Spellbound by Marcus Atley Page B

native clothing and curled up between my parents shivering with the heaters cranked. I thought for sure I would be dead by spring.”
    Stavros made an amused sound. “I traveled to Raylea once. Mikhail took me when I was a child. After living there I’m surprised you can survive anywhere under a hundred degrees. Why did you leave?” he asked as he waved his hands over the top of the flame mindlessly.
    Elion studied Stavros’s face for a sign of reason for his sudden curiosity. He wasn’t prying, he was simply asking, as if he wanted to make conversation. Most wouldn’t read into such a gesture, but Stavros wasn’t exactly pooled in the general consensus. Elion sighed.
    “War had been a possibility for years. My village prepared for it, but tried to stay neutral, until the possibility became more of a reality anyway. My parents didn’t want that for me.”
    “They sound like good parents,” Stavros added casually. Elion nodded.
    “They are. They had good lives there and gave it up for me. Why the longsword?” Elion asked in attempt to change the subject. Stavros hummed in thought and scratched at his chin.
    “Felt right, I suppose. Why the bow? You have magic at your fingertips.”
    Elion chuckled softly. “I’m good with one, and magic never came to me, not enough for me to follow the path of a mage or anything of the sort. Pathetic, right?”
    “Why is that pathetic?”
    “Seriously? I’m an elf. It’s supposed to be like, my thing.”
    “That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard,” Stavros scowled. “I think it might be racist too.”
    Elion burst into a hard laughter that made his cheeks ache. Stavros’ expression remained blank except for the twitch at the corner of his lips. “You did not just call me a racist.”
    “No, I didn’t,” Stavros replied, possibly a little playfully, as he slumped back against the rock wall. “You should get some sleep.”
    “You can sleep. What’s the worst to worry about here?”
    “Most of the beasts will stay in shelter through this storm. Trolls will not. Bandits don’t care either way. Vampires have no feeding restrictions here. We’re a few days from the full moon. Not many lycans this far north anymore, but the ones that are more beast than man-”
    “Alright,” Elion cut him off. “I think the novelty of this place has officially worn out. Wake me in a few hours, huh?” Stavros gave a lazy grunt before leaning his head back and folding his arms over his chest. Elion shifted inside his bedroll until he had gotten the most comfortable he was going to be able to in his current given situation.
    The wind outside howled while he stared at the cobwebs and moss growing across the top of the small cave. Stavros was still to his left, his chest rising and falling slowly as he stared out into the darkness. It was a surreal few moments between reality and a half coherent lucidity. It should have worried him that he was drifting to sleep in a place where the elements or beasts could have at him, but it was the soft scratch of leather shifting against the stone that gave him the reassurance that let his lids settle closed.
    ~~
    Deep gold rays were creeping through the cave opening when Elion sat up. His neck and back were knotted tightly and his fingers felt as though they would fall off. The rest of him, though, was suspiciously warm. He looked down to find that another bedroll had been spread over him. Stavros was still leaning against the jagged wall, his head resting awkwardly on his shoulder with a hand placed on his sword that was lying across his lap. The fire was still burning, low, but alive, telling him that Stavros couldn’t have gotten much sleep. Elion covered Stavros before turning to secure his bedroll to his pack and pull out rations for the both of them.
    It wasn’t much longer before Stavros stirred. Elion glanced up and offered him a smile in greeting, but stayed quiet. Stavros wasn’t one for words in the morning, not that he ever