“Yes?” Seren murmurs.
“Do not mistake my acknowledgement for acceptance,” Lara says like a verdict.
Warmth evaporates, turning to ice in her veins.
But Lara doesn’t dwell. She steps over Seren’s pain like it doesn’t exist. “Ask your question, little witch.”
Seren draws on the resolve hidden beneath the rejection. “Where doyourallegiances lie?” The question seems personal.
But Seren came for more than one reason. More than her own desire to belong. More than acceptance. Seren also came for her friends—the ones she’s loyal to above all else.
Because Seren knows things about the witches. She knows they worked for Thalmyr’s family—the Lurians. She knows they bound the dragons in mortal skin. And if she knows who they’re loyal to now, she’s going to exploit it to twist them to her will. She needs the witches to release the dragons so Elyssara can reclaim her throne.
But Lara scoffs. “My allegiances lie with coin and coven, little witch. I don’t care for the wars of man. I go where I can line my pockets. Power, little witch, is a currency. I prefer to hold it.”
Seren stills.
Her gut sours.
All this talk of loyalty and they’re loyal to nothing but their own gain?
Seren exhales tightly. Her tone sharpens. “I see. So?—”
But Lara holds up a hand, cutting her off. “You’ve asked your question.Leave. This is not your home.”
Seren chokes on a scoff. “And face the seas again?” she snaps.
But Lara has already spun on her heel, descending deeper into the cave system, and leaving her coven to their injuries.
“Lara?” Seren calls desperately, but the only answer is the echo of her own voice.
She has passed the first Harrow.
But she has not been welcomed.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Some vows are forged in fire and pain
The strongest call each other home again
The bellsstill echo through the streets of Azhareth, but the people move without concern… or so it seems. Perhaps the bells are familiar, or perhaps no one is stupid enough to draw attention to themselves by moving swiftly.Probably the latter.
In Azhareth, it seems panic warrants condemnation. The city does not forbid fear. It simply punishes who shows it.
Elyssara knows how to go unnoticed. Knows how to move so that eyes glide past her. But Kael? His presence is unmistakable. His warrior’s frame is out of place in the working districts of Azhareth’s Inside. His breaths are too shallow. Too controlled. Too quiet. And she knows he’s trying to compose himself. Probably still fighting the Decay that wants to own him. She can feel it on him still—like smoke clinging to skin after a fire.
“Two blocks,” he mutters under his breath.
He tries to relax again, but the tendons in his neck bulge, his pulse hammers visibly at his throat.
Elyssara reaches for his hand, pulling it into her own. She doesn’t look at him, but she hears the way his breath elongates with her touch. She feels the way he softens just slightly.
They settle into a rhythm, palm to palm, fingers entwined.
“I almost killed a child,” he breathes, his horror palpable.
The words don’t sound like his voice. They sound like a confession dragged from somewhere deeper.
