He cuts me off with a snarl. “Youbeggedfor him. For three days, you lay in that bed, thrashing and screaming and begging to see him.”
I swallow roughly and look away, wounds that never seem to fully heal opening in my chest once more. Leaving the Sol Army behind almost killed me, the five years of peace having done nothing to soothe the ragged damage to my mind, and yet I’d dragged the time on because I knew how painful the separation would be. The ice around my heart was my only protection, and now it’s gone, leaving me with the devastation the evils wrought.
The piercing edge of his gaze is too much right now, too knowing, as he takes in every inch of the grief and loathing at my situation that must be written on my face. His own mood sinks lower until a malevolence forms in the room with us, despite my own attempts to keep the conversation civil.
I’m thankful that I haven’t reopened the mind connection between us. Anything that aided him in seeing through me would be a dangerous weapon but the blessed gift of the Fates to speak to one another in such a manner would surely prove to be my undoing.
“I’m fine now. It was nothing but memories, terrors long gone. I'm sorry if I put the castle at risk, or exposed any weakness to your uncle for your claim to the throne.”
At that, he stands abruptly, and my hand turns on reflex, shifting until the magic point at my elbow is exposed and I’m as close to putting a hand to the hilt of my sword as I can get in this moment.
He sees it and still doesn't comment on the threat.
“I don't give a Fates-filled fuck about the castle right now. You held off three battalions of witches to preserve Yregar’s wall, slaughtered them single-handedly, and stopped the High Witch himself from storming the castle and killing all of those sheltering within. If you want your brother here, I’ll find him. Ifyou want every witch in the Northern Lands and the Sol Army, I’ll bring them here to you.”
There it is.
The high-fae prince has suddenly found himself indebted to someone below him, and perhaps a bit of guilt has finally entered this male's body, along with his indignance to find himself in such a position.
He’s about to find himself in a much worse one.
“My brother is not tied to you with my fate, Prince Soren, and if you learn nothing else today, then let it be this—Pemba Eveningstar would happily rip the Fates open once more and face an army of Ureen alone to keep you from me. His assessment of you was formed by the rumors of your temperament alone. Imagine his determination if he found out you threw me in a dungeon and coated the castle in witcheswane? There would be no reason excusable to him. There would be nothing you could offer him to soften his judgments, no assurances, no promises, no apologies. You could hand him the throne of the Southern Lands itself, and he would still rend you limb from limb for me and die laughing as the monsters of the Fates consumed him. Do not send a messenger. If you wish to repay me for my defense of your castle, I will accept nothing else—don’t ever speak my brother's name again.”
CHAPTER THREE
Soren
Every breath feeds the seething malevolence within me as I carve my way through the remaining soldiers in the sparring ring. Curses sound around me as my weapon arcs in a perfect sweep, sparks bursting at the impact of my blunted training sword against the others with every strike. I see the resignation in their eyes before I cut them down one by one, but it’s not cowardice.
I’ve decimated them all for days without fault.
Ash still lies over the courtyard, a stark reminder of why we’re training in the first place. The funeral pyres burned yesterday after days of hard work to prepare them, the fires lit under the solemn vigil of the entire household, save Tyton as he watched over my sleeping mate. Everyone came out to pay their respects to the dozen men lost, their sacrifice a reminder of how close we all came to perishing.
The shift in opinions of my Fates-blessed mate wasn’t the slow ripples that usually cascade down through the courts. No, the battle of Yregar and Rooke’s lone defense at all costseradicated the scorn for her in an instant. Not a single murmur of contempt or suspicion was uttered, even as the smoke of the funeral pyres curled through the ruined streets of the village.
As the last of my opponents falls, Tauron arrives with his brother in tow and murmurs to Roan about the state I’m in, but I push their incessant concerns from my mind as I dismiss the soldiers and pause long enough to drink something, then pour the last of the water over my head. It does nothing to quench my real thirst, but then nothing has.
With water and sweat still running down my face, I snap at Tauron in the old language, “Who’s guarding her?”
I don’t have to say her name; my Fates-blessed mate is in every room with me now, every conversation and every interaction. They all tip-toe around the idea of her as though I’m the twitch of an eye away from bloodshed at her existence… or perhaps in her name.
My cousin stares at me before he answers, squaring his shoulders and preparing himself for my impending rampage. “Reed Snowheart.”
The full force of my ire lands on Roan with a growl, and he grimaces, holding up a hand as though he has any chance of placating me. “Airlie and Firna are there, too—he’s guarding from the door.”
I don’t like it and, worse, Iloathethat I feel that way.
There’s nothing that can distract me from my fury either, only questions that plague me further. No matter my attempts, Rooke refused to say another word to me about her brother, and I was forced to leave my chambers before I did something stupid, like rage at her the way I’ve been cursing the Fates for days.
It was to the chagrin of Roan and the newly appointed commander of Yregar’s barracks, Kytan, that I returned to thesparring rings, but no amount of training has been able to burn the violence from my veins.
Roan has spent many long centuries learning how best to distract me from bloodshed, though the hesitance in his voice speaks volumes for my volatility since the witches attacked Yregar. “The builders are clearing the rubble this morning. We’re heading down to assess the damage. If you need some hard labor as a distraction, Soren, it would be more productive than this carnage.”
He flicks his hand out at the many spatters of blood spat out by my soldiers, thanks to the countless injuries I’ve dealt out. My gaze traces them and then flicks to Kytan, but the commander is silent as he waits us out. His expression is unreadable as we speak around him without his understanding, though he stands in a fighting stance by force of habit alone. He was born to a loyal and strong noble family, and as a later-born son with no chance of gaining a title, he chose the life of a soldier under my command centuries ago.
I picked him out of the ranks for a leadership position after many cases of proving himself, and when Corym was killed in Kharl’s first attack on the outer wall, he was the obvious choice to take over. He's been careful never to disrespect the man whose ashes might still be on their journey to Elysium.
With nothing left to offer the soldiers here but pain, I shove my training sword back into the rack and grab my shirt from where I threw it off, the charcoal color of it hiding some of the blood streaked over me. I glance up at the lines of windows on the castle overhead, but the thick marble and stone muffle any conversations in there from my hearing. There’s no telling what secrets Rooke might be revealing to Airlie while I’m down here, but I doubt she’s speaking of the Northern Lands or the truth of her time there.
