“Trying to,” I echo. Shadows snake around me, as dark as my mood.Tryingis a new word. I little liked the healer’s usual declaration that Rowan would wake when she was ready, but I like this version even less.
“Trying.” The healer purses her lips as she looks down at Rowan’s sleeping form. “Humans were never meant for such magic. That she still breathes and takes water tells me her body is -”
“—Trying. I got it.” The words come out with more bite than I intend. A better person than me would have apologized. A better person would have bothered to learn the healer’s name too. But there isn’t a better person here, there is just me. Well, me and Logan—but that bastard is stretched out in wolf form next to Rowan, so he doesn’t count.
“Kai.” Kyrian, the third member of our disaster troop, barges into the tent, narrowly avoiding knocking the healer over. In fact, the ancient female only remains standing because he grabs her shoulders before she can topple. “We have shitstorm brewing.”
“So it’s Tuesday." My attention stays on Rowan, who should be sitting up and arguing with us right now instead of drowning in her own body. In retrospect, we should always have been suspicious of Viera’s request that Kyrian and I orient the other draken riders to Eryndor’s position. At the very least, only one of us should ever have gone. We’d known Logan was in a precarious position with the wolves. We’d known Rowan was under threat.
And we’d fucked it all up anyway.
Which is the story of my life. I generally destroy anything precious I touch.
“How is -” Kyrian starts.
I shake my head and he snaps his mouth jaw shut without bothering to finish the question. We are fortunate that Rowan is still able to swallow water, if it's poured into her mouth. Without it, she’d have died from dehydration already. But she can’t take food. The healer insists that Rowan needs time to heal, but how long can she live without eating? “What’s the shitstorm?” I prod.
“Thank you for your time, Mistress Brynja,” Kyrian tells the healer.
So that’s what the old hag is called. I should probably make an effort to remember it, but I know I won’t bother.The elder inclines her head and takes her leave, while I perch impatiently on the wobbly table Theron’s quartermaster generously provided. “Well?”
He doesn’t sit. He never sits when his blood’s up; he prowls, as if moving about can dispel his ire. So far, it never has. “Theron’s gathered all leadership in the command tent.”
“And you’re sore over not being invited?”
“I’m bloody suspicious overyounot being invited,” Kyrian shoots back. There is none of his usual irritating good humor behind his eyes now.
“Does Flurry make a habit of inviting other kingdoms’ princes to their command meeting?” I cross my arms. It’s hard to care about Theron’s whims when all I want to do is watch Rowan’s chest to make sure she draws the next breath.
“Theron makes a habit of making coward’s play look like statecraft. And between not knowing that his top commander is running a cabal of dark wolves under his nose and this morning’s reports of Eryndor gathering forces, he has plenty to be scared about. Theron is angling to dosomething. He’s going to make it look like a glittering act of leadership. And he isn’t going to want us weighing in on it until after he gathers all the officers and nobles behind him.”
Theron could crown himself the queen of Flurry for all I care, but Kyrian has a point. Desperate people do stupid things, and the most valuable piece on Theron’s board right now is our Rowan. “Which one of us crashes his party?” I ask. We’ve agreed that at least two of us should always be with Rowan now, so we can’t both go.
“You,” Kyrian says grimly. “I show and he’ll do contrary to whatever I suggest just on principle.
“That’s bullshit.”
“This isn’t the time to litigate that.” Kyrian jerks his head toward the main camp, and the command tent that crowns itscenter. “Go. It’s my turn with Chaos anyway.” Taking a glass of water from the side table he sits next to Rowan and strokes her hair, his blue eyes filled with the same kind of deep ache that gnaws at my soul. The human girl has no idea what kind of hold she has on the three of us.
Hell, I’m not sure I understand it either. All I know is that it's true.
I cut through the draken field without slowing, shadows trailing like spilled ink over trampled grass and straw behind me. Riders break off their murmured repairs to watch me pass, the draken’s following my progress with huffed discontent. Every slit-pupiled stare says the same thing: an alchemist—even an unconscious one—doesn’t belong near their roost.
Beneath the windbreak, the ridge-backed dam, Lethara, coils tighter around a mottled egg, her low growled rumble intense enough to rattle teeth. She’d come into the field to be with her rider-bonded mate, and the egg had been unexpected. I empathize. Discovering who Rowan really is has been no less of a surprise.
Ulyssus tracks my steps, making it known he’ll torch the first idiot who thinks to test me. He can do it too, being bigger, stronger and older than most anyone here, bar Rhaegor, Lethara’s mate.
I let it all slide off—glances, grumbles, the hiss of banked flame—because I have exactly two problems worth my time: Rowan still not waking, and Theron about to turn cowardice into policy. Anyone who makes themselves a third gets ignored or dead. Their choice.
By the time I make it to the command tent, Theron's meeting is in full swing, his voice carrying beyond the canvas. “… thousands strong and armed with auric steel. Ainsley knows we have her daughter and she wants her back. That cannot be allowed to happen.”
“Are we discussing a threat to a Slate princess then?” I say, inviting myself inside. The Flurry prince stands behind a campaign table laden with maps and dispatches, his posture as confident as his voice. Like Kyrian predicted, Theron has the tent filled to bursting with all the camp’s most influential courtiers and officers. This isn’t a war council, it’s a public relations event.
Theron’s eyes narrow with displeasure for only a heartbeat before he regains his composure. "Prince Kai. I’m pleased you decided to join us.”
“I’d have come earlier, had you extended an invitation.”
“My apologies. Kyrian was to inform you but I suppose he’s been... preoccupied.” The asshole offers a tight smile as if he’s walking the line between appeasing a neighboring prince while protecting his half-brother’s reputation. “I realize the breakdown in communication may appear unforgivable, but I assure you Kyrian intended nothing nefarious with the delay. He never does.”
