"Have a few tucked away for emergencies." Arik's usual bravado is absent. "You look like shit."
"Feel worse," I admit. Every cell in my body screams to return to Earth. To return to Astrid. The distance between us is physically painful now, a constant burning ache.
"The ambrosia's losing effectiveness," Cormac observes quietly.
"You think I don't know that?" I snarl, fighting another wave of unwanted transformation. My canines remain extended, making speech uncomfortable. “I’m sorry. I’m just… the wolf is so close. And he’s angry.”
“We’re almost there,” he says, pointing through the trees.
The polished stone walls of Vandimoor gleam in the evening light, deceptively peaceful. But my enhanced vision picks out the doubled guard presence, the new defensive positions along the ramparts. Hawke is preparing for war.
Irritation prickles under my skin. More obstacles. More delays. Every unnecessary checkpoint and paranoid guard is another barrier between me and quickly returning to Astrid.
Cormac's jaw tightens as he surveys the fortifications, his usual diplomatic patience fraying visibly. Even Arik mutters something vulgar under his breath, his casual swagger hardening into something more aggressive.
"All this theater," I growl, gesturing at the ramparts where archers pace in tight formation.
The guards at the gates eye us with open suspicion, spears gripped tight in white-knuckled hands. Their anxiety perfumes the air, sharp and acrid, aggravating my already frayed senses. I keep my mouth firmly closed, very aware of the fangs that refuse to fully retract.
"Who are you and state your business," the guard demands, stepping forward.
"Fenrir Thorsson," I say, my voice steady and clear. I draw myself to my full height, which puts me a head taller than the soldier. "Knight of the Round Table. King Stormblood is expecting us."
The captain's eyes linger on my face a moment too long, taking in the lingering traces of wildness the ambrosia hasn't fully masked. I meet his gaze evenly, no longer fighting for control but still carrying the wolf's presence beneath my skin.
Cormac steps slightly forward. "We have urgent news for the king."
Another guard comes running toward the gate. "Let them through, you idiot. That's one of the Knights." He shoves the first guard out of the way and opens the gate all the way. "Please forgive his mistake, sir. King Stormblood is expecting you. Do you need a guide to the palace?"
Cormac shakes his head.
The shield surrounding the city tingles against my skin as we walk through the gate—a mild discomfort, nothing more. The ambrosia has done its work well, at least for now.
We hurry through the empty mostly dark streets. The front of the palace is well lit, though, and as we cross the outer courtyard, a familiar figure catches my eye. Wraith stands beneath a large oak, deep in conversation with someone. A smile lifts the corners of my mouth.
"Go ahead," I tell Cormac and Arik. "I'll catch up."
He follows my gaze to Wraith and nods. "We'll meet you in the great hall."
I break away, crossing the courtyard with long strides.
Wraith sees me and dismisses the warrior with a curt nod before turning to face me. His glamor is down here in Avalon, revealing his true appearance—golden eyes like liquid fire and very pointed ears.
His eyebrows raise slightly as he takes me in. "You look like seven different kinds of shit," he greets me, the ghost of a smile touching his lips. His gaze tracks to my hands where claws have extended from my fingertips.
"Seems to be the consensus." I clasp his forearm in greeting, careful not to let my claws break his skin. "You don't look much better if those bags under your eyes are any indicator."
"It's getting worse." He doesn't need to specify what "it" is. We all know. The curses. The darkness. Whatever you want to call it. The price of being without our whole soul for so many years. "I haven’t killed anyone yet, but it’s come close."
My chest tightens with empathy. Each of us bears a different curse. Wraith's manifests in losing control of when he dreamwalks and how much energy he takes.
"You haven’t found yours yet?" I ask.
"No." The single word carries the weight of exhaustion and despair. His eyes narrow as he studies my face, noting the tremors that run through me at irregular intervals. "But I hear you found yours."
It's not a question. Something in my expression must give it away.
"Her name is Astrid," I say, the syllables like honey on my tongue. "She's GUIDE."
