Arkyn stiffens at her mention, possessive heat slugging through his veins.
“Everything else that steps foot in the arena simply pales in comparison.”
I didn’t lose her.
Arkyn doesn’t say the words burning on the tip of his tongue. Instead, he sips his mead, chews his grit, and continues watching the happenings far below as a creamy parchment lark flutters into Einar’s lap.
He’s swift to unfold it, skeletal fingers flattening the creases with nimble precision. “Creators,” he mutters, skimming the scrawl, his entire body tensing. His skin turns a starker shade of white to match his flowy garb. “Word from the Grand Chancellor. A moonfall approaches— No.Many.”
Arkyn draws another long sip, swallowing. “Yes.”
Einar’s head whips around, blue eyes piercing, severe against his chalky cowl. “Youknew?”
“Have for a while now. My miskunn misses very little.” Arkyn watches the offerings ready for their impending battle, some clawing through the crumbled stone and embers to hunt for hidden weapons scattered across the vast arena. “There’s still time. A little over fifteen cycles, based on the aurora’s thickening.”
Einar relaxes into his throne, his demeanor softened. “Well, that’s very good to know. Our miskunn missed that, stupid thing. I’ll pass the information on with my response.” He looks at the script again, brows almost bumping into his slick blond hairline. “Well, well. King Kaan Vaegor’s been outlawed for an attack on Bothaim.”
Old news to Arkyn, but the mere sound of his half brother’s name is enough to make his bones grind, the tips of his fingers itching so much it’s a gritted effort not to rip into the skin with his teeth.
“Oh?”
“Yes, it seems his dragon killed one of the bonded mercenaries and took out three ballistae. Naughty, naughty.” Einar makes a pleased sound and folds the lark into a square he tucks in his pocket. “There are many moons above these mountain ranges. I’m guessing you have a plan to see out the falls?”
“Of course.” Arkyn gestures to the pit beneath; toward a swarm of fluttering larks diving into the hands of patrons cramped in the mezzanines. “My flourishing fortress is”—soon to be—“protected against moonfalls.”
The Tri-Councilor scowls. “How is that possible?”
“My title is not without weight.” Arkyn lifts his chin. “Everyone here is now receiving notice of the impending event and an offer of refuge, should they bow to me as therightfulKing of The Burn. Thefirstbornson of the late Ostern Vaegor.”
Though he delivers the statement like a punch, Einar simply arches a brow, his tone dismissive as he says, “I never heard such a rumor.”
“Perhaps because I’m the bastard son of a null?”
The nonchalance in Arkyn’s tone does nothing to honor the fact that his skin’s melting in the wake of Einar’s words. Confirmation that his pah didn’t care about him enough to so much as whisper his name.
“That’ll be it.” Einar winks. “You’ve done well for yourself despite your shortfalls. Rather than stumble above your station, you should beproud,” he says, gesturing to the arena below. “Spend your ambition more wisely.”
Shortfalls …
Stumble above your station …
Spend your ambition more wisely …
Arkyn taps his ravaged fingers against the armrest of his throne. Silent.
Seething.
It takes him a moment to swallow the flaming words threatening to lash off his tongue. Einar is, after all, an important puzzle piece. A relationship the Scavenger King has weathered for many phases, like an ember quietly blown, kept alive, now ready to be tucked beneath a pile of wood.
Dousing it would be an awful waste.
Arkyn clears his throat and continues, ignoring the last lines of conversation—as though they never existed. “As a token of my gratitude for those whodrop the knee, everyone is free to stay right here and enjoy the show. Battles will be waging nonstop until the falls; an attempt to keep minds unburdened until the desolation settles, at which stage my forces will charge north and seize the bronze throne.”
Silence stews, long and cloying.
Arkyn turns his head, meeting Einar’s gaze. “Can I count on Bothaim’s support once I claim the crown?”
Einar begins to laugh, low at first, then harder, louder, folding over himself as his body jerks to the violent beat of his amusement.
