The Defiance of Vim (Catalyst Book 4) by C.J. Aaron (graded readers txt) 📕

task left for him to undertake. One that he ranked high in his list of priorities.

His muscles loosened, easing the discomfort that accompanied every step as he gained speed. His body fought against the motion, crying out for peace, for a chance to rest and recharge, even if for a few moments.

He angled his course toward the closest tree to his left, the one that Jeffers had recently departed to start his rounds. The great tree and its ailing contents had seemed to acquire an uneven amount of attention from Jeffers and, for his part, from him as well.

Within the hollowed-out space between its roots, Jeffers had made his office. Here, those in the most urgent need of care were housed. The bulk of the most critically wounded were from either Captain Le’Dral’s or Lieutenant Moyan’s troops. They had suffered wounds from arrows and blades. Though several had perished since they had set out, the mender was optimistic those who remained would survive.

At what capacity they would find themselves after was the subject of further discussion.

Housed here, closest to Jeffers’s watchful eyes, were a prejudiced collection of those who held the most importance, both tactically and personally. Ryl and Kaep had rested there. Cavlin still worked through his convalescence under the tree’s roots. Andr had ensured that his boy, Cray, would find a place there as well.

Sarial, the last of the tributes to succumb, though temporarily, to the rigors of the withdrawal-induced sickness, held a figurative place of honor closest to the mender’s station. Though he might have strived to keep his feelings and their working partnership ambiguous, the budding relationship between the mender and tribute was hardly a secret. Andr smiled at the development as much as the seemingly universal acceptance of it. Both had worked tirelessly to aid all in need. Regardless of what blood flowed within their veins.

Andr halted for a moment as he reached the entrance to the chamber. He rested his hand against the giant root of the tree, leaning heavily against the thick support. The jolt of energy nearly made him jump as the woods responded to the contact with his skin.

His head reeled as the messages and signals overloaded his senses, threatening to topple him from his feet. Though the information was largely indistinguishable, however, the main message was clear.

All was well in the woods.

For the moment, they remained safe.

Andr took a moment to breathe deeply, steeling his body for the rigors that were to come. A wave of heat streamed from the interior of the chamber, an accumulation of the combined heat from the scattered lanterns and the excess of bodies arranged across the earthen floor. The temperature served only to amplify the odor that wafted from the chamber. Though the natural gaps in the walls and the ever-present gentle breeze, which emanated from the interior of the forest, worked to dilute the odor, it was still pungent, nonetheless.

The potent stench of death from the blighted rose’s leaves permeated the air. He was unconvinced that it wouldn’t follow those who resided here for the rest of their days. Within a handful of breaths, his body became disturbingly accustomed to the smell. At least the urge to gag had subsided. From experience, he understood it would only lessen from here.

Besides, nothing would keep him from completing his task at hand.

Andr scanned the room, his eyes pausing on any sign of motion from within. A pair of guards, the most competent of the bunch, carefully worked the room in the absence of Jeffers. They hunched over a wounded guard, his torso healing slowly from a nasty slash courtesy of the guards who’d ambushed them in Tabenville. Andr knew all too well, he was lucky to have survived.

Having made their hasty rounds, his eyes returned to the object of their attention. There, set near the far wall of the room, rested his son. Cray.

Andr’s body moved of its own accord, plodding carefully across the room. He squeezed through the aisle of makeshift cots, working quickly to his destination. Several frayed scraps of cloth floated casually in a small bowl of water alongside one of the tributes along the way. He scooped out one length, carefully wringing the excess chilled water back into the bowl.

A few meters later, he sank to his knees alongside the resting body of his son. Andr studied the sleeping boy before him. Memories of a life long lost flashed through his mind. He was present for his boy’s birth. There had been pleasant moments as a family. Picnics by the thin, winding creek that ran behind their homestead. Teaching his boy to ride around the small garden they tended. Small moments, seemingly inconsequential in the grand scheme of life, likely taken for granted, were all he truly had. Life as a hired sword, working contract to contract, was not conducive to fatherhood.

Andr ran his hand over the boy’s forehead. His skin burned. The similarities to the harrowing trek across the Outlands with Ryl had left a permanent scar across his mind. There had been so much uncertainty then, so much confusion. He had been willing to die for Ryl. He had gone willingly into the abyss for nothing more than hope.

To see his son free.

It was a fleeting hope. One neither he nor the gracious Lord Eligar, who’d paid for Ryl’s freedom, likely fully believed. Yet if he’d learned anything from Ryl, it was to trust in that feeling.

For so long, hope was all he had. Hope was all they all had.

He carefully dabbed the wet cloth across Cray’s forehead, attempting to provide some succor to the fever that ravaged his body. Unlike managing the sickness in the wilds with Ryl, he was certain that Cray would live. That they would both survive the ordeal.

Why now, under the careful supervision of a skilled mender, did he feel more unsure?

“What is it about that one?” The gravelly voice startled Andr. He twisted his body to view the speaker.

Cavlin hobbled toward him, his