The wind tore between them, cold and sharp, but Rakhal didn't look away. He watched her closely, measuring the storm building in her gaze.
A laugh escaped her, sudden and sharp, breaking the silence. It was harsh, cold, filled with a dark amusement that didn't reach her eyes.
"A sure way to ward off the Ketheri," she said, her tone laced with mockery. Her breath misted in the frigid air, and still she held his gaze. "And if I refuse? If I would rather die?"
Rakhal didn't flinch. He didn't soften.
"Then you die," he answered simply, his voice low and steady. "And we burn Istrial to the ground. Many will die… on both sides."
The words struck with the finality of a blade.
The wind whipped harder around them, tugging at her hair, her gown, the ropes that bound her. She stood rooted in place, bound but unbowed, staring up at the towering shadow before her.
She drew in a deep breath, her chest rising shakily against the ropes. The shivering grew worse, her legs quivering beneath her. In the pale light of the moon he saw her lips darken, the blush of living warmth giving way to blue. She looked as though she might collapse at any moment.
Enough, a voice whispered in the back of his mind, one he seldom heard. She's had enough.
No. Wait.
He needed her submission. Needed to hear it.
"Very well," she said at last, her voice steady despite the trembling of her body. "I'll consent to this union."
Rakhal chuckled darkly, the sound rumbling low from behind his mask. As if she had any choice. Death or marriage—the worst options possible. Yet she made it sound like her decision. Clever, defiant, even now.
He nodded once. Then, finally, he relented. With a rough motion, he tugged his shirt free and wrapped it tightly around her shoulders, binding it close against her. An extra layer, at least.
The impulse disturbed him. He had killed countless humans without hesitation. Had watched them bleed into the dust without remorse. Yet here he was, concerned for this woman's comfort. Was it merely that he needed her alive? Or was there something more—something he didn't want to examine too closely?
Her eyes widened in surprise, glinting in the moonlight.
"If you don't want to be gagged again, you'll stay silent," he told her, his tone flat, uncompromising. "Not that it matters here. There's nobody to hear you but the wind."
"I won't scream," she answered curtly, her tone businesslike, almost dismissive. "If that's what you're worried about."
He snorted, cinching the shirt tighter around her before bending to lift her once more. "You already know it's futile. When we reach the Stronghold, don't make a sound. Not a word until I tell you otherwise."
She nodded sharply, the gesture laced with sarcasm. "Anything else, o mighty orc? Should I grovel? Or lower my eyes demurely?"
He shook his head, almost amused despite himself, though his reply was edged with darkness. "Don't give me ideas."
Her body was trembling when he slung her back over his shoulder. Trembling, but warmer now, pressed against him.
And it struck him—strange, unwelcome—that he would rather not see her shiver. That he would rather see her warm.
What a strange thought.
The shadow-sickness was beginning to pulse beneath his skin, a dull burn spreading through his veins. By morning, it would be worse—fever, aching muscles, the price of his extended use of anakara. But that was a concern for later. For now, there was only the journey ahead and the weight of the queen against him.
Soon.
Rakhal adjusted his hold on her, muscles coiling, and then broke into a run, carrying her deeper into the night.
Chapter
Ten
The plains flowed past in silence, silvered by the bright sweep of moonlight. From her place slung over his shoulder, Eliza could see them stretching endlessly, ridges of grass and stone gleaming pale under the stars, fires of distant encampments glowing like scattered embers across the dark.
