I hate giving up my line of sight to the humans, but there is no choice. I prepare myself as Ulyssus banks toward an oldhollow to the north of the trail, where the ground dips into a bowl that breaks the line of sight from the ground. There is no landing spot.
Ulyssus swoops into a low glide, geography and storms joining forces to cover his approach. I watch the trees. The ground. The shifting wind.
Now,Ulyssus orders, wings beating backward to bring him to something poorly resembling a hover.
I jump.
Mud splashes up to my knees when I hit. The roots taking most of the impact. I roll, crouch, and hold still until the only sound is the rain drumming on bark. Ulyssus lifts back into the clouds, gone like smoke.
I drag myself up the slick embankment, pain lancing through my shoulder with every movement. At least the hot jolts help keep my attention off the water that pools inside my boots. This storm is officially… irritating.
Getting my bearing, I start silently toward the human gaggle I’d spotted from the skies. The sun is setting and my shadows darken the already dim pockets of dusk. Making me all but invisible in the forest. The rain drums ceaselessly, masking smaller sounds and limiting visibility—a mixed blessing since everyone else here is doled the same lot.
After several minutes, I reach a fallen oak that splits the path. Through the curtain of rain, I see the movement I'd spotted from above—a small patrol of humans in Eryndor's forest colors, moving carefully toward the draken field. Five of them, carrying a rune-inscribed box of some sort between them, heads swiveling as they scan the terrain. I don’t like them immediately, and I like that box even less. If Autumn were here, she could tell me what those runes mean, but even without her I feel an aversion to them on a primal level.
Also, none of the five are Rowan and I’m selfishly glad she isn’t part of that procession. But if she isn’t with the humans—which would be the logical place for an escaping Eryndor alchemist to go—where the rutting hell is she?
I freeze, senses straining. And then I smell it. A scent imprinted in my memory so vividly, that my cock stirs just from getting a noseful of it. Honey and citrus. Sweetness and tang. All contradiction. All Rowan. I stalk toward it. Silent. Predatory. And find that my senses don’t disappoint.
There you are.I bare my teeth at the glimpse of auburn hair partially concealed behind a lightning-struck pine, thirty paces to my right. Rowan is crouched low, watching the humans with an intensity that speaks volumes. She hasn't joined them. She's observing them.But what are you doing?
My pulse steadies, though I dare not examine the relief that floods me. Instead, I settle into the undergrowth, watching Rowan watch the humans. I want to trust her. I also want to wring her neck. Her body is tense, coiled like a spring. Is she planning to warn them away? To join them once they're closer? To betray the location of the egg?
The darkness inside me flares. Because if that’s her intention, not just to rejoin her people but to hand over the draken youngling… then I’ve made a terrible mistake. We all have.
The Eryndor procession moves closer to the hidden nest and Rowan moves with them, shadowing their movements.
A new flicker of movement catches my eye—not from the humans, but from behind Rowan. Another figure moves through the shadows, body low, approach silent. Even through the rain, I recognize the predatory stalking posture of a wolf shifter.
Dark Wolves.
I don't think. I move.
My dagger leaves my hand before I've fully processed the threat, spinning in a clean arc. It spears the shifter in the eye,felling them onto the soft ground. I'm on the cultist in three heartbeats, hand clamped over their mouth. Logan aside, wolves hunt in packs, and I’d rather the others didn’t catch on for a few minutes yet.
Blood trickles along my fingers, hot against the chill. Recognition flares as I look into the shifter's face—Viera's underlings, Celeste, a servant who'd vanished after the ritual attack on Rowan.
"Quiet," I hiss, pressing my dagger to her throat. "You're already dead. The only choice you have is how painful the last minute of your life will be."
Celeste's eyes gleam with manic fervor, not fear. “Hello, princeling.”
“Why are you stalking Rowan?”
“I wasn’t. That’s just an… incidental boon. Gift from the goddess.”
“What’s your mission then?”
She smiles, teeth red with blood. “The Flurry fae… Slate fae... You’ve gone soft. Don’t have the stomach to do what needs doing.”
“What needs doing, Celeste?” I ask quietly.
“The humans must die. No mercy. No quarter. No… no sticking your cock into their cunts.”
Well, it doesn’t get much clearer than that. More blood slithers down Celeste’s face, and I know I don’t have much time left. “Why let Eryndor get this far then?” I ask. “You must have seen them on the trail. Why did you not do what needs doing?”
Celeste smiles, teeth stained red. "We did.” She draws a gasping breath. “How… else would the imbeciles be here?”
"You led the humans here.” It’s not a question. "You're working with them."
