Page 71 of Burn of the Everflame

Sorae’s wings unfurled to their fullest width. Luther kept me close as he ducked beneath the soft curtain of her feathers. His shadows swirled in the air to drown out the world until there was nothing but us in the darkness.

“One word,” he whispered, curling a hand around the back of my neck. “One word and we’ll leave. I’ll take you somewhere quiet until you’re ready. Alixe can handle things here. Sorae will come get us if we’re needed.”

I could have sobbed at how perfectly he understood. He’d never judged me for my urge to run when things got hard. He’d promised to run with me so I never had to do it alone.

My loyal, selfless Prince.

My mate.

“Luther,” I whispered. “There’s something I need to tell you . . .”

“Anything, my heart.” His eyes jumped between mine, searching, offering. “Whatever you need.”

The warm comfort of his hand on my skin slowed my racing heart, and the sounds beyond the shadows came creeping back in. Wails of injured soldiers, the hoofbeats of arriving horses, crackling from still-burning dragonfyre.

As badly as I needed the joy that closing the bond would bring, this was not the time or place. Luther deserved to be more than a quick box to check before the demands of my Crown pulled me away.

“I’m fine,” I lied. “I just needed a moment.” I forced myself out of his reach, knowing my resolve would shatter with one more second of his touch. The moment I broke away, a sick feeling took root in my gut. It felt confusingly foreign, like it was happening at a distance.

Luther’s hands hung in the air for a moment before slowly sinking to his sides. “Diem⁠—”

“I can’t leave,” I rushed out. “There’s too much here I need to do. But . . .” I swallowed. “Perhaps, later tonight . . . we could go somewhere private.” I swallowed again. “To talk.”

He gave me a long once-over, his expression unreadable. “Of course.”

He dissolved his shadows, and Sorae cast us a curious glance. She alone knew the secret I guarded—I’d felt her ecstatic reaction to it the moment I’d opened my mind to hers. I ran a hand along her fur to avoid Luther’s probing stare. “I should speak with the Crowns.”

He glowered. “You could toss them in the dungeon for the night. Give them a taste of their own treatment, and let them beg for mercy in the morning.”

Gods, the idea was tempting. Tempting enough that I didn’t say no.

I started back toward the palace, gently pushing aside Sorae’s feathered wing. I paused and looked back at Luther. This time, I made no effort to hide the raw, broken mess I’d become.

“Stay with me?” I asked softly.

“Always, my Queen.”

19

DIEM

The rest of the day was a blur of blood and faces.

I walked with a pair of Descended healers through the survivors, mending what wounds we could. Doriel and Obaneryn huddled nearby as they awaited my judgment. They both held their breath when I laid my palm on the former Faunos Queen to heal the bones she’d shattered in her fall. I could sense the question rattling in their brains: Would she heal us if she intended to kill us?

I was wondering the same thing.

When the healers arrived from Mortal City, my mother had a very loud, very weepy reunion with Maura, while I had a very awkward one with Lana, considering I’d last seen her in a passionate kiss with my then-betrothed. Though we’d ended on civil terms, we each gave the other a tight smile and plenty of distance.

I longed to ask her about Henri. He and I had parted on a harsher note, but two decades of friendship did not simply disappear from a person’s soul. I had scanned the released mortal prisoners—then, with my heart in my throat, the deceased rebel fighters—for his face. I didn’t know whether to be worried or relieved when I couldn’t find him in either group.

The healers set to work on a large batch of poultice, and I cut my palm over the mixture, releasing a stream of scarlet until the white paste turned pink and my head began to spin. When I woozily attempted to help parcel it out, Luther yanked me away to the palace steps, growling under his breath about blood loss and rest.

“Eat,” he demanded, shoving a bowl of stew in my hands. “They’ve taken enough of you.”

I set down the stew. “Luther . . .”

“Diem,” he snapped. “If you won’t take care of yourself, I will.” He grabbed the bowl and put it back in my hands. “Eat.”