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‘Are you not happy to see me, sister?’ Silas’s breath wheezed quizzically, and he tilted his head to one side. His eyes never left her face, searching for something. ‘Did you not enjoy my tactics?’

Rymedur’s breath hitched when another bolt of lightning danced across the dark fog. He finally saw the weapon she clutched in her hand—his scythe. Red liquid dripped, staining the dark handle, and Rymedur could tell by the way it pulsed that it hungered for more. She had killed with his scythe. But the pride and love that bloomed in his chest at the thought was suddenly doused by surging panic as the air around her warped, turning in on itself. A streak of silver darted across the space, aiming right for her.

Rymedur’s warning ripped through his dry, scratchy throat. ‘Areanel!’

With gripped hands, Rymedur ripped into that barrier between him and his power. He hoped it hadn’t come too late.

Chapter 49

Areanel

It was like light itself had ebbed from the world when dull, pale, lifeless eyes met hers from above the blade that she quickly blocked. Betrayal tasted like ash, dry and gritty against the roof of her mouth.

Verdugo was right: Caius was a traitor.

Now, she had to find a way to uphold her end of the bargain—but she could worry about that later. Areanel knew her actions would have consequences; she had disobeyed her father, prioritised hunting rebels over the negotiations, and now everything was in tatters.

Still, the second Vasilio had tracked Rymedur here, all thoughts of ramifications had disappeared. None of it mattered anymore. She ordered Nymlaris to jump them across the distance, to the base of the mountain. Rebels or not. Whoever had taken her husband would die. Areanel would gladly take whatever punishment her father doled out on her if it meant getting him back.

She should have been surprised—should have felt like a dagger had been twisted into her ribcage, but Areanel felt none of that. No. Because it was rage that curled through her. Wrath boiled in her veins as her powers clawed in her chest, begging to be released. Caius. Her magic seemed to hiss with a forked tongue.

How long had he been deceiving Ryyen? Had he used his powers to manipulate them in the past? Did Aerileas suspect? Did Ryyen know?

Blood dripped, rolling down the side of her face. When she had seen the red banners in the valley below, marked with the symbol of her eldest brother—a dragon mid-flight—she had bellowed a roar so thunderous that the sky had cracked open. How dare they use Ivan’s emblem!

Leaving her company behind, Areanel had sliced a path across the valley, but a rebel had begged for mercy. In their pleading, they’d given her a truth: Rymedur was within the mountain.

It hadn’t worked, of course; she gave the rebel the sweet release of death. Let it be the only mercy she showed tonight. Then, she had torn through every rebel that had stood between her and the cave opening. Carved through flesh, severed limbs.

She could still feel the delicious thirst of murderous intent coming from her bonded, Aurelias as his consciousness connected with hers. He was down there now with Ilymathar, but her other bonded wolves had been ordered to stay behind and guard her children—ripping into rebels, their screams sung like a tune Areanel longed to hear.

Entering the cave, Areanel had planned to execute whoever had the gall to use her deceased brother’s moniker. She had every intention of killing Caius.

Verdugo had said the title Tar-Angulócë was being used to rally the rebels. But what was the purpose?

Areanel was planning to find out—but then she had seen Silas.

He was presumed dead, taken by his illness.

No one had seen him for over two decades—not since Ivan had died, not since the war. Why hadn’t he come home?

He looked the same as she remembered—long dark hair, a sickly pallor, and he leaned heavily on his cane. The same drag, thunk, step followed him, and his bright eyes were still identical to her own. However, his appearance lacked its usual composure. His hair was a tangled mess sticking to the sides of his gaunt face, making it seem as though death was an old friend he longed to meet.

Something was wrong. Silas could not be Tar-Angulócë.

A shout rippled through the air, drawing everyone’s attention. Rymedur—naked and kneeling on the wet stone—gripped the collar at his throat, and fury tore through Areanel.

They’d put a fucking collar on him.

The muscles in his arms bulged, straining. What had they done to him? Darkness crawled in from the edges of the room, snaking towards him. His own shadows twisted and turned wildly against the tanned, sweat-slicked skin of his arms and chest. Power pulsed in her veins, begging for release as he convulsed.

He dropped backwards, toppling to the side, and another pained scream had Areanel stepping forward, but silver crowded her vision.

Colourless eyes sliced into hers with a fury she wasn’t aware he could express. Caius grunted as she tightened her grip on the handle of the bloodied scythe, shoving his blade back and away from her vulnerable throat.

Where had it all gone wrong? Red ichor dripped down her temple and into her eyes, but she did not tear her focus away from the male she thought she knew, even when Rymedur’s screams drowned the once-silent darkness.

‘Nelly,’ Caius spat, practically frothing at the mouth with disdain.