Then he heard them—voices calling through the forest, growing closer. Not all the mercenaries had stayed to fight Nero. Some had broken off to hunt him down.
"This way!" came a rough shout. "Fresh tracks leading east!"
Casteel looked desperately around the rocky ledge. The ravine yawned before him, its depths lost in shadow. Behind him, the voices grew louder, accompanied by the sound of boots on stone. He was trapped. And trapped meant Nero would surrender, and he couldn't allow that.
Through their bond, he felt Nero's desperate fury—his mate knew the hunters were closing in. If they captured Casteel, they would indeed use him as leverage. And then Doran would have both of them.
The decision crystallized with terrible clarity. Better to risk the ravine than become a weapon to be used against the man he loved.
No, better todiethan become a weapon used against the man he loved.
Casteel took three running steps and leaped into empty air desperately hoping the river would be deep enough when he hit it.
The fall seemed to last forever. Branches whipped past his face, tearing at his clothes and skin. He hit an outcropping of rock with bone-jarring agonized force, tumbled through a patch of thorny bushes, then struck his head a little too hard even as a branch saved him from plunging into the water.
Darkness claimed him instantly.
Casteel woke to warmth against his cheek and the soft rasp of a wet tongue across his forehead. His head throbbed, nausea twisting in his guts, and when he tried to open his eyes the world tilted wildly.
The gentle licking continued—steady, caring. Slowly his vision sharpened. A horse stood over him, but not like any horse he’d ever known. Her coat was inky black shot through with silver streaks, as if moonlight itself had pooled in her glossy hair. Hermane fell in waves of pale steel, and her eyes—dark as mountain tarns—held an alert intelligence.
A Skellarae mare. Alive, breathing, startlingly beautiful.
She worked delicately at his head wound, and wherever her tongue passed the pain eased. Casteel lay still, afraid that any movement might shatter this miracle.
She sensed him stirring and lifted her head, fixing him with those clear, knowing eyes. Recognition flickered there—not magic, but a calm understanding. She seemed to see who he was, the losses he carried. She lowered her muzzle again, her breath faintly scented of pine and earth. The pain faded entirely under her ministrations, replaced by a quiet warmth that spread through his temples.
“You’re real,” he whispered, voice raw. “After all these years—”
She nickered softly, a low, musical sound. Then she stepped back enough for him to sit up. His head still pulsed, but the dizziness was gone. He touched the wound—dried but clean, the cut sealed.
“You healed me,” he murmured, astonished.
The mare tossed her silver-splashed mane, sun glinting off her coat. Then she turned and walked a few paces, pausing to look back at him.
He swallowed. She wanted him to follow.
Shaking, Casteel hauled himself to his feet. The ravine walls rose steeply around him; he must have tumbled down instead of plunging straight—how else to explain his survival? The mare waited patiently, watching with her bright, thoughtful gaze.
“I—I’ve dreamed of you,” he said, voice catching. “I never thought you were real.”
She dipped her head, then stepped sideways onto a fallen log near the ravine’s edge. Her stance was an invitation.
“You want me to ride you,” he whispered, half in awe. His mother’s stories of Skellarae came rushing back: they bonded with only one rider, after a test of sacrifice or devotion.
He slid onto the log, heart pounding, and swung a leg over her back. Her coat was cool and sleek beneath him, alive under his touch. As he settled, the world seemed to shift—nothing overtly magical, but a sense of quiet power in her stride, a connection deeper than mere mount and rider. Through her steady gait he felt the rhythms of these mountains, the old trails hidden in the crags.
“What’s your name?” he asked, hand resting on her neck.
The name came unbidden: Miralisse—princess. He grinned wryly.
She moved forward, not at a hard gallop, but at a pace that felt like flying just above the trail. Every hoof fall was precise, sure, guiding him up the ravine toward hidden switchbacks he would never have found on his own.
As they climbed, Casteel sensed Nero’s presence, faint but urgent through their bond. His mate was alive, in pain, searching. Miralisse’s pace quickened, her ears pricked, nostrils flared—she smelled something on the mountain breeze.
The ravine walls eased back, and before them appeared a sheltered valley ringed by high peaks. Crystal rivulets threaded through meadows thick with wildflowers. All around grazed Skellarae horses—dozens of them, sleek-black coats shot with silver, heads lifting at their approach.
Tears pricked Casteel’s eyes. “You survived,” he breathed. “You’re really here.”
