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Her gaze was soft, as soft as he’d seen from her in recent years. “In looks, yes, you’re just as handsome as Gaius, without any doubt. But that’s where the comparison ends. Oh, Magnus, my son, you’re nothing like him. And you never will be.”
He flinched as if she’d struck him. “You’re wrong.”
“You think I mean this as an insult? I don’t.”
“I’ve killed, Mother. Many men. I’ve watched them suffer and bleed and die before me on the battlefield in order to secure the Auranian palace. I’ve even slain one who didn’t deserve my blade, one who acted out of courage and bravery. I cut him down with the fear of a coward.” The words felt like broken glass in his throat. “I stood by while Father had an innocent young girl tortured and I didn’t say a word to save her. She’s dead now and it’s my fault.” He looked away, shielding his weakness. “My heart is carved from ice, just as you say the king’s is.”
The queen drew closer and raised her hand to the right side of his face, the side with the scar. She caressed it like she had when he was a little boy, and his chest began to ache. “You are not like Gaius. He is a monster with a cold heart and a black soul. You’ve made mistakes, yes. And I have no doubt, just as anyone who lives and breathes, that you will make many more in your life. But it doesn’t change who you are deep down inside. You have a kind heart, Magnus. And there’s nothing you can do to change that.”
His eyes burned as he pushed her hand away. “We must join Father outside. This conversation is over.”
Chapter 8
LYSANDRA
PAELSIA
Lysandra left the rebel camp at dusk, grabbing a torch from the pile of supplies in order to keep the shadows of the Wildlands from tightening around her like a noose. Over the weeks since her village was attacked, since the last time she saw her parents alive or spoke to Gregor, she’d tried to harden herself in both mind and spirit. And it had worked. Even in this thick forest that filled all but those with the darkest souls with dread, she was bold and fearless.
She startled when the howl of some nearby fanged beast cut through her. A shiver went down her spine and she tightened her grip on the torch.
Yes, so very bold and fearless.
Or so she tried to tell herself.
She walked past a small clearing where a crackling fire lit the area, which had grown darker with the dying of the day. A trio of boys dragged the carcass of a freshly killed deer into view. The camp consisted of ramshackle shelters and hammocks built into the trees like birds would build nests. Many boys, and a few driven girls, now called this their home. A refuge away from King Gaius’s iron fist. By day, the rebels would head out in small groups—hunting, scouting, thieving—to benefit the rest of them, but by night they stuck together. There was safety in numbers when one chose such a dangerous and wild place as their home. And they trained here in hand to hand combat, as well as with sword, dagger, bow and arrow, so they could go out and cause havoc across Auranos, attempting to spread the word of the king’s lies and sway all who crossed their path to the rebel side.
Alas, there had been few victories.
And worse, Jonas refused to mount an attack with his rebels on the road camps, fearing defeat and loss. Lysandra had grown weary of asking. But not as weary as she was of missing her brother, so viciously that it hurt. Was Gregor still alive?
If no one would help her to do what was right, she had to take matters into her own hands.
However, it wasn’t long before she realized that two very specific rebels had followed her out of camp.
Brion was panting by the time he caught up to her. “You walk fast.”
“Not fast enough, apparently,” she mumbled.
“Where are you going?”
“Away. ”
“Are you leaving us?”
“Yes.”
His expression fell. “Lys, don’t go. I need—uh, I mean, we need you here.”
She sighed. The boy was like a friendly dog, always eager for any kind word she might offer up. If he had a tail, she had no doubt it would wag if she even looked in his direction. She didn’t want to, but couldn’t help but like Brion Radenos.
But then there was the other one.
“Running away?” Jonas’s familiar deep voice made her grimace. “Without even a farewell?”
For a week she’d lived with the rebels, eaten with them by the campfire, hunted with them, trained with them. He’d barely spoken directly to her if he could help it, since she usually wanted to talk of her plans and ideas for what the rebels should be focusing their attention on.
“Farewell,” she said, giving the rebel leader a tight and insincere smile over her shoulder.
