Book Two: The Larkspur's Longing ~ A tale of deep obsession and devotion

Chapter Thirty: Nightmares

In the dark stairwell just before dawn, Callidus's footsteps quietly echoed as he paced back and forth outside of Cressida's bedchambers, like a restless sentinel.

The night had been long and fruitless, with his search for Foster yielding no results, leaving him with a bitter aftertaste of failure. The exhaustion of the sleepless night weighed heavily on him, and each step was a struggle from the hours of scouring rooms and hallways with Arden.

Not too long ago, sleepless nights were part of his usual routine, but since Cressida's arrival in Windridge, he'd grown accustomed to a full night's rest – even often relaxing together until late morning.

(He wasn't certain if he could sleep without her again.)

The headache that had been building throughout the night intensified, a relentless pounding behind his eyes that refused to let up. He adjusted the air pressure around his temples, attempting to alleviate the pain, but it persisted, a constant reminder of his mistakes.

Cressida's heart-wrenching ultimatum echoed in his mind, haunting him with its finality. He had never seen her so enraged, and the pain of her complete rejection still stung like an open wound.

The thought of losing her, of being dead to her, was unthinkable.

Unendurable.

As he continued to pace, Callidus felt like he was drowning. He had never swum in anything larger than a bathtub, never even seen the sea, but the sensation was familiar from his time on campaign in an Ashlarian swamp. The same terrifying pull of mud and water that had sought to claim him there seemed to be closing in on him now.

He had never felt so lost, so helpless, and so far from the man he wanted to be.

He finally came to a standstill, his forehead coming to rest against the cold metal that separated him from Cressida. The image of her lying on the bed without him played in his mind. He closed his eyes, and in that almost pitch-black stairwell, he could sense the deep expansive inhalations that always captivated him – the unique breath of his lover.

Cressida.

His heart painfully ached as he pictured her sleeping alone in the dark, knowing that the tower frightened her.

Did she have nightmares again?

He desperately wanted to go in and make sure she was alright, but hours ago she had banished him from the room with a glare that could have melted stone. He would have sacrificed anything to return to the previous morning, cocooned together, warm, and safe after a night of intimate affection.

The first timid rays of dawn filtered through the slender windows, casting a feeble, wavering glow around him. With a heavy heart, he turned away from Cressida's chambers and descended the winding stairs. Each step of his usual journey now carried an agony he hadn't experienced since he first left Windridge following his mother's passing.

Callidus knew he needed to speak with Quail about the impending execution, to inform him of what would happen, and what Callidus needed from him. Despite his pounding headache he couldn't afford to delay this conversation any longer.

(Delaying conversations was what made Cressida so angry in the first place.)

Reaching the second landing, he used a thin breeze to unlock and open the door to the small sitting room that had been Quail and Cilla's prison cell for more than a month, two people he wished to never see again.

And, as he entered, his wish was cruelly granted.

The room was empty, devoid of any sign of the two captives.