True North Series Book 2: Onyx Blood
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Vivienne Wren
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The Withdrawal
Book 2: Onyx Blood
I lay curled on my side, clutching the damp cloth Phaedra had pressed into my hands hours ago. It reeked of some pungent oil—sharp herbs and bitter roots steeped until they stung my nose—but the bite of it was the only thing keeping me from spilling what little was left in my stomach.
My body burned, shivering and slick with fever sweats, and every inch of me ached.
I had been like this for days, and I was losing more of myself by the hour. Phaedra had warned me it would come to this. She had told me my body would break itself apart trying to survive the rejection—that it would try to expel the remnants of Thoridor’s blood in my system, and it would tear itself down to the bone if it had to.
His blood wasn’t just in mine anymore. It was in all of me. Woven into my very tissue, into every cell.
His essence had curled through my veins until it nested inside my bones, and now that I had refused him, it rotted in me like poison.
No blood-wielder trick could change that. I couldn’t purge him. I could only endure while my body burned him out molecule by molecule.
A wave of nausea curdled my stomach, sharp enough to wrench a cry from my throat. I choked back bile, tears leaking down my temples, hot and stinging.
I hated him for this—hated what he had done to me, how he had ruined me. And yet…his memory would not let me go. It plagued me.
Especially now, when I was at my lowest, he lingered at the edges of my mind. His face. His voice. His hands. I told myself it was just fever breaking me down, but deep in my soul, I knew better.
At night, I dreamed of him. By day, I heard him—phantoms of the words he’d spoken. Echoes of the agony on his face as he’d apologized for ruining my entire life.
Phaedra swore Thoridor was suffering the same fate, that rejection had gutted him as much as it did me, if not more.
I believed her. He hadn’t wanted this. The idea of me rejecting him willingly—choosing to go through this hell just to keep from being with him—that must hurt mentally as much as it did physically.
Good. Let him choke on it.
My misery was easier to swallow when I imagined he was hurting in more ways than one.
Crueler than the pain was the fact that even the faintest whisper of Thoridor eased the sickness. His name, the faint scent of leather and smoke clinging to Phaedra’s robes, whispers shared between Phaedra and Warrian when they thought I was asleep—it soothed me more than any potion she brewed.
Those brief, stolen moments of comfort were the only mercy I had been granted.
Warrian had barely left my side. Phaedra came and went, ferrying between Thoridor and me, between Terrestrial and Aquatic Ardanis, her satchels heavy with tinctures.
She thought she was subtle, but I knew when she had been to him. She reeked of him no matter how she scrubbed herself raw, no matter how many times she changed clothes.
Once, she came wearing the boots she had worn to tend him. I had nearly torn them off her feet in desperation.
She had let me keep them, and for a fleeting hour, I held them to my chest and breathed him in. My fever broke, my head cleared, and I thought maybe I would survive.
Then the scent began to fade, and suddenly, the worn leather felt like more of a taunt than a comfort.
I drifted in and out of dreams so vivid I woke screaming, chest heaving, throat dry and scratchy like sandpaper. Warrian gathered me every time, pulling me into his arms, holding me until the convulsions subsided.
He lay beside me through it all, his body wrapped around mine like armor, though sweat soaked us both night after night. He whispered comfort, ran hands down my spine, kissed damp hair from my face.
And I loved him for it. I did. I would have chosen him a thousand times if choice had been mine to make.
I would have bound myself to him gladly. But the truth clawed through me now, sharp and undeniable: he was not my mate. And we both knew it.
Each day, I grew weaker. My body rejected food outright, no matter how carefully Warrian tried to feed me, no matter how light the meals.
Even water I could barely hold, and only when laced with Phaedra’s elixirs. They were the only reason my heart still stirred in my chest.
Sometimes, when the fever dragged me too deep, I thought of Tophyn—small body racked by illness, fighting with no such aid. I wondered if the tinctures and ointments I once swore by had ever meant a damn thing.
If Thoridor had been right, if the simple act of rubbing Tophyn’s back had done more for him than every potion I brewed.
Thoridor.
His name alone made me gasp, my heart skipping at the thought of him, as if my body knew it better than I did. Warrian sensed it—he always did.
He stroked my hair and pressed a cup to my lips.
“Come,” he murmured, voice steady, coaxing. “Drink.”
The water was lukewarm, but my cracked lips welcomed it. I managed a few swallows before sinking back against the damp mattress.
My voice was barely a rasp. “I don’t know how much longer I can do this.”
“It won’t be much longer now,” he answered, his hand softly stroking along the ridges of my spine. His touch was tender, but all it did was remind me how bony I had become.
I mourned my once-strong body, now reduced to a fragile framework.
I pressed my forehead to his, breathing him in. “Thank you, War. For everything.”
His mouth curled upward, his hand tightening around mine. “I wish I could do more. I wish I could take it from you. Break the bond myself.”
I only nodded. The logical part of me yearned for that too. But beneath it, my soul screamed, tearing at me, refusing the lie.
To cut the bond was to tear myself apart. My body knew it. My blood knew it. Every fiber of my being called for him.
Thoridor.
The next time I woke, it was to a soft knock at the door. My throat was too raw to speak, so Warrian answered instead.
“Who is it?”
“It’s me,” Phaedra’s voice drifted through.
She didn’t wait for permission; she swept in, heading straight for me. She took the threadbare cloth from my grip and replaced it with a fresh one, damp and cool.
“I brought someone,” she said quietly, her eyes careful and knowing. “Someone who might be able to help.”
For a heartbeat, I let myself believe that she had broken her promise. That she had brought him to me.
My chest seized with hope and dread in equal measure.
But no—she had sworn before coming to see me. She’d never bring him—she wouldn’t torture me like that.
“Who?” My voice cracked on the word.
Phaedra turned and walked to the door.
She opened it wide, and it wasn’t Thoridor in the doorway.
It was the Queen.
