Let’s see what your next move is, Gregor. It might be your last.
“I-I didn’t mean to end up here... I was just trying to survive.”
I step close enough to tower over his miserable body.
His eyes dart between me and the vólkins, desperately searching for a lifeline. He’ll find none.
“And yet, you did end up here, didn’t you?” My voice is low. “Convenient, don’t you think? Wandering through the forest until what?”
“I didn’t have anywhere else to go,” Gregor whispers, his voice cracking. “No one to trust.”
“You should have died, Gregor,” I snarl. “You should have died with the other human. Arnold.”
Gregor’s lips quiver, but he stays silent. It’s like he knows that no matter what he says, I won’t believe him. But why does Noël believe him? What does she see in him?
I glance at the warriors standing around us. They know as well as I do that this human should be dead. And yet, here he kneels, alive, trembling like prey at my paws. Ívar catches my eye, a flicker of agreement passing between us.
“Why are you here, Gregor?” I lean down until my eyes are level with his. My breath is hot, my claws flexing at my sides. “What are you hiding?”
“I’m not hiding anything!” Gregor blurts out, his voice frantic, desperate. “I don’t know why I’m still alive, I swear. Noë— Her Majesty spared me... and I-I?—”
“Get him up,” I growl. I need to get control over myself, need to calm the storm raging inside me. “We’ll take him to my mate.”
Ívar nods, and two vólkins grab Gregor roughly by the arms to pull him to his feet. I turn away from the scene and toward the path that leads back to Ávera.
45
UNDER THE VEIL OF JUDGMENT
“There will come a day, my rose, when you must choose with hands that tremble and a heart that roars. Choose anyway, for even mercy carves wounds. Every judgment leaves seeds behind.”
—Eyleen Ársa to Noël, on her sixteenth birthday
Noël
My heart pounds louder in my chest as I sit at the table. My breathing feels shallow and uneven. It’s nearly impossible to focus on the teams’ progress. The whispers of the nýmphí, the chatter of Elder Aïna, Naïa, and Essin—they all blur in the background of my mind.
Gregor is on his way.
The nýmphí that usually walk about with carefree grace move more cautiously now. I noticed that my own feelings reflect on them. Like they’re mirroring me. Mina took the younglings for a nap, sensing the tension in the air.Mytension. I press my palms flat against the table and try to quiet the noises in my mind.
Why am I so on edge? Gregor isn’t a threat. At least he shouldn’t be.
Then what is it? Is it the knowledge that Theron will be furious? That his rage will ripple through the vólkins the moment Gregor steps foot in this place?
Maybe it’s something simpler. Maybe it’s because I don’t even know how I feel about him myself.
I don’t hate Gregor, but I don’t like him either. He’s done nothing truly wrong, and I’m not a monster. I don’t kill without reason. The way he looked at me when Arnold...
I didn’t let Theron kill him before. That much is true. But why? Was it because I cared for Gregor in some small, unspoken way? Or was it because after Arnold’s death, I couldn’t bear to hear another man’s dying gasp echo in my ears?
Did I make the right decision?
I’ve turned the question over in my mind a thousand times in the past few hours. And still, I don’t have an answer.
A nýmphá with beautiful golden hair rushes to my side. “They’re here. The warriors have returned with the human, Gregor.”
I rise from the table and glance at Elder Aïna. She meets my eyes with a nod. Together, we head toward the edge of Ávera, the place where I first arrived weeks ago. The others follow us both.
