The Saltwater Heir by Cassidy Clarke

Author:Cassidy Clarke [Clarke, Cassidy]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Manuscript Template
Publisher: Cassidy Clarke
Published: 2021-06-25T04:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 34

KALLIAS

Kallias Atlas did not remember his dreams from the night before the ball.

He did not remember the claws of ice that sprouted from his fingertips in those dreams, or the beasts of fire that roared his name like a death sentence, or how he finally fought his way to the castle door only to find it locked, the ring on his finger a mark that he was now other, that he belonged to a kingdom not his own, that he was no longer Atlas at all.

He remembered none of that. But he did remember that they were not kind dreams. And dread followed him as he dragged himself out of bed, went to his desk, snatched up the bottle of wine he kept tucked in a drawer, and downed a glass before the sun had quite peeked its rays over the horizon.

One glass—just one to steady his nerves.

* * *

Finn

Finnick Atlas remembered every dream he’d ever had, but he wished he could forget the ones the night before the ball.

Thrones made of bones instead of gold. Revelers whose laughing faces became grinning skulls, skin rotting and peeling away as they danced, their limbs bending unnaturally with every sweeping stanza of the waltz. Cold hands wrapped around his neck from behind, a whisper like a dying breath in his ear: You asked for one of us to do something worth worshipping, didn’t you? Looks like she’s answering your prayers.

When he woke, he almost went to tell his mother to call the whole thing off. Almost told her about the secrets Kal and Soren and Eli were keeping. Almost went to Jericho to ask what it meant if he was having dreams that felt realer than his waking hours.

Instead, he told himself to pull it together. And he went to find some breakfast.

* * *

Elias

Elias Loch did not sleep the night before the ball.

He stayed awake all through the night, praying ceaselessly to Mortem for strength as he slid into the bathing room with his dagger and bit down on a rolled-up shirt while he cut away the dying, infected flesh from his arm. As he bandaged himself up, disposed of the evidence, cleaned his dagger, and crawled back into bed. As he reached into his pack and pulled out not his holy book, not his prayer beads, but his lucky ring and its chain.

And this time, while he clung to that ring and continued to pray, he prayed not for strength, but for restraint. For the ability to keep his selfish wants to himself.

He would not make Soren think that her friendship was not enough, that only her romantic interest was of value to him. Her friendship was the best damned thing in his life, and everything she gave him now was already more than he deserved.

Besides . . . judging by the state of his arm, by the slowly-spreading weakness in his body, he had a month left. Maybe two.

He would not make this worse. Would not tell her he wanted more, only to leave her weeks later.

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