Total pages in book: 44
Estimated words: 42412 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 212(@200wpm)___ 170(@250wpm)___ 141(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 42412 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 212(@200wpm)___ 170(@250wpm)___ 141(@300wpm)
“They never stop, do they?” Kolis spoke, snapping my attention back to him. Avid interest was etched into his features, and his voice held a note of wonder mixed with something else I couldn’t quite place—something almost like yearning. I nearly laughed. There was no way Kolis was capable of feeling that for mortals. “Always hurrying from one moment to the next, never taking time to just…live.”
“Isn’t that what living is?” Eythos said, his expression thoughtful. “The hurrying about, the constant striving for more? It’s all part of their existence, their way of survival. To them, that is living.”
Kolis tilted his golden head, a crease forming between his brows as he considered what his brother had said. “But how does one enjoy the simplest parts of living while always striving? How can they truly know what the breeze feels like on their skin? How can they learn the difference between the hymns the songbirds sing?”
I watched in silence as Kolis shook his head, a gesture that stirred the air around us with a breath of melancholy. “Do you know what they always lament the most?”
“Dreams not chased,” Eythos answered without hesitation.
Kolis laughed, and it pierced my heart. It wasn’t that dry, brittle sound. It was wistful. “No. What they regret the most is simpler than that.”
Interest sparked in Eythos’s eyes. “What?”
I couldn’t help but take note of how…real this conversation between them sounded. It seemed more like a memory—one I would have no access to.
“They wish they could remember clearly what the sun felt like upon their skin. Something they could’ve done every day if they weren’t so busy striving,” Kolis said finally. “How they live seems so…wasteful.”
Eythos’s lips curved into a faint smile. “You don’t understand,” he said gently, and there was infinite patience in his voice. It felt as timeless as the hill we stood upon. “It’s not in your nature to understand.”
Kolis said nothing to that.
His brother stepped forward, starting down the hill, but then he stopped. He cast a glance over his shoulder. “Don’t let them see you,” he said, and I wasn’t sure if the undercurrent I heard in his voice was a reminder or a command.
The light of the sun seemed to follow Eythos, cloaking him in its radiance. Or maybe the sunlight was coming from him. As I watched him descend the steep, craggy hill that no mere mortal would have been able to walk down, the wildflowers stretched toward him.
Despite knowing that this was a dream, I shifted uneasily. I didn’t want to be left alone with Kolis. I glanced back at him. Even though this seemed like a less murderous version of him.
A ripple of excitement surged through the air, drawing my gaze back to the village. Eythos had neared the first cluster of stone homes, and he had been seen. Merchants ceased tinkering in the stalls. Baskets of laundry were forgotten. Villagers emerged from their homes as children raced toward the approaching figure. They gathered quickly, a cacophony of voices rising into the clear sky.
“Liessar! Liessar!” they called out, speaking the word for King in the language of the gods as their hands reached out as if to touch him.
“My children.” He opened his arms wide, welcoming them. “You honor me so.”
As prayers of thanks filled the air, mingling with the sound of the children’s laughter, I turned to Kolis.
The smile that had once graced his lips, that small and crooked one, had begun to ebb away. A shadow of sadness had descended upon him.
Eythos’s laugh drew my gaze back to the village. He picked up a small child, lifting the giggling girl toward the sky.
I found my attention returning to Kolis, my heart twisting with something akin to sorrow. I didn’t want to feel it or even acknowledge it. Fuck Kolis for all he had done. But…
But gods. He was so removed from all the joy, all the life he was so fascinated by and yearned for.
He moved slightly, looking down at the vibrant reddish-orange flowers. “What a pretty poppy,” he murmured.
I sucked in a sharp breath, my stomach twisting. My hands fisted. Those four words had haunted me since that night in Lockswood, and here he was, speaking them with such sadness.
I wanted to punch him.
I wanted to—
He gently ran his fingers along the curve of a petal. The blossom immediately dulled, turning a lifeless gray and wilting.
He exhaled heavily, the sound lost in the rustle of foliage as he straightened, backing away from the desolation of the once-vibrant poppy.
Suddenly, his head jerked toward the pines. I turned to see a young boy with fair hair and a girl with tangled locks the color of the poppies emerge from the thicket. My gaze dropped to their tightly clasped hands and the small, woven basket dangling from her slender arm, and my stomach twisted even further. These two children…