Still, the frustration was there, along with the guilt, a fiery cocktail licking up her throat. Low croons echoed down from the outpost clearing, where the phoenixes remained out of sight but always connected to their bondmates’ emotions.
Heat brushed Veronyka’s skin—Tristan, his hands balled into fists by his sides. Compassion overwhelmed her anger when she realized that no matter whose fault this was, no matter that it was his father’s decision to delay their arrival here, Tristan was the one who would answer for it.
Though she knew it was dangerous, Veronyka reached out and put a hand on his shoulder. She meant only to steady him—she didn’t open herself or reach with her magic, but as she took slow, deep breaths, Tristan’s own heaving chest hitched, then slowed, mirroring hers. Was that shadow magic, or just the comfort of a friend?
Veronyka dropped her hand, and Tristan turned to the others. “There will be a town meeting in the cookhouse this morning. All are invited. I’ll need someone to take notes—Lysandro?” he asked, looking to his cousin, who nodded at once, a satchel with ink and paper already in hand.
“What about the rest of us?” asked Ronyn, glancing uneasily around at the villagers who were now drifting out of their homes, whispering and pointing at the newcomers or walking purposefully toward the cookhouse. There was an air of hostility—or at least wariness—in the way they regarded the Phoenix Riders, as if wondering what new harm they might bring down on the village.
“We’ll get started,” Veronyka said, looking between them. She didn’t know about the others, but she had lived through tenement fires, burglars, raids, and riots before. She’d lost count of how many times she’d scavenged wood from junk heaps to repair broken window shutters or helped her maiora scrub ash and charcoal from their walls. They were so used to the possibility that everything could go to pieces overnight that they buried their valuables—such as they were—into the dirt floor, ensuring no harm from fire or thieves could come to them.
When they all turned to her with blank stares, she continued. “We’ll need to clear out the damaged wood, figure out what can be salvaged or repurposed and what can be burned. If we can get our hands on some distilled vinegar—the cookhouse or anyone who’s willing to donate from their reserves—we can make a solution with water and lemon and get scrubbing some of these stone exteriors….”
Tristan looked like he could kiss her. His face softened, his eyes bright with suppressed emotion—half gratitude, half relief. She knew that if the Riders were out here working—no matter how seemingly menial the task—everything would go easier for him inside.
Her cheeks heated at the intensity of his emotion and the way it begged to push through the barriers of her mind, but in truth, she wasn’t doing this for him.
She was doing it for the people of Vayle.
No matter how bleak things had felt whenever a wave of fires decimated an entire sector of the Narrows, it was in the moments after, when neighbors joined together to clean and build and salvage what they could, that Veronyka had felt truly connected to the world around her. When she felt she belonged somewhere. It was fleeting, perhaps, but it had taught her the power of togetherness.
The villagers had made a start—patches of buildings showed evidence of scrubbing, and most of the burned wood and debris had been cleared away—but it was easy to see how they’d been derailed. With no bridge, Vayle’s trade and commerce with the other villages must have screeched to a halt. That wasn’t to mention the way most of Pyra would have suffered when news of the empire soldiers spread through the countryside. Travel was practically nonexistent with or without a functional bridge, and many had been wounded—or worse—during the attacks. Villages like Vayle were trying to get back to business as usual, which for some meant rebuilding livelihoods from the ground up. It was still summer, but no doubt their winter stores were taking a hit as the people tried to piece their lives back together.
“Yes.” Tristan nodded vigorously at Veronyka before turning to the others. “Let’s get it done,” he said, before straightening his shoulders and striding toward the cookhouse with Lysandro.
To her intense surprise, Ronyn, Anders, and Latham turned to her, as if awaiting orders. “Any of you cleaned anything before?” she asked.
Anders and Latham glanced uneasily at each other, and