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Rymedur watched as Aerileas’s head tilted to the side, and his gaze seemed far off, puzzled. ‘She has not returned.’ The words were said under his breath, almost imperceptible, but Rymedur caught them.

‘You didn’t know?’ Rymedur’s tone was incredulous. There was nothing Aerileas did not know! His spies kept him well informed, but if he didn’t know that Areanel had not returned yet, then… Where was she?

Panic surged within him, temporarily surpassing his anger. Was she hurt? Had something gone wrong? A million and one thoughts—all the worst possible scenarios—trampled through his mind, and the terror threatened to overtake and submerge him in a wave of anxiety.

A flash of power buzzed in the air, there one moment and gone the next. Rymedur had never felt magic like it before, slick and oily, itching at his skin, an acrid scent filled his nose.

It had been a mere flash, but it was enough for Rymedur to know he never wanted to feel it again.

Aerileas’s hands braced, curling against the table as he slowly rose to his feet. The scowl he sent Rymedur was one of pure disgust.

Before Rymedur could ask him again where Areanel was, the door behind him opened. Out of the corner of his eye, movement appeared, and a looming shadow came to stop by his shoulder.

Rymedur’s shadows recoiled, curling to get away. Its presence felt… wrong. Unnatural. Like it should not be alive.

One of the Soldazt stood silently, awaiting its king’s orders. Rymedur’s brows pinched together. How could Aerileas call upon his Soldazt without uttering a word? It was as though he’d willed them to do as he wished, and they followed… always without question.

‘Find Ryyen,’ Aerileas commanded. ‘Bring the spymaster to me.’

Without a word or a bow, the Soldazt turned on its heel and marched from the room, movements hurried—rigid like a puppet being pulled by its strings.

‘You,’ Aerileas turned his icy gaze on him, ‘leave.’

Rymedur huffed a breath. ‘No.’

‘No?’

‘Not until you tell me exactly where you sent my wife.’

Aerileas straightened at that. Rymedur’s tone had been harsh and brutal, but he did not care. If Areanel was in trouble, he wanted to know.

‘Why? Are you going to go after her?’ Aerileas’s eyes narrowed to slits. ‘Need I remind you, you are no longer a commander, Rymedur Luca.’ If looks could kill, Rymedur would most certainly be a dead man walking.

The retort was on the tip of his tongue. It had the strangest taste—a juxtaposition—sweet and simultaneously burning hot, lingering and numbing his mouth. The tension practically crackled in the air between them. Rymedur was certain that, had they not been interrupted, only one would have come out of that study alive.

As though summoned by name alone, a figure stepped out of the shadowed corner of the room. They came to stand before the king, and though Rymedur was surprised at how they materialised, it was most certainly the spymaster—Ryyen. Like a knife cutting through flesh, Ryyen’s presence was jarring—sudden and rattling.

The spymaster, however, remained impassive, as if they weren’t surprised by the atmosphere in the study. Like they had known. Had they already been waiting, watching?

Rymedur’s shadows lay dormant against his skin—not unusual when it came to Ryyen. Either they could not sense them, which was odd since every time he had come across Ryyen, they would hide within the shadows, or his shadows did not see the spymaster as a threat. Rymedur did not know which was more likely, and was therefore often disturbed by their company.

Without being ordered, Ryyen moved around the desk, approaching the king.

Dressed from head to toe in black, Rymedur could not see any of Ryyen’s features. They were like a wraith and moved with ease like a phantom, gliding over the opulent rug without a sound. And when they bent slightly, whispering in Aerileas’s ear, their voice was like a breeze. Rymedur could not hear a word that was exchanged, no matter how hard he strained. It was times like these that had Rymedur wishing he’d inherited more of his mother’s elven ears instead of his father’s rounded, mortal ones.

When Ryyen ceased, Aerileas stretched and cracked his neck. His shoulders rolled, and he sucked on his teeth, letting out an irate huff. Straightening his posture and turning his body to face Rymedur, Aerileas finally addressed him. ‘Leave!’

The command in his tone told Rymedur that Aerileas would not continue any discussion with him at present. His emerald gaze bounced to Ryyen, who stood silently at attention a step behind the king. This was Areanel’s most trusted confidant, but more than that, this was Areanel’s friend. Surely, they would not turn him away.

Yet, as his eyes searched for any semblance of empathy on Ryyen’s face, he realised, under that dark hood and the mask that covered their features, he would find none. What Areanel had said to him once was true: Ryyen was as dutiful as they were loyal—and Ryyen was loyal to a fault.

The thought that Aerileas would not do anything until he left was the only thing that had Rymedur moving. He would not risk Areanel’s safety, but he knew that Aerileas would—even if that was just to prove a point.

So, with that realisation and an ominous feeling in his chest, Rymedur reluctantly retreated.

Chapter 22

Areanel