Page 81 of Queen of War and Ruin

The voice makes a sound, almost like a cough. Polite disapproval, something I’ve heard a thousand times before. I shift on the straw, trying to get my body to work. It’s awkward and clumsy, but I finally drag myself up to sitting. The room pulses around me, going in and out of focus. I feel like I’m underwater.

I turn slowly. I still feel like the ground is rocking beneath me, and it takes me a moment to find where the voice came from. I see a pair of polished black boots first, then hands neatly folded over an elegant, dark cape.

And then my body goes cold.

It’s the man from the balcony. The elf.

The weapon Anura told me about in the palace gardens.

My gut seizes, and I lean forward, spitting whatever was left in my stomach onto the old straw covering the floorboards. The elf makes a disgusted sound in the back of his throat.

So, it wasn’t a dream.

The room swims around me. I bury my head in my hands and listen to the rasp of my own breathing. Voices swirl through the room, low and distant. The elf sniffs in a way that makes me think he’s losing his patience.

“You need food and water,” he snaps, like he’s trying to explain a complicated concept to a toddler.

That bored, condescending tone sounds strangely familiar. I turn toward him, blinking in an attempt to get the room to hold still. The elf scowls like all of this is beneath him. He looks like a spoiled brat being forced to clean stalls as punishment.

“Your body is too weak for my sleep magic,” he explains. His tone implies this is my fault, that I’ve somehow done this on purpose just to make his life harder. “You need to eat and drink. Now.”

He waves his hand toward the floor. There, sitting on a burlap sack, is what looks like half a loaf of stale bread and a waterskin. It doesn’t look particularly appetizing. Still, my stomach groans.

Blayne, my mind whispers. That’s why his tone sounds so familiar. That’s exactly how Blayne talked to me during our lessons.

The elf turns to leave, his elegant black cape fluttering around his polished boots.

“Wait,” I say.

My voice is thin and weak. He ignores me. Panic flutters inside my chest; this could be my last chance to find out what in the hells is going on.

“I’m not eating,” I say, as loudly as I can.

He stops in the doorway, his tall frame silhouetted by sunlight. He does not turn around, but I see his shoulders stiffen. My stomach groans again, like it’s trying to talk me out of this. I squeeze my hands together and hold them against my waist.

The elf finally turns back to me. Every line of his face speaks of carefully contained rage. I shiver, even as I force myself to meet his gaze.

“And whyever not?” he inquires, in a low, dangerous voice.

“Where am I?” I ask. “Why did you take me? And⁠—”

My throat pinches around the words. I swallow, then force myself to continue.

“Where is Zarek?” I ask, in the most regal tone I can muster.

The elf’s expression shifts. And then, suddenly, he laughs. It’s as sharp and hard as a dagger, that laugh. When he turns back to me, his eyes are dancing. It’s somehow more terrifying than his rage, that look of barely suppressed glee.

“You fools,” he hisses. “You’re so easy to control.”

I shiver, but I keep my head high.

“I won’t eat until my questions are answered,” I tell him.

The elf rolls his eyes like he’s appealing to the heavens. He glances at the half-loaf of bread, then back to me.

“Fine,” he snaps. “Come.”

With that, he turns and leaves the shed.