Page 89 of Prince of the Sun

The forest is silent. Unsettlingly so. I expected beasts at every turn: serpents in the branches, goblins in the grass, monstrous birds sweeping down from the sky. Instead, we’re met by nothing but the whisper of a soft breeze across our cheeks, the rustling of black leaves in the trees above.

“Stay vigilant,” Daerios says, breaking the silence. “The forest might seem peaceful now, but the Shadow Elves wouldn’t have left Árrion unprotected. I’m sure they invited every species ofbeast from Shadowfell to make camp around here.”

“Splendid,” I grumble.

We start our walk in the direction that Daerios and Berendir claim leads to Árrion. I have no choice but to believe them, because I can see jack-all through the tall black trees surrounding us. When I ask Daerios how he knows where we’re going, he looks over his shoulder and says, “I lived here for sixty-three years, Kallister. I know where I’m going.”

Our first few hours of walking are suspiciously uneventful. Aside from a rustle in the bushes here and a far-off howl there, nothing seems amiss. Cara keeps close to Berendir, and as much as I don’t want to, I do the same with Daerios. If we’re going to be attacked by a skria or urrath, I would prefer to have a lightning-fast trained killer at my side. Even if he’s a bit out of practice on the killing part, given that he spent most of the last century partying in Mykonos or Ibiza or wherever the fuck.

Regardless, we stick close to our elvish companions as we carve a path through the grassy forest. The valley is nothing like I imagined. There is none of the magic, the shimmer, the pure life that Daerios once described to me. Dark grey tree trunks twist and gnarl, sporting knobby protrusions that remind me of sores. Rocks litter the ground, interspersed with streams running with ink-black water. Every now and then, small, winged creatures flap over our heads. The boys tell us not to worry about them.

“Skael,” Daerios says, the Lukkarin word forbat.

Other than a fewskaelorand a branch that snaps backward and nearly catches Cara in the face, nothing dangerous jumps out to grab us. The walk is easy. Too easy.

We reach a section of the forest where the trees are particularly dense. Daerios urges us to shimmy through the trees, behind which we find the mouth of a cave. The elves duck into the cave and drop their backpacks. “We’ll camp here for the night,” Daerios says. “Quick dinner with the premade stuff webrought, then rest.”

“Here?” My lips tug backward in a grimace. “But it’s tiny.”

And it is. The cave can’t be more than six or seven feet across, which is hardly enough space for four fully grown bodies.

“It’s tiny, but it’s the only protection we’ll find for miles. And we need to rest if we want to reach Árrion by tomorrow.”

“By tomorrow?” I look up at Daerios in surprise. “I didn’t realize the journey would be so quick.”

“It will be,” he says. “If we’re well-rested. Now get inside that cave.”

“Gladly.” Cara drops to her knees and crawls inside. “I’m fucking exhausted.”

“How should we do sleeping arrangements?” Berendir asks Daerios.

“Well, we only have two blankets, so I’m thinking one of us stays with Quinn, the other with Cara.”

“Excuse me?” I round on Daerios. “I’m sharing with Cara.”

“No, you’re not.” He digs in his backpack for the blanket, not even glancing at me. “We need to be able to protect you if something goes wrong in the middle of the night.”

“You can protect us just fine from under a different blanket.”

“It’s fine,” Cara says breezily. She nudges Berendir in the side. “I’m happy to snuggle with bestie.”

“Hey! I thought I was bestie.”

“One can have multiple besties, Q.” Cara grabs the blanket out of Berendir’s hands and starts to get cozy on the left side of the cave. I might imagine it, but as Cara crawls into the cave, I think I see Berendir’s face turn the slightest shade of pink.

“Traitor,” I mumble. Then I stiffen, because I realize there’s only one other elf left. I glance quickly at Daerios, who is spreading his traveling cloak out on the right side, just over a cluster of black leaves. His lithe body lengthens and tightens as he smooths out each corner of the cloak, muscles ripplingbeneath his newly exposed shirt. I look pointedly away.

“I don’t need a blanket,” I announce.

Daerios rolls his eyes, not looking up from the task of creating a pseudo-bed. “Yes, you do.”

“No, I don’t. I’ll sleep next to you, but I can use my own cloak as a blanket.”

“Quinn.” Daerios sighs. “Stop being difficult. It’s cold enough with the land covered in shadow, and the human body’s temperature drops when it sleeps. You’re sleeping under the blanket.”

He’s right. I know he’s right. I hate being cold almost as much as I hate the smug twitch of the prince’s mouth as he watches me struggle to come up with another reason why we shouldn’t share a blanket. His ratherlushmouth, actually, with full lips and—

What the hell am I doing?