After all, these fae are relatively sheltered seelie who’ve likely never seen the wholesale slaughter that Jaro’s mind so readily recalls.
His wolf lopes through the fray, dodging weapons as he races up a sandy bluff. He’s heading for someone, a fae with blurry features who’s battling a Fomorian easily double his size. The warrior looks like Jaro, but his features aren’t fixed.
“Pa!” Jaro shifts and screams.
Of course. Braiden died not long after Jaro was born. He never knew what his pa looked like, so the boy with the magic of nightmares can’t use Jaro’s memories to create a true likeness.
His voice distracts the warrior for a split second, and that’s all it takes. The Fomorian takes the fae’s head with a single sweep of his longsword.
Jaro’s screams in his dream blend with the whimpers of the wolf on the dirt as his body collapses. On his belly, he paws at his own skull as, in the dream, his child-self watches his father’s head topple down the bank towards him.
My heart cracks, sympathy and horror bleeding past any semblance of forced calm I achieved with my breathing exercises.
The dream isn’t done. The sand is still falling.
Jaro catches the rolling head of his father, and it morphs, becoming a huge spider that unfurls long hairy legs.
Several fae shriek. The arachnid launches straight for Jaro’s face, pincers snapping. Then it bursts, becoming hundreds of smaller spiders.
In that moment, I forget that I’m not in the dream with him, and my hands fly to my arms, trying to swipe away imaginary bugs. Wraith’s head moves, drawing me back to the present, and I fist his fur as I turn my attention back to my wolf. Jaro hasn’t moved from where he fell in the dirt, but his paws are still swiping at his head, harder now, like he’s trying to crush his own skull to escape the horrors unfolding in his own mind.
My legs tense, ready to leap up and go to him, but Bree and Wraith work together to keep me in place as yet more twisted dreams play out. I ignore them, focusing on Jaro, trying my hardest to keep calm so that our bond doesn’t add to the torture.
Every now and again, my eyes flicker to the sandglass, pleading with the golden grains to hurry up. About halfway through, the wolf’s ears start to bleed, then his nose drips blood. I look up at Drystan, pleading with my eyes for him to do something, but the dullahan’s icy expression freezes me out. Even Bree—squeezing my shoulder in equal parts restraint and reassurance—appears perfectly stoic.
The leaves of Kitarni’s hair are turning yellow, but that’s the only outward indication she feels any emotion at all.
How can they all watch him suffer?
Because they know it’s for the greater good, my inner voice whispers.
That’s no comfort at all when the shifter I love is crawling on the ground, howling and whimpering.
I have to stop this—
I open my mouth to tell Aiyana that Jaro surrenders—damn her vow and the civil war—only to be brought to a halt by an eerie silence.
The entire arena is holding its breath, and my attention is yanked back to the projection.
My own face stares back at me from the familiar surroundings of my garden room Elfhame City. My violet eyes are lit with tears, and the thick smoke billows around me, blending with the thick iron collar tracing black veins up my throat.
A shadowy figure, who might’ve been an older version of Caed, yanks cruelly on my chain. His large blue hand holds me out over the drop by my collar as I twist and struggle, exposing six bloody wounds on my wingless back. The arena watches with wide eyes as the gold-crowned Fomorian grins.
And drops me.
Jaro’s howl echoes across the dirt, and Bree’s hand crushes my shoulder as the wolf claws desperately at its eyes, drawing blood.
But the golden sand is still falling.
Another nightmare plays. This time I’m being held underwater by Fomorians, drowning. Then I’m burned alive. My wings are ripped off over and over as Jaro watches. Sometimes it’s Caed who’s responsible, other times faceless Fomorians, but the result is the same.
The twins have narrowed in on the most effective way to hurt him. Me.
“This borders on treason,” Kitarni hisses across my lap at Aiyana.
The spring queen doesn’t tear her gaze away from the whimpering wolf as she casually waves off the accusation. “It is merely an illusion.”
“You will drive him feral,” Drystan argues, surprising me. “His wolf cannot differentiate between the loss of his mate in dreams and reality.”
