Page 7 of The Edge of Darkness

Everyone seemed intact, and I sighed with immense relief.

I’d gotten us through.

Had it been a second or two longer, Ramil might have glimpsed exactly who was at the gate, and we would have been held there against our will.

I closed my eyes for a brief moment and checked on myself. My power still felt like it was at full capacity.

Strange. I hadn’t spent as much as I’d anticipated. The Desert Court’s wards had fallen much easier than Calledan’s, which meant that either I was getting more efficient at using my power by not overthinking and just acting on it, or Ramil’s magic was weaker than he let on.

Roirdan’s hand landed on my back in a congratulatory pat. “Nice job, little one.”

“Thanks.”

“You all right?”

“Never better.”

“I literally cannot believe that we’re in Benmoor right now,” Maeson whispered.

“I know . . .” I replied, still taking in our surroundings.

“Bypassing wards like this, Auren . . . that’s never been done—not that I’ve ever heard of, not without Old Magic. Shields, yes. But wards—” She fell silent as the door creaked open.

A set of pale, hazel eyes peered out at us from the shadows, widening upon recognizing Morah, then darting frantically over the rest of our group. A swath of deep orange fabric covered the lower half of the fae’s face and swept up around their head, concealing their identity.

We were quickly ushered inside an unfurnished room, and the mysterious figure leaned out the door one last time to check the street, making sure no one was watching or following. Satisfied there were no witnesses, the figure beckoned to us with haste and said, “Follow me.”

None of us spoke a word until we were several hallways and two sets of stairs down into what seemed like a safe house. The room that we descended into had red stone walls that were all bare—save for a few maps and sheets of paper that were tacked to the sandstone above a small wooden table. Candles lit the space, revealing several sacks of what looked to be supplies and weapons leaning against the corner next to a large hatch in the floor.

The pale-eyed stranger finally turned and wrapped Morah in a friendly embrace. “I am so glad to see you again, my friend.” The voice was female, smooth and warm.

“Likewise,” Morah replied. “I know it’s short notice, but my friends and I need your help.”

The female looked over to the rest of us and then made quick work of unwrapping the cloth from around her head and shoulders, as if she’d forgotten her manners. Her hair tumbled out in thick, light brown waves, framing her small, heart-shaped face and complementing her skin, the color of rich caramel—smooth as porcelain. But it was her eyes that claimed all the attention. They were such a pale hazel that they looked yellow in the candlelight, nearly blending into her skin tone.

Morah introduced us. “This is Zofia. Her father is one of the chieftains behind the movement I told you about.”

“Hello.” Zofia inclined her head to us. Her eyes lingered on Remic, widening slightly, as if she was trying to decipher what, exactly, he was.

Morah turned back to her. “We’re in need of access to the catacombs. It’s urgent, and I don’t have a lot of time to explain, but we must get there quickly and unseen.”

“Is this about your brother, Fallon?” Zofia asked, confused.

“My father has taken someone else hostage—someone crucial to the realm.” Morah gestured toward all of us. “I’ve . . . formally chosen my side.”

Zofia looked back and forth between her friend and us, noting our clothing, which clearly gave away that we weren’t from Benmoor.

All of us, even Morah, were clad in the same form-fitting black leathers that Calledan’s warriors wore in combat, complete with reinforced boning along areas covering vital organs, and the Mountain Court’s sigil emblazoned over our hearts in gleaming gold thread. The High Lord’s daughter was making a clear statement of allegiance by showing up dressed for battle in the “enemy’s” regalia.

With sudden realization, Zofia sucked in a breath. “Oh! So, it has begun?”

“It had to eventually,” Morah said.

A small grin spread across Zofia’s face. “We heard about your open declaration at your betrothal. Your father has been beside himself with rage that you left in . . . such a manner. Rumor has it that he is already making plans to move battalions to the border and that he wants to send out a group to hunt for your whereabouts.”

Roirdan shifted on his feet at the information. “If Ramil is planning on sending troops to the border, Aremis needs to be notified.” He looked at Remic. “A war on two fronts is not something we need at the moment.”

Remic nodded. “We’ll get ahead of it.”