All was darkness, and Tristan took a moment to close his eyes and steady his ratcheting heartbeat.
When he opened his eyes, Rex had edged closer again. He was pushing insistently on their bond, nudging Tristan’s mind, but Rex’s panic made his attempts at communication muddled and unclear.
“Rex,” Tristan said desperately, clutching at his head. “Rex, please, I can’t—”
But then it came to him in a crystallized image: Xephyra, a darkened cave—and bars. A stab of icy fear pierced Tristan’s stomach.
He leapt to his feet and went in search of his father.
* * *
Despite intending to leave the morning after the Blood War anniversary, the commander had remained in the village an extra night—this time at Tristan’s request—to help with some of the supply replenishment and logistics for the refugees. It felt like a huge step in their relationship that Tristan was able to ask for help without fearing judgment or reproach, and likewise, his father had agreed to remain with humility and good grace.
Maybe they were both maturing.
The commander had taken a room at the inn that had served as the backdrop for the confrontation with the Rushlean farmers, and Tristan wasn’t sure if his father had chosen it for simplicity’s sake or if he’d wanted to give the owner his custom after a problem with his Riders had chased away their business.
As Tristan wandered into the darkened village, light spilled from the ground-level parlor he and his father had spoken in the night before.
The commander was awake and working, even at this late hour.
Tristan couldn’t remember a time when his father was asleep before him—or after him, in the morning—and he honestly couldn’t even picture it. Just thinking of Cassian in a nightshirt, tucked under plush blankets atop a heap of pillows, was laughable, as if the commander weren’t a real human at all but some unchanging entity in a fixed state.
No, that wasn’t true. Tristan’s pristine image of his father had been altered since their conversation the previous night, the cracks finally showing in his cool, constantly-in-control facade. Though he disagreed with what he knew of his father’s plan—he was forbidden to ask more or talk about it—he couldn’t help but have grudging respect for what his father was doing. All this time, Tristan had struggled with the idea that his father was being too safe, too reserved—bordering on cowardice as he insisted over and over again that they couldn’t engage the empire, couldn’t risk themselves and their position. But what his father was actually doing… it was anything but cowardly. And though he was obviously personally motivated, he’d thought long and hard about what he was doing, setting up the pieces so that it wasn’t just he and the Riders who benefited from his actions, but the entire empire.
Tristan had to admit he was impressed.
It still grated that he wasn’t allowed to be involved, but it was nice to know that for once he wasn’t being excluded because his father thought him irresponsible or incapable…. He was being excluded because his father had faith in him to lead if all else failed. Tristan tried to be deserving of that trust, especially after he’d made such a mess of things with his patrol.
Despite his anger at Latham’s claims and accusations, Tristan knew that he had lost sight of some of his responsibilities of late—particularly to the other Riders. He’d been so consumed with proving himself a strong and capable leader that he’d become selfish again—just as he’d been before Veronyka arrived at the Eyrie. Tristan had been behaving recklessly, rushing into fights and dispelling with the usual protocols, thinking that he risked only himself.
He’d been wrong about that, and now his patrol was in shambles. Latham hated him, and Veronyka had flown off with her malevolent sister. The others hadn’t taken her disappearance well, nor had his father.
Thoughts of Veronyka brought him back to the dream that had awoken him.
Tristan hurried down the dark hallway of the inn, following the light that leaked around the parlor door.
While Rex had calmed down a bit once Tristan woke up, his thoughts were still agitated and insistent, showing repeated flashes of Xephyra, of some dark, enclosed space, and that feeling of being trapped.
Worst of all was the lack of Veronyka. Were she and Xephyra separated, or was Veronyka captured too? Had she managed to escape? Even if she had, there was no way she’d leave her bondmate behind. Wherever Xephyra was, Veronyka wouldn’t be far, and if Xephyra was in