Instead, Irenka was the one who died. Hard to believe her family once courted Daromir’s services as a bloodguard. In another life, Daromir would have sworn his life and sword to protect Irenka. In this life, he helped get her killed.
A disaster of an operation all around. Rakos survived, but other than that, it was a dismal failure. Because Rakos, disruptive as ever, took his dragon with him—to Silaise.
Nobody can know Vana was involved in Rakos’s escape. Their lives, and the lives of everyone associated with them, would be forfeit. Not just for the final insult of handing a dragon to Silaise. Daromir and Vana don’t have proof, but Vana has always been certain King Imrik himself was behind Irenka’s scheme.
It makes sense. Rakos was too popular in the dragon corps, and worse, he thought for himself. He resisted any moves to further militarize the dragon corps. Imrik only likes war heroes when they’re agreeable.
In the three years since the Rakos incident, Daromir is the one who maintained contact with the messengers. Vana may have made some mistakes handling Rakos, but he was right about one thing.
They need an escape route out of Draskora.
Whatever skill Vana has at political games, he’s just one misstep or mischance from disaster. House Dire stole Vana’s name. His innocence. The very color of his eyes. Daromir fears that if Vana stays in Draskora, eventually there will be nothing left of him.
Vana would stop this if he knew Daromir was creating an escape route. But Daromir won’t kidnap Vana like they did to Rakos. When the time is right, Daromir will explain everything and persuade Vana to leave.
He just hasn’t found the right moment yet.
Daromir knocks twice at the last door on the right. Then he waits five seconds and knocks twice more, and the messenger opens the door. She gestures him into the nondescript room.
“I didn’t expect you back in town so soon.” The messenger is tall and lean, with a way of diminishing her own presence. Her eyes are more hazel than green, and her pink and orange sunset of curly hair helps her blend in more than she would with her natural white-blonde. Her half-inch of pale roots doesn’t attract attention.
“My plans changed.” Daromir gives the room a quick once-over. He won’t insult the messenger with a more thorough search. “I don’t have anything new for you, but I wanted to get a status update in person since I had the opportunity.”
The messenger slumps at a low table and pours herself a mug of water. “Smart. Saves us some risky messages.”
Daromir tenses. “What do you mean?”
“Don’t panic, but Arla Tellik caught one of us on Kaiskara.”
Fuck. Daromir doesn’t know what that means, and the messenger’s relaxed posture fails to reassure him.
Arla is Vana’s younger sister by blood. The last time Daromir saw her, she couldn’t have been older than ten, clinging to her mother’s robes as Vana made his goodbyes. Daromir had barely noticed her. She clearly hadn’t been a threat, and Daromir was too obsessed with the bloodbond’s magic surging within him. His bone-deep need to protect his new ward. He was cocky then, naïve. Didn’t know how badly he would fail.
“What does Lady Arla plan to do about that?” Daromir asks.
The messenger shrugs. “It’s Lord Arla now, by the way. He came out a few years ago. Though he prefers ‘captain’ to ‘lord’ anyway. I don’t know what his plans are, but he hasn’t exposed us to the rest of the Telliks. He said to tell you he found us, though.”
Daromir grits his teeth. He’s a bloodguard sworn to a son of House Dire. The messengers are Kaiskaran. Vana may have created this messenger network, but that doesn’t mean they answer to Daromir. “Are you working for him now?”
“We still work for you,” the messenger says, which isn’t a complete answer. “Captain Arla just wants to be kept updated on matters pertaining to Kaiskara.” She passes a mug of water to Daromir too.
Arla Tellik must be at least twenty-four by now. No longer a wide-eyed child. Daromir doesn’t know him at all, and that makes him a threat.
“Captain Arla,” Daromir repeats. “Is he in the navy now?”
“Yes. He’d be an admiral by now if he let his blood talk for him. But he insisted on working his way up.” The messenger can’t hide her admiration.
Daromir’s water has gone warm with the wait, and he absently uses a wisp of magic to chill the liquid. Just enough that the mug cools in his hand, not enough to frost the surface. “Send Captain Arla a message for me, then. It’s simple—I want to know his intentions.”
“He’ll ask for yours in return.”
“He shouldn’t need to,” Daromir says. “I’m a bloodguard. My intentions are to protect my prince. No more. No less.”
***
Indra puts her finger to her lips as she slips from the parlor into the hallway.
“Is he asleep?” Daromir asks. He’s back later than he intended. Miscellaneous other errands around the city. Nothing important, just diversions against any watching eyes.
