Mirror’s laughter echoes. “Silly man, not everyone is as obsessed with Prince Vana as you are. My target isyou.”
He shimmers into visibility, then darts forward—in three different directions. Every movement is quick, agile, despite the wet floor. Not a trace of his feigned clumsiness remains.
Shrouded in razor-sharp ice, Daromir punches through the three Mirrors and skids back into the bedroom. He needs space so Mirror doesn’t corner him. The wooden floor has better purchase than the tile, and there are more weapons under the bed or behind the wardrobe if Daromir loses control over the knife or magic.
Daromir doesn’t know why Mirror would be targeting him, He doesn’t care. That’s a problem forlater, when he isn’t focused on the fight in front of him.
The illusions have multiplied. Now five shimmering Mirrors stand in front of him, a knife in each hand.
A tough fight, but not impossible now that Daromir is starting to pick up the Hound’s patterns. Mirror’s clumsiness as Mori was an act, but there are limits to his control over the illusions. Mirror can’t differentiate their movements, so when the five surge forward again, Daromir focuses on the one whose movements make sense for its angle. He sends a flurry of ice spinning towards the real Mirror’s throat.
But at the last second, all five illusions transform intoVana.
Daromir’s magic instinctively recoils.
Ten knives dart for Daromir’s throat, sharpened by Mirror’s laughter—until noise slams them both from all sides.
Every window in the tower blows out, and the storm rolls in. Darkness takes the room, every enchanted lantern winking out in the surge of oppressive power. Darkness, then blinding light. Lightning chains through the illusions.
Four false images of Vana vanish into smoke. The fifth screams until his throat is too ruined to scream again. Mirror’s magic extinguishes with his death, and he falls to the floor as a half-charred husk
Light flashes again, and all Daromir sees is Vana in the doorway. Not an illusion, he knows with all his heart.
“Daro,” Vana whispers. Lightning crackles above his head, illuminating the utter terror in his eyes. “Are you all right?”
?
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Vana
Stanza swoops in through a broken window, lightning shimmering along her feathers. She swivels in midair and perches on the foot-rail of Daromir’s bed, head cocked as if surprised by the scene around her. Then she launches across the room, past the wrecked divider screens, and lands on Vana’s headboard instead.
“Are you all right?” Vana repeats, because he’s so afraid he’s wrong. His nerves still crackle like the lightning circling overhead. All the way from the wall, Vana feared he would be too late. Each small pain pricking his arms was proof the fight continued. If Daromir had been anywhere else, Vana might not have made it in time.
Daromir shakes out his arms. Frozen daggers still gleam in front of him. “Our plumbing is fucked, but I’m all right. Are you okay?”
Vana can’t even shake his head no. Controlling his magic requires too much concentration when his heart pounds in this thunderous rhythm. The sparks overhead are nothing compared to the painful surge in his veins. How unfair it is for Vana to crave comfort when Daromir is the one who was attacked.
Daromir is the one who nearly died, and their last shared memory would have been Vana breaking Daromir’s heart. The thought lances through Vana, and he sways where he stands.
Shards of ice crash to the floor. The room warms as Daromir holds out his arms and says, “Oh, Vana. Come here, love.”
Vana staggers forward, his body obeying without any input from his mind. They cross the distance together, and Daromir’s arms wrap tightly around him. Vana can barely breathe. It’s suffocating. It’s perfect.
Once again, Vana allows himself to take everything Daromir offers. Shared pain stretches across their left shoulders. They’ll need to fix that, but the bloodbond tells Vana the injury isn’t serious. It can wait. Nestling into Daromir’s body, Vana wonders how he ever thought he could pledge himself to someone else.
No crown or title is worth losing this.
“I should make sure he’s dead,” Vana says, though he doesn’t move away.
Daromir hugs Vana tighter. “He’s very dead. You don’t have to look.”
Shivers rock through Vana—not his. Daromir is the one trembling into their embrace. Vana isn’t being selfish after all, because Daromir needs this embrace as much as he does.
Vana’s soul finally calms, and his magic settles. First the room darkens as the lightning fizzles away above his head. Then the storm clouds begin to disperse from around the tower, and the room slowly lightens.
“I’m here,” Daromir murmurs into Vana’s hair. “I’m here. We’re both here.” He strokes Vana’s back and pauses. “How did you get here so fast? Where were you?”
