Roar (Stormheart #1)(46)
Locke scoffed, tilting his head to stretch his neck. “No, I didn’t. I don’t think a hunter here did.”
“There was no one you left behind?”
“They were all dead,” he answered flatly, “so I would have missed them the same no matter where I was. If there’s someone you love back in Pavan, maybe you should go to them before your answer is the same as mine.”
He turned and took off into the night. This time he didn’t bother to gradually increase his pace but quickly climbed to top speed. She growled and charged after him. Unlike stubborn, controlling men, running was at least something she understood. It was simple, quiet, peaceful.
But by the time she caught up to Locke a few moments later, she was beginning to realize that there was no peace the way Locke ran. He ran as if a pack of wolves was nipping at his heels. Like the earth was crumbling behind as they went and to slow down even a little, to look back, would mean their end.
Every muscle in Rora’s body burned, but she didn’t fight it. She gave herself over to the hurt because it had never been more stunningly clear that she was alive and free. And as long as she met Locke’s expectations, as long as she exceeded them, she had the chance to become exactly who she had always wanted to be.
Eventually her mind went blissfully blank—no anger, no pain, no sadness. It was too dark to see farther than a few paces, so she forgot her surroundings completely. She did not even realize Locke had stopped until he called out her name, shattering her focus. Her knees felt wooden as she slowed and turned.
“If you’re going to pressure me to return home again,” she said, “I’d rather not hear it.”
His frown deepened. “Fair enough.”
“I know you didn’t want me here.” He interrupted with a mocking bark of laughter, and Rora’s stomach jerked painfully. “But this is all I want. It means … everything. So even if it’s hard, even if it’s dangerous, even if everyone I left in Pavan ends up hating me for it—I will not change my mind.”
After a moment, Locke turned and began walking back the way they came. Roar had stood still too long, and now her legs felt like they might shatter if she stepped wrong. But even so she asked, “What? We’re not going to run back?”
“Save your legs. We’ll be doing this all again in the morning.”
She stared after his retreating figure. “Running? That’s it? That’s my lesson?”
He strode back toward her. The gleam of moonlight combined with his serious expression highlighted the sharp angles of his face. His cheekbones sat high and flat, and his bristled jaw jutted out like a cliff’s edge.
“There will come a day, Roar, when it’s you alone against a storm. You’ll have the length of a heartbeat to take in an extreme amount of information and make a strategic choice. The most important thing any hunter learns is when to fight and when to run. That instinct can only develop with time. But it’s useless if you can’t run fast enough and far enough to escape.”
He pulled something from his pocket that she could not make out in the dark. Then he settled two long leather cords around her neck. From the first dangled a white crystal, like the ones they sold in the market that detected storm magic. He said, “Until then, I will ensure your safety in every way I can. Whoever is on duty in the Rock monitors a larger version of this crystal and will sound a horn should they detect magic nearby. But in case you’re alone, you’ll have this. If it grows hot, you find shelter as fast as you can.”
He still held the crystal between them when she reached down for the item on the other necklace. Her hand bumped against Locke’s as she brought the small tube closer to her eyes. “Firestorm powder,” she breathed.
“Yes, and you’ll take it if we ever get near one. Even if the rest of us are there, you take no chances. The embers are too dangerous. Do you understand?”
She nodded, and their hands brushed once more before he dropped the crystal and stepped away. She tucked the two trinkets beneath her tunic, and they fell alongside the Stormheart ring that dangled between her breasts.
They began walking back toward camp in the dark. “Roar?” Locke said. She hummed in response. It was dark enough that she could barely see him a pace away. “I don’t think your loved ones will hate you for chasing what you want. But if they don’t support you, they’re the fools. Not you.”
Roar smothered a smile. “I seem to remember a certain hunter who wasn’t all that supportive of my decision.”
His low chuckle carried in the dark. “Maybe he’s a fool too.”
Storms are the greatest predators in existence because they can destroy you with their savage strength or enthrall you with their terrible beauty. Like a poison flower with the stealth of a snake and the ferocity of a lion and the force of all the world’s armies combined.
—The Tale of Lord Finneus Wolfram
11
Locke hadn’t been sleeping well. The first night on the road, he blamed it on his adjusting schedule. On the second night, he did the same. But now after three nights of restless sleep, broken by nightmares about a girl in danger who was somehow both his sister and Roar simultaneously, he had run out of excuses. It had been ages since he’d last had a nightmare. He knew having Roar here would throw him off balance, but it was even worse than he anticipated. It was still a while yet before dawn, and he nicked several jars of skyfire magic to give him light enough to work. Across his lap, he laid out several maps of the wilds between here and Taraanar. Normally, it was Duke’s job to do the navigating, but the old man hadn’t complained when Locke kept bringing him suggestions for safer routes that would hopefully postpone any run-ins with storms until he felt Roar was ready.