Dawson blinks at him. “Mate,” he says brightly, “I have absolutely no idea what you just said.”
Aelith pauses. Then sighs and switches languages. “I told my mother that her theatrics are unnecessary.”
“Ah,” Dawson says. “Good call.”
The Queen watches the exchange with a faintly irritated expression. “Release him,” she repeats.
Varek finally speaks. His voice carries easily across the courtyard. “First the human.”
Queen Serresta’s luminous eyes shift towards him. “You are in no position to negotiate.”
“I disagree.”
The words are calm, but the bond pulses again with that same controlled fury.
Aelith glances between them. Then he speaks again, this time in English. “Mother,” he says, voice low and steady. “You have your spectacle. You have your soldiers. Must we prolong this any further?”
The Queen studies him. For a moment I think she might refuse. Then she lifts one elegant hand. “Very well.”
The guards behind me step forward immediately. “Walk,” one of them mutters.
Every step sends pain lancing through my ribs and arm, my weight shifting awkwardly through my hips to compensate, balance thrown off just enough to make it obvious I’m not built for this kind of damage. My legs feel unsteady after so long in confinement, and I have to concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other.
Across the yard, Aelith’s bindings are removed. He reaches down immediately, taking Dawson’s hand.
The human beams at him. “See? Easy.”
Aelith mutters something under his breath that definitely isn’teasy.
We start moving at the same time. Halfway across the courtyard, my balance falters. Pain spikes through my broken arm, and I stumble.
Dawson reacts instantly. “Whoa—hang on!”
He tries to move towards me, but Aelith grabs his sleeve. “No.”
Dawson looks at him. Then at me. Then gives Aelith the most ridiculous pair of pleading puppy-dog eyes I’ve ever seen on a grown man.
Aelith sighs deeply. “Fine.”
Dawson slips free and jogs towards me.
“Bloody hell, mate,” he says gently, sliding an arm carefully around my good shoulder, “you look like absolute crap.”
“Noted,” I rasp.
His gaze flicks over me—taking in the bruises, the dark skin gone ashy, the way my build holds onto weight even when I’m half-starved and the mess of my shorter dreads stuck to my forehead with sweat. “Nearly there.”
He steadies me for the last few steps. And then Varek’s right in front of me. His presence hits like a wall, and for a moment, neither of us moves.
For a few seconds after Dawson releases me, the courtyard seems to exist in a strange, suspended quiet. Varek’s presence fills the space between us like a magnetic field.
Up close, the tension he’s holding in check is impossible to miss. His body is still but not relaxed. The muscles across his shoulders and chest are drawn taut beneath his armour, his silver eyes fixed on me with an intensity that makes the bond between us thrum like a struck wire.
His gaze moves slowly across the damage—the split lip, the bruising along my jaw, the awkward way my broken arm is strapped against my chest. Every place he looks, the bondanswers with a low pulse of fury that I feel as clearly as if his hands were touching me.
He doesn’t reach out. Not here. Not in front of the Queen. But I can see the effort it takes.
Behind me, Dawson clears his throat quietly. “Right,” he murmurs, glancing between us. “I feel like this is a moment, but we should probably?—”
