He shook their hands and clasped their shoulders, murmuring greetings and words of encouragement. He made his way toward Ione, who sported a broad, boastful smile beneath the clock tower.
She snatched his hand, then raised their clasped fists into the air as a boisterous roar stirred the jungle.
All these Fae still remembered him. Shared his wishes for a better Ethyrios.
Not only that, they were willing to risk their safety—theirlives—to achieve that goal.
Hope rattled his feathers.
He wanted to be worthy of their worship, worthy of their faith in him.
“They cheer for you, Prince,” Ione muttered, drinking in the applause as she intertwined their fingers. “They cheer forus.”
He faked a smile, stifled his heartache, and tried his best to project an air of confidence toward the crowd.
But how couldanyof this matter while he had the wrong female by his side?
Tristan smootheda hand over his bloated stomach, dreaming of his bed. Rebel after rebel had approached him in the square tonight, toasting him with food and drink. He didn’t have the heart to refuse a single one of their offerings.
And now, he was so full he could barely walk—and if he never saw another glass of aguaver for the rest of his life, he would die a happy male.
Trophonios ambled over and dropped a hand onto Tristan’s shoulder. “The generals are ready for you, Prince.”
Tristan groaned. “Remind me why I set a meeting this late?”
“Because you run as tight a ship as our Delphine.” Trophonios winked.
When Ione had told him of her intention to turn leadership over to him, Tristan had crammed his days full of meetings and reports, gulping down as much knowledge as he could of the movement’s history and future plans. He felt a tremendous amount of pressure—pressure he’d fully admit he’d put on himself—to get up to speed as quickly as possible.
He hefted himself out of his canvas chair, cursing past-Tristan for scheduling a status meeting in the middle of the night, then followed Trophonios to his war committee room.
Golden bowls filled with flames lit the corners of the dim, smoky hall, the fire provided by one of the Anointed. A large ovaltable topped with a fabric map of Ethyrios dominated the space. Ione was leaning over it, dressed in her ethereal white garments but without the opal-studded circlet.
Her chin rose when he entered, pure affection glowing in her smile. He returned a polite nod.
“Rebel Prince,” she greeted, moving away from the head of the table.
Trophonios folded himself into his chair as the rest of the Teles Chrysos leadership filed into the room: Seraavi Pfania, the fuchsia-eyed Deathstalker who’d portaled down from Lodesvale; Felix Tanius, a rugged Windrider with persimmon-colored wings and long blond locks; Layla Fetar, a honey badger bi-form with pin-straight sheets of half-white, half-black hair and a glittering corset of throwing knives accentuating her waist.
Tristan had been pleased to discover the movement’s key leaders were each a member of a different sub-species. Proof that the world they were fighting for would not hew to the hierarchies established by his father Leonin, who’d only ever put Windriders in positions of power. And as soon as it was possible—and safe—Tristan would be adding humans to this group as well.
Once everyone was seated, most of the eyes in the room shifted to Ione before recalibrating toward him. He could understand why. She commanded a tremendous amount of respect from the rebels. This former human woman who had somehow clawed her way back from death, now poised to help him take back his throne. Maybe even occupy it with him, if she was right about the prophecy.
His heart lurched in his chest, but he tried to ignore it as he addressed the room. “Our coup must be as bloodless and result in as little collateral damage as possible. Therefore, we have our sights set on a single location.” He tapped his finger in the center of the map—right on the city of Delos. “If we can remove Eamonand his lackeys from the Imperial capital, with the support we have from Aurelie Lambros in Akti, plus the support of the Berstoh family in Cernodas, that leaves only Brachos, Syvalle and the Northern Territories to challenge us.”
“Arran Zephyrus won’t fight you,” Layla piped up. “Not as long as you do nothing to diminish his wealth or remove him from power.”
Ione’s brows furrowed. “As long as he agrees to abide by our new laws, then I see no reason to do so.”
Tristan snorted. “He’s not going to like the ‘treat humans as equals’ part. But I have an in with his family. His son Cael and I were Vestian Guards together. He may hold some sway over his father.”
Tristan had no idea whether that was true or not. Sure, Arran Zephyrus had an obsessive, controlling sort of loyalty where his sons were concerned, but Tristan didn’t even know where Caelwas. The fucker hadn’t returned any of Tristan’s windwhispers. That could mean one of two things: Cael was going through one of his episodes again or…
Tristan didn’t have the emotional capacity to consider the second option.
From what Tristan had gathered, Arran was somewhat of a free agent in this conflict, playing both sides. As long as his profits kept rolling in, Tristan didn’t think Arran gave a flying fuckwhosat on the Crystal Throne in Delos. Tristan would use that indifference to his advantage now, then force the male to fall in line after.
“Assume Brachos won’t be a threat,” Tristan said, projecting a confidence he was trying to convince himself he felt.
