Page 62 of Godbound
As they stumbled blindly through the sudden veil of darkness, we kept walking, never breaking stride. I muttered a quiet thanks.
He pretended not to hear. And we haven’t spoken a word since.
I take a familiar turn, winding toward the inn Peonica brought me to a year ago.
It’s an unremarkable pub with crooked stools, watered-down spirits, and a barkeep who never asks questions. But somewhere along the way, it became a quiet refuge for those who don't speak the name Rust Hollow with hate.
Sympathizers, mostly people whose daughters, sisters or mothers bear the mark of the Crimson Tether, come here to drink, to grieve, and to find comfort in shared cups.
“We should go back to your rooms and discuss our next steps,” Kaelzar grumbles behind me. “The second Challenge can begin at any moment, and you choose to waste time. Again.”
A stubborn pulse of irritation flares in my chest.
He isn’t wrong. That’s what makes him unbearable. Because right now, I don’t want a lecture about what Ishoulddo. I want a drink and a moment of peace.
“You talked big,” he continues, “but you didn’t back it up with any show of strength. That can be fatal in this Trial.”
Like I don’t know that. Like I wasn’t the one floundering there, letting the Red Hunter make me squirm at his feet.
“He wouldn’t have killed you,” Kaelzar adds. “You know that Champions aren’t allowed to harm anyone outside the Trial, not even each other. But you looked terrified. Like you truly believed he’d end you right there.”
Maybe I would’ve known the Spectra Judicium wasn’t part of the Trial if he hadn’t disappeared every time I needed him. But of course I don’t say that.
“You panicked, Trouble,” he says. “And that is unacceptable.”
My gaze darts across the ground, hunting for anything to shut him up. They land on a half-eaten peach.
Kaelzar doesn’t stop. “You haven’t been making smart decisions?—”
Without thinking, I bend over, grab it, and hurl it straight at him.
Splat.
The peach slaps against Kaelzar’s cheek with a dull, juicy thud.
For a moment, neither of us move, watching as the mushy fruit slowly peels away from his face, leaving a smear of pulp in its wake.
He blinks, the stunned silence hanging between us. “Really?” he grumbles as the peach lands on top of his leather boot.
“Next time you open your mouth with your unwanted suggestions—” I walk over to him, lifting my face to level with him. Though my eyes only reach his hard-cut jaw, I refuse to feel small.
Instead, I lift my blackened finger and point it at his face, so close to his eye I nearly touch his eyeball. “I will pull something rotten from the gutter and stuff you with it until your clothes split at the seams. Consider the peach a warning.”
He blinks again, his lashes brushing against the black tip of my finger.
“Once again proving how incompetent you still are,” he says evenly, his hot breath enveloping my hand still hovering an inch from his face. Before I can react, he continues, his voice lower this time. “You spoke about saving them all, about how it’s not just about you, and for a moment, I believed you.”
For a breath, his stare wavers with an unfathomable gravity. Then it vanishes, slipping through my grasp like it was never there.
He exhales, quick and abrupt, dismissing whatever had surfaced.
His next words are clipped, sharp. “But instead, you’re here. Hiding.”
He narrows his eyes, slowly, like he’s turning my earlier threat over in his mind. “If you actually knew what you were doing with that magicof yours, you wouldn’t need to dig through garbage to find something rotten to stuff me with until my clothes fall off.” A beat. His deliberate gaze drags across me. “You could be rotting them off with a thought.” Then comes a huff. “Even in your fantasies, you hold yourself back.”
My pointed finger folds into a fist, and I drop my hand, both hands balling at my sides. I hate that he saw something in me, even for a moment. Hate that he took it back.
I hate that part of me fears he’s right.
