Page 93 of Queen of War and Ruin

His lips pull tight, creating an expression that looks almost like he’s mocking the idea of a smile.

“You’re taking the news well,” Varitan says.

“He’s not my king,” I reply.

Varitan shrugs, then moves toward the table. I watch him, waiting for the shift in his posture that means he’s about to attack.

“After my little show,” Varitan continues, “he wants a funeral for the son you murdered. And then, naturally, you’re to pay for your crimes.”

My skin prickles in waves. Varitan must be doing something with the silver chains.

“It would be easiest to kill you,” he says, “but, stars, what a waste. I’m still convinced you have potential.”

I clench my jaw to keep from growling. After everything that’s happened to me since the day Malrik called me to his chambers and congratulated me on my upcoming wedding, I shouldn’t give a single shit about what this bastard thinks of me or my potential.

So why does that comment sting?

Varitan turns and frowns at me. “I suppose we need an illusion,” he says, as if the words are being dragged out of him. “Much as that’s going to slow down our lessons.”

Our lessons? I cross my arms over my chest. So far all he’s done is try to hit me, magically and otherwise. I don’t think I’ve learned a damn⁠—

Oh. I blink as I suddenly realize what Varitan is teaching me.

“You’re teaching me to protect myself,” I say.

Varitan clucks, then shakes his head. “No.”

I frown. That’s all he’s done for three days, over and over. Hit me with those damned silver chains. If that’s not protection, then what is it?

Oh. Again. I clear my throat.

“You’re teaching me to protect,” I say. “What needs protecting?”

Varitan chuckles, and his lips twitch into a strange, hard smile.

“Me, of course,” he says. “This magic is dangerous. The last time I used it, I was—attacked.”

His face turns dark, and he turns back to the desk with a scowl.

The last time he used it? I think of Ethiria, of dust rising from the ruptured earth, blocking the sun. Screaming and smoke.

He’s not talking about that. No, the dark look on his face makes me think he’s remembering something else. Another war, fought with elves and magic.

That fragment of memory tugs at my mind, something connecting Varitan’s hidden plans to cross Vederill Pass to war, magic, and elves. Gods, what the hells is it?

Varitan growls, then turns back to me. I brace myself for yet another attack.

“My last conduit,” he says, spitting the word. “He was…unreliable. Difficult to work with.”

“Your son,” I say. It’s a guess, a random stab in the dark.

Varitan’s lips pull back in a growl, and a silver chain flies through the air toward my eyes. I don’t move. My skin prickles, and the chain crumples to the floor an arm’s length away from me.

That was a lazy attack. Varitan got angry, rushed, and made a mistake.

Thinking about his son sets him off balance. That’s useful.

Varitan growls again, then turns back to the table. He sweeps a collection of metal and wood onto the floor, where it makes a horrible crashing clatter.