Page 31 of The Darkest Knight

Chapter Twelve

Niall jolted awake, heart pounding, disoriented for a moment before the weight of reality settled over him. He’d meant to stay vigilant, to fight the ever-encroaching pull of sleep, but his exhaustion had won. Yet, for the first time in what felt like an eternity, he didn’t regret it. His body felt lighter, rested in a way he hadn’t been in months. The soft warmth beside him stirred something deep within, a fleeting sense of peace.

He closed his eyes briefly, savoring the quiet intimacy of the moment, the scent of her hair lingering in the air. Tamara.

His gaze drifted down to her face, serene in sleep, golden strands of hair framing her delicate features. Her lashes fanned against her skin, and her lips, slightly parted, tempted him anew. She was more than beautiful; she was life, fire, passion. Memories of their night together flickered through his mind, and heat stirred in his veins, as vivid as the sunlight filtering in through the window.

But the light brought more than warmth—it brought reality. The morning rays scattered across the chamber, bright and unyielding, as if mocking the fragile reprieve of the night before. Niall sat up sharply, a sudden awareness creeping over him. He had lingered in this realm longer than ever before. The pull that should have dragged him back to the other world was conspicuously absent. Strange. He flexed his fingers, testing for any sign of the enchantment tightening its grip on him. Nothing. Was it possible? Could he truly have found a place where Devina’s reach didn’t extend?

Still, he could not ignore the warning prickle sliding down his spine. Something was off. He scanned the room, his senses on high alert, but nothing seemed out of place. Only the soft rustle of Tamara shifting in her sleep broke the silence. Even in this quiet moment, she sought him unconsciously, curling into the space he had left behind, a faint smile curving her lips.

He moved with deliberate care, sliding from the bed so as not to wake her. His eyes lingered on her sleeping form, committing every detail to memory—her golden hair tangled across the pillow, the peaceful expression that softened her features. How had she slipped past his defenses so completely? He shouldn’t have let her in. He couldn’t afford to.

There was still too much to do, and he couldn’t allow himself the luxury of hope. Last night, he had been close to surrendering to that daring temptation—hope. With Tamara in his arms, the possibility of freedom had felt almost tangible, as though her touch could dissolve the darkness that clung to him like a second skin. But he knew better. He couldn’t risk it. He couldn’t risk her.

A sudden tug, sharp and relentless, pulled at his very being. Time was up. He had to go. Quickly, he dressed, sliding on jeans, shirt, sock and shoes. Next, he fastened the belts of daggers across his body with practiced efficiency. Lastly he grabbed the thick cloak that had been strewn across a chair. The fur felt heavy in his hand as he hesitated by the bed. This had to be the last time. For her sake. Returning would only give her false hope. He would never father another child, not after failing the ones with his first wife.

Besides, he would not—could not—ever risk bringing a child into this cursed life.

Tamara let out a soft murmur, shifting slightly, her hair gleaming like spun gold in the morning light. His heart twisted painfully. How was it that she had come to mean so much in so little time? He’d cared deeply for his late wife, but never before had he felt so linked to someone’s very existence. Tamara had found her way into his heart, an anchor he hadn’t realized he needed until it was too late.

He reached out, fingers hovering inches from her cheek, craving one final touch, one final memory to hold. But he stopped himself. If he touched her now, he wouldn’t be able to leave.

He shouldn’t have allowed things to go this far. Shouldn’t have let her break through the walls he had carefully built around himself. She would hurt when he didn’t return, and he hated himself for it. Yet what choice did he have? The curse was his burden alone to bear and dragging her into his torment would be the cruelest betrayal of all.

Steeling himself, he stepped back, eyes never leaving her face. He would carry this moment with him, relive the memories of her touch, her smile, her laughter, until his final breath. It was all he could allow himself. A life of darkness awaited him, but for these few fleeting hours, he had known light. And it was enough to carry him through what lay ahead.

Without another glance, he turned toward the door, the ache in his chest a heavy reminder of what he could never truly have.

The pull to return to the other realm gripped Niall with increasing urgency. He paused, centering himself, unsure exactly where he was being drawn. He prayed silently that upon his return, all would be well—that Padraig and Liam were unharmed. Bracing himself, he gave in to the relentless tug, and in an instant, Tamara’s bedchamber dissolved around him.

He reappeared in the familiar camp near Middlesex, the cold air biting at his skin. The scent of damp earth and burning wood filled his lungs, a stark contrast to the warmth he had just left behind. The village lay in uneasy quiet, shadows stretching long under the pale morning light. They had been fighting Meliot’s forces for days, and the tension in the air felt as thick as the frost coating the ground.

Niall pulled his cloak tighter around him, shielding himself from the bitter chill as he made his way toward the promise of warmth inside a makeshift tent. The heavy fabric rustled behind him as he entered, and he was immediately greeted by Padraig’s grim expression.

“You were gone a long time,” Padraig said, his voice edged with both relief and frustration. “I was worried.”

Niall met his friend’s gaze, guilt flickering briefly in his eyes. “I fell asleep. I don’t know how I managed to stay there for so long without being pulled back. I’m sorry for causing you concern.”

Padraig studied him for a moment, his sharp eyes taking in every detail. “You look rested. That’s good.” Without further comment, he led Niall toward a round metal furnace in the center of the tent where a fire blazed, casting flickering shadows and radiating much-needed heat.

Something about Padraig seemed off, a tension in his posture, a heaviness in his tone. Niall waited until they were far enough from prying ears before speaking. “What’s wrong? You’re holding something back.” He glanced around the dim interior. “Where’s Liam?”

Padraig’s jaw tightened before he answered, his voice flat. “He went to see John. Said he’d return soon.”

Crossing the tent, Padraig sank heavily onto his bed, his shoulders slumped in a way that made Niall uneasy. “I have no enchantress,” he muttered, his voice laced with quiet despair. “Soon, the three moons will be at their highest.”

Over the years, Niall had seen Padraig endure moments of frustration and discouragement, but this was different. The despondency in his friend was palpable, weighing down the air between them.

“There’s still time,” Niall said gently, though he felt the weight of his own doubts pressing against his chest. “The moons won’t be at their peak for another sennight. Don’t give up yet.”

Padraig’s gaze met his, and the raw desperation there made Niall’s breath hitch. “I’m tired, Niall. I understand now—why you stopped hoping, why you don’t try to break free anymore. Maybe ... maybe it’s not meant to be. For either of us.” His voice dropped lower, trembling with exhaustion. “Lately, all I want to do is lie down and sleep for days. To stop fighting, stop trying ... just stop.”

Hearing Padraig voice what had long haunted his own thoughts unsettled Niall more than he cared to admit. For years, he had carried the weight of his hopelessness in silence. Now, hearing it reflected in his friend’s words felt like staring into a mirror he wished to shatter.

Padraig leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his head bowed. “Maybe we should leave. Go back to the keep. I don’t want to do this anymore. I’m so damn tired.”

Niall’s instinct was to reassure him, to insist that hope still existed, but no words came. What could he say? Too much needed to happen—each step an impossible challenge. Both their fates hinged on a chain of events so unlikely it was a cruel joke. He couldn’t deny it. Padraig wasn’t wrong.