Page 99 of Captive of Secrets and Storms

I’ve never done anything with my power other than send it into my patients’ bodies to assess their wounds or illnesses. Or shoot it as a weapon made of light.

But I’m not supposed to talk about my light.

I press my lips together.

Olyra, help me.

What should I say?

“Yes!” a man on my other side shouts, pumping a fist in the air.

An even split of groans and cheers sounds from the crowd.

The handsome fire wielder stands in the middle of the sand pit, hands raised with a victorious smile. Three of his remaining talismans glint under the sunrays shining through the open roof.

“What a display.” Anders claps slowly. “I just won five silvers.”

“Uh…congratulations?”

“Thank you.” He grins, adjusting his flowing top before turning to me. “Would you care to accompany me to the library? There are healing texts I believe you will find useful.”

My mind spins from the sudden offer. I’m grateful he seemed to forget his previous question, but the last thing I want to do is remain in his presence and risk him bringing it up again.

“I don’t know…” The crowd begins to disperse, and I catch more than one lingering stare. “I should really find the others. They’re probably looking for me.”

The fact that it’s already midday and I still haven’t seen any of the Shadow Fae is unsettling.

I’d sought them out the moment Thea finished dressing me for the day after she insisted I could not wear my Verdanthia clothes to the betrothal event. But when I stepped into the corridor, the doors to the Shadow Fae’s rooms stood open. Empty.

Augustus knows Rian is the Shadow Prince. He wouldn’t be foolish enough to harm him or the others…

Would he?

“Oh, I don’t believe they’re back yet,” Anders says casually.

“Back?” I stiffen. “Back from where?”

“Iris offered to give Lord Rian a tour of Virendrell. I believe your other friends accompanied them.”

The words strike like a physical blow, knocking the air from my lungs.

A hollow ache blooms in my chest.

“I see,” I murmur.

The Fae left the palace without me. Worse, they didn’t even bother to tell me.

Assholes.

A pair of women glide by. Bright, creased fans cover their lips, but they don’t muffle their whispers as they comment on my untidy hair.

My cheeks warm.

Maybe I should’ve allowed Thea to pin the strands up again. No one else in Virendrell has unruly curls.

But my scalp still aches from the metal jabbed into my hair last night.

I swallow down my embarrassment and annoying hurt.