Page 35 of Awakened Ash and Alchemy

And for a fleeting, precious moment, the horrors of the day were momentarily forgotten, replaced with the beauty of his powerful face, dark lashes, high cheekbones and how his stern mouth had softened. There was a faint line marking his brow, as if rest didn’t stop his vigilance as a warrior.

And there was no mistaking he was a warrior. Just what kind of warrior, and for whom, she had no clue.

But right now, he looked like a man who’d been threaded into a tapestry of breathtaking magnificence. The entry fee for this private viewing may prove costly, but this one moment seemed like a crime to even exist.

Like a thief reaching for the untouchable, she let her fingertips brush his cheek, to slide gently into his thick dark hair that was softer than she’d imagined. Allowing herself to linger there for a moment as a sigh slipped free from her lips. Her fingertips trailed down the slope of his jaw, the coarse stubble on his chin, the solid line of his throat, all of which blended with the quiet strength that existed even as he slept.

Men like this didn’t exist in her world. She dealt mostly with suits, shop owners, and book lovers, not warriors in leather scored with staves, who had hypnotic sea-glass eyes and muscles worthy of a god. He truly was extraordinary. She could stare at him for hours.

But then that would open her to questions of what had made her do what she’d done tonight. Bringing him here to her house? She’d never reacted like this. She honestly didn’t know how to explain her actions, so instead, she pulled the blanket up around him, tucking it carefully over his chest. “Sweet dreams, Zarek.”

She then dragged her favorite reading chair closer to the bed. Wrapping herself in a spare blanket, she then reached for his large hand.

It was strong and callused, without room for any gentleness. Still, she held it in both of hers, cradling it in her lap as if it were fragile, and leaned back into the chair.

Sleep claimed her almost instantly. And this time there were no nightmares. Only the steady rhythm of his breathing, and the quiet certainty that, for this one night at least, neither of them were alone.

FIFTEEN

Martar entered the Oaths Chamber, where too many chairs sat empty at the long table once filled by brothers, now lost to the Black Cloaks.

Martar took his seat slowly beside Zarek’s empty space, the ice steady beneath his skin.

Around him sat the remaining officers of the Sworn Exarchs, Vanguard warriors chosen not by rank, but by the ancestors who watched from the Oaths Chamber.

“Let us begin.” Lord Gellar sat at the head of the table. Their commander looked older tonight, the gray threaded through his black hair and beard more prominently, his stern eyes heavy with the burden of keeping peace among the realms. “Tell me what happened to Zarek.”

“The Black Cloaks came in force.” Rocharde fiddled with the gold earring that always made Martar think of land pirates and back-alley tarot readers. “They came from everywhere.”

“How many?”

“Eleven.”

Gellar’s brow creased. “Unusual. Katarra rarely gathers such numbers of his collective at once.”

“They were hunting,” Martar said quietly, as he began to polish his buckles, a habit to do something with his fingers. “And desperate.”

Rocharde nodded. “They’re weakened.”

A murmur rippled through the table.

“How do you know this?” Gellar asked.

“I touched one,” Rocharde said evenly. “Before I sent it back to Katarra.”

“You touched a Black Cloak?” Martar paused from polishing his buckles to peer at Rocharde, whose main power was gravity suppression. But they all knew it was dangerous, reckless even, for Rocharde to use his lesser magick of sight. It was not meant for prolonged contact.

“All I know is that they’ve been weakened. They’ve lost numbers.”

“How?” Gellar’s shoulders swallowed his high-back chair, intricately carved for the Commander. “When Black Cloaks fall, they return to Katarra to be reborn and become whole as part of the collective.”

“But this time they didn’t,” said Rocharde. “Not all of them, from what I read. But I know they were desperate to return those numbers lost.”

Martar felt it then; they all did, the faint tightening in the air, of something ancient listening within the Oaths Chamber. Home to the Sworn Exarchs, this room had no ceiling, just perfectly round walls that stretched tall like a tower, built to protect their secrets from a world of magic.

Martar expected the pages from the Hidden Hall of Histories to start flipping any second now, as the ancestors, the fallen members of the Sworn Exarchs, liked to share their thoughts. All of them were bound by unfinished business with the threat they fought almost nightly.

“Three were destroyed a week ago,” Rocharde continued. “And one last night.”