Page 94 of Aryn

“Cato, for once in your fucking life, I need you to sit back and shut up,” Ronan says, pleading with his eyes. “Let me handle this.”

A hand lands on my shoulder, and Taryn gives me a cautious smile. “I know what you’re going through,” she says softly before nodding at Cameron. “Both of us do. We’ve had to be separated from our mates, and we understand how awful you feel right now. But you’re too tired to fight anymore.”

I squeeze the ring tighter, then meet the guard’s curious eyes again. “Come,” he says in a thick, guttural accent.

My mouth drops open as I realize I can understand him. “You know our language?”

His lips pull back in a slight smirk as he lifts his hand in a twirling gesture. “Come,” he repeats. The guards turn and march back toward the gate, and after a bewildered glance at Ronan, we follow. The gates are even more impressive up close, and the guards shout orders as we pass.

“They’re organizing a search party,” Ronan explains. “It sounds like the Viskari is a common problem for people seeking sanctuary here. He’s also demanding they find someone named Brihn. A leader, from the sound of it.”

We’re led through the winding streets of Maelithryne in tense silence. The village is thriving and alive, even if I can’t appreciate its beauty right now. Narrow cobblestone paths snake between tightly packed buildings, in far better condition than those in the trading post. Every so often, lanterns hang from iron hooks in a primitive version of streetlights. The scent of burning fires and roasting food drifts from open doorways, making my empty stomach twist into painful knots.

Like the guards, most of the occupants here are Dreven, though I notice others sprinkled in. There’s an Anunian like Ronan, a few Cavese like Xeni, and even a small cluster of Drüinae like Nyx. They stare as we pass—some openly, others with cautious glances from windows or behind market stalls, but none of them appear afraid. The guards keep us in a tight formation, swords held ready.

We’re brought to a large stone building, and the guards usher us inside. After so long in the cold, the heat from the massive hearth hits like a wall. A long wooden table sits in the center, already loaded with a few pitchers of water. Two more Dreven follow us inside, setting places with loaves of dark bread and bowls of stew.

Four guards remain inside the room, standing watch near the walls. They don’t speak, but their eyes never leave us as they gesture for us to sit. I drop into a chair and stare at the stew, reminding myself that Aryn is out there alone and hungry. Starving myself doesn’t do any favors, though, so I force myself to eat. After an entire day and night on the road, we’re starving and devour it with the table manners of wolves. For a few minutes, the only sounds are spoons scraping bowls and quiet chewing.

The door opens again, and a tall, lean Dreven steps inside. He’s striking, with deep red skin a few shades darker than Aryn’s and golden-copper eyes that catch the firelight like polished metal. His dark hair is shaved on the sides and pulled into a high, intricate braid that falls down his back, with thin silver rings woven into the strands. The thick, fur-lined coat he wears makes him appear larger, but he’s several inches shorter than me, even if he carries himself with authority.

He speaks without preamble, his English fluent but carrying a thick, rolling accent. “Which one of you carries the ring?”

I push my chair back and stand, legs shaky from exhaustion and nerves, as I pull out the chain. His eyes lock onto the metal as it dangles from my fingers, then he takes it carefully. For a long moment, he says nothing. He simply turns the ring slowly in the firelight, studying every etched mark and worn edge.

His golden-copper eyes lift and lock onto mine as his voice drops into something dangerous. “Where did you get my father’s sigil?”

Aryn

My lungs are on fire, I’m sure of it. Every desperate inhale of the frigid mountain air is like acid filling my chest, caustic in my throat until it’s etched raw. Still, I run as fast as my feet will carry me, snapping low branches and shoving rocks and fallen logs aside with exaggerated grunts. I kick up great plumes of snow to make myself sound like an entire hunting party crashing through the underbrush.

They have to follow me.

Cato’s broken screams are fading behind me, cracking me right in half with the anguish that carries through the air like a siren. I want to heed his call. Want to go back, or at the very least turn around to see him and know he’s okay. I fight through the urges surging through my limbs and force myself to keep pushing forward.

Every instinct in my body fights the distance I’m putting between us. It feels as though I’m ripping the bond apart with my own hands—shredding this connection that joins us together. That tug in my stomach coils tighter and tighter until it feels like a warning, like I might take this too far and run out of lead.

If that happens, where do I have to go but into a freefall?

I lock onto it anyway and send chaotic thoughts back to my mate, mixing them with desperate prayers to the Fates until it’s all just noise in my head.

Keep them alive.

Get to Maelithryne.

Accept my sacrifice and protect them.

I’ll find you.

My pursuers get closer, and the realization hits me in a wave of relief so sharp it nearly sweeps my knees. If they’re behind me, it means they haven’t found the others.

It means my plan is working.

Their howls get louder, no better than beasts with their savagery, but I smile at the sound. They promise pain, threatening and taunting in the mindless barking of dogs, but I pay no attention to it. Now that I know they’re chasing me, I stop holding back and run faster.

Alone, I can push harder. I can be deliberate, making sure I’m close enough to distract them while not letting myself get caught. If I am, I won’t be able to fight.

Not against this many.