Luca Kirigan hadn't realised how much of a monster his father was until he was facing down Novokribirsk with chains around his arms. With the city wiped out by his father's own shadows, he fled the country alongside the Sun Summoner and her tracker...
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THE GRAINS OF SAND in the wind were coarse against his skin. Luca had grown accustomed to it in the year he'd spent in Os Kervo. With the large plains of greyish-white sand inside and around the Fold, it was impossible to avoid. And he did not mind it. It was much better than the sharp, bitter cold of the north.
Besides, he was willing to accept a few minor discomforts if it meant he could stay here. He had his own tent, only a few paces away from Zoya's. And even Vanya had been allowed to join him, once it became obvious that he wouldn't budge about returning to the Little Palace with his father. He and his partner worked better together than apart anyway, the years of training paying off.
Vanya had woken him up that morning with a few soft nudges to his shoulder, offering a smouldering cup of tea that she'd apparently stolen from the officers and convinced an Inferni of hers to heat.
"We should practice before everyone else gets up," she sighed contently above her cup of tea. "It's easier without them getting in the way." Luca laughed, nodding and leaning back in the chair he'd perched himself on.
"Don't let Zoya hear you say that." Vanya shook her head with a grin, her golden waves swaying with the movement.
"She's the only one here I'd tolerate." Luca did not doubt it, especially with the obvious, ruby-like blush that rose on Vanya's cheeks. He grinned broadly, taking a long sip of his tea. Zoya only tolerated Vanya in turn. It had stung in the beginning, how his one-time friend turned from him with heavy grief in her eyes, but welcomed Vanya with open arms. But he understood. Her kindness when he'd first come to the Fold was simply out of pity, one last act of service before she cut herself away from him, just as she had from the rest of them. "Besides, if we don't go now, then we won't practice at all today. The Fold awaits, remember?" She spoke the last words like an ominous prophecy.
Luca's smile fell, and he traced the raised edges of the scars on his forearm. Seven direct cuts, as straight as a needle and pearly white across his already pale skin. Each scar represented one successful crossing of the Fold. It should've been eight, except his second ended with a wrecked skiff right on the edge of the Fold as volcra descended. He survived, if only because his instincts screamed at him to run and his strange, unnatural Heartrending abilities ended the volcra who'd decided to feast on him.
He'd done the scars himself every time, vigilant in making sure no one ever touched his bare skin. He refused to mark that trip on his skin, leaving a space between the first and third as a painful reminder of what could happen if he was not careful. If he failed. Luca could bear the weight of a botched mission, but he could never be fine with knowing he was the only survivor.
He should've done more, he cursed himself, not for the first time. The unblemished space between the first and third scar on his forearm peered up at him, as comforting as it was deprecating. Once more, he traced his fingers over each scar, making sure to engrave each rise and ridge even more into his memory.
