hide!
Kael stares at the approaching dust cloud, calculating. Then his eyes shift to something behind me—deeper into the Barrens, where the ruins become a maze of canyons and collapsed structures.
The Scorpion's Nest, he says quietly.
What's that?
A canyon system so dangerous even exiled criminals avoid it. Poisonous snakes, unstable ground, dead ends everywhere. He looks at me. If we go in there, we might not come out.
And if we don't?
Theron catches us. You go back to the altar. I get executed. His jaw clenches. After they torture us both for information.
The dust cloud grows larger. I can almost hear hoofbeats now.
The Nest it is, I say.
We run toward the deadly canyons just as the first rider crests the hill behind us.
A horn blares across the desert.
They've seen us.