Yet, unease twisted in her gut.
She turned the arrow shaft over in her palm. She’d asked Captain Marzius for it earlier, unable to ignore the suspicion nagging at her chest. He’d handed it over without question, though his light hazel eyes lingered, quietly assessing.
Now, the arrow lay in her grasp, its weight heavier than mere wood and steel.
The tent flap lifted, and Alarik stepped inside. His broad frame cast a shadow over the cot, gaze flicking to Kaelen before settling on the arrow in her hands.
He approached her. “I’ve interrogated the rest of the mercenaries. Every single one swore they knew nothing of Castiel’s or Jodhar’s plans beyond capturing you.”
She exhaled slowly, her fingers tightening around the slender wood. “They were just pawns.”
His eyes returned to the arrow.
“You’ve been staring at that for a while,” he murmured, crouching beside her. “Did something catch your eye?”
Her thumb brushed over the braid tied below the fletching. “This knot is Aethonian work.”
His brow furrowed. “You’re sure?”
She rose, moving toward a torch, and held the rope over the flame. The fibres blackened, curling in the heat. Then, as the fire licked at the strands, faint streaks of silvery white appeared amid the ash—like scattered moonlight. A distinct scent rose with the smoke, crisp and sharp.
Her heart sank.
“This rope . . .” she murmured. “It’s treated with silversage sap.”
Alarik stepped closer. “Silversage?”
“A plant native to Aethonia’s shores. The sap strengthens fibres, makes them resistant to wear. When burned, it leaves this pattern, this scent. Only true Aethonian rope does this.”
His frown deepened as he studied the singed strands. “And the knot?”
“A Tidebinder’s knot. Used by Aethonian sailors for securing rigging. I’ve tied it hundreds of times, mostly in bracelets and decorations to sell at the Xians’ stalls.” Her fingers tightened around the rope. “This isn’t an imitation. It’s genuine.”
He exhaled sharply. “Then you’re saying the archer was Aethonian?”
Reiya hesitated, the words heavy in her throat. “It might’ve been Castiel.”
His gaze snapped to hers, darkening. “Castiel? Here? In Numeria?”
“I don’t know what to think,” she admitted, her voice trembling slightly. “Is this just a coincidence, or has Castiel been following us all along? If he was trailing us, why act now? To silence Jodhar the moment he became a liability?”
Alarik’s jaw tightened. “It was no ordinary shot. A clean, precise kill—fired from a distance, unseen. That kind of skill . . .” His eyes narrowed. “Is he capable of this?”
Reiya didn’t answer, her mind wandering to the Castiel she’d known as a young boy.
“He never seemed the type,” she said slowly. “He always played the peacekeeper. Hated conflict. Wouldn’t kill an insect if he could help it. I’ve never even seen him with a bow.”
But even as she said it, unease crept through her veins.
“He fences—only for sport. And even then, he never pushed too hard. But . . .” She trailed off, her pulse drumming in her ears.
How much did she truly know about Castiel? About the man beyond the Beta with his perfect manners and carefully measured words?
Was his aversion to violence real—or just another mask?
Her voice dropped, barely more than a whisper. “I don’t think I know him at all.”
Alarik held her gaze, something unreadable flickering in his expression. Without a word, he reached for the arrowhead and knotted rope, tucking them into his belt.
