He snorts. “I didn’t mean the battle, though thank you for reminding me what I’ll miss. I meantAmara. You know, that troublesome wife of yours I spent every drop of magic keeping alive?”
My chin dips. The smirk fades. “She sleeps still beneath the soil. All I can do is wait.”
The words I’ve been swallowing for days finally claw their way free. “I am sorry this has happened to you, Reon. What you’ve given… I’ll never be able to repay. I am so very thankful and so very sorry, my friend.”
I brace for his sharp retort, the biting humor he wields when emotion runs too close. But none comes. He just looks at me, steady and quiet, knowing the truth when he hears it.
“There is nothing to be sorry for,” he says softly. “Nothing to repay. I’d do it again, Daedalus, because you are my prince, and my friend, and my brother.”
My lips part, words tearing loose to mirror his, to tell him I would do the same if ever asked. Before I can shape them, he jabs the bowl at my stomach, a mock shove that lands harder than it should.
“Now make yourself useful, will you, and get me a refill? But don’t bring it back yourself. Ask that lovely, sweet girl who pops in to clean every now and then.” He sighs, half-grin crooked. “She is stunning. Wears a yellow flower in her hair like some kind of forest fairy. Perhaps I’ll take a Grove bride for myself.”
I frown and snatch the bowl from him. “They’re more trouble than either of us can handle.”
He chuckles at last, and I can’t help the small smile that answers it. It is a sound I needed to hear as much as he did. “Go well into battle, Rook,” he says.
“Thank you, Reon.” I glance down as his toes wiggle again. “That’s progress.”
Still propped on his elbows, he watches their movement with exaggerated solemnity. “Yes. Perhaps tomorrow I’ll move the whole foot.”
I straighten. “Be quick about it. Once I’ve finished with the Legion, when Amara has risen, I’ll need you at Gygarth’s doorstep. I’ll need you when I take the battle to An’kel.”
He nods, brow creased. “Then hurry with the broth. I need all the help I can get.”
I incline my head, pocketing the weight of his words, and slip toward the door before sentiment can unravel us both. I close it behind me and find Solena waiting.
“How is he?” she asks, taking the bowl from my hand.
“Surprisingly himself,” I reply.
“What do you mean?” she presses.
I sweep my gaze across the courtyard, Tenders moving between benches, Mordorin sharing the evening meal, and find the girl with the yellow flower in her hair stirring the dinner pot with a broad wooden spoon.
“He wants more broth,” I say. “But he insists she bring it.”
Solena’s brow hardens, then she scowls. “Scoundrel. I’ll take it to him myself with a side of face-punch.” She glances up through the canopy at the deepening dusk. “You leave soon?”
I nod. “Just one last thing to do.”
She nods back. She knows what I mean.
I draw a breath, roll my shoulders, and my wings unfurl with a snap, bursting into the twilight. The air shivers with the motion as they stretch wide, catching the fading lightbefore I launch skyward. I cut through the village like a thrown spear, past the vine wall and beneath the tall, curved roots of the great trees until the forest breaks open around me.
The clearing glows ahead, a sea of lavender blossoms bathed in the soft, milky light. The breeze moves through them in waves, carrying that sweet, familiar scent. I angle my wings, glide low, then land without a sound beside her.
Warmth floods my chest. I canfeelher, my wife, my love. Still sleeping, but stillthere.Still alive.
I drop into a crouch. “I will return soon, wife,” I murmur, hoping my voice threads through the earth to reach her beneath. “Then together we will bring Estra home.” My voice catches. The words break on a breath. “But for that to happen, you must wake, my love. Because I cannot do this without you.”
My hand trails across the blossoms, impossibly soft, fragile things beneath the roughness of my palm. “I need your fire, Amara. Your fury. I need my queen.”
Then something snags my attention, small, almost nothing. Among the vibrant blooms, one flower pales. Its edges shriveled, its color drained.
My jaw tightens. “Amara,” I breathe. “Wife, can you hear me?”
No answer. The quiet stretches too long. I grit my teeth until my jaw aches.
