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Dorian didn’t often have vivid dreams. Tonight was an exception. He could taste sand. His vision obscured by a roaring storm. It felt like Marquet.
As if thinking of the place had summoned him, Orym stepped out of the storm. He looked awful, bloodied and battered. But perhaps worse was the guilt heavy in his eyes. “I’m sorry.”
Dorian reached for him without thought. Orym stumbled forward, feather-light against his chest. “I’m sorry,” he whispered again, voice carried away in the wind.
“Whatever happened, I know you did your best,” said Dorian, heart in his throat, afraid.
“I failed,” whispered Orym, voice shaking.
Dorian ran trembling fingers through Orym’s hair. Orym quickly turned his head as if someone had called his name. Dorian thought he saw something in the storm, but it was hard to make out. Orym squared his shoulders and stepped back. He squeezed Dorian’s hand and turned away.
All he could do was watch helplessly, rooted to the ground as Orym reached out for another’s hand, then faded into dust.
A few quick heartbeats later and Fearne emerged. She blinked as she looked around, then smiled softly as she spotted Dorian. “Well, I suppose this makes sense.”
“Orym was just here,” said Dorian, reaching for her.
“Well, he went down first,” said Fearne, cocking her head at him and staying where she was. “Take care of yourself.” She looked over in the direction Orym had gone, took two steps and was swallowed by the wind.
Dorian sat up with a gasp, tears streaming down his cheeks. With shaking hands he reached for the sending stone. “Orym? It’s me. Please tell me you’re safe. Please…. Please…” There was no answer save the faint sound of howling wind.
Getting out of bed, Dorian went to the window. Catha was bright and Ruidus was low in the sky. He sank to his knees and leaned on the frame. “At least you’re with Will now,” he whispered. He knelt back and listened, praying for any sign that it was only a dream, the heaviness in his heart telling him it was true.