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“The things he’s done…”
“I know exactly what he’s done,” I retort, failing to keep the bite out of my voice. Probably not all of it, but I know enough. I know why Riven hates him, but leaving him bound and bleeding is cruel. It might as well be slicing me up as much inside. “But if you don’t let him down and get him help, he won’t be conscious to hear whatever your human has to say.”
Riven looks past me. “If you shift away before our discussion is complete, I will consider it an act of war.”
“I agree,” Sigurd says.
Riven projects his voice, sharing the same message with the fae from the Court of Air across the field. There will be no easy escape, even if Sigurd is unbound. But even small victories are just that. Satisfied, Riven releases his vines, thankfully, letting Sigurd down more gently than he did the Unseelie king.
I’m there before his feet ever touch the ground.
“Sigurd,” I whisper, brushing matted hair back from his face. Some of his weight leans on me as the vines release, but he tries his best to stand. That only lasts a moment before he drops to one knee, me at his side, cradling him close.
“You’re okay,” he whispers to me. “You’re here, and you’re okay.”
“I am. I have you now. You’ll be fine.” I wish, I pray. I may not be fae, but I hope my words hold no lies for him. “Can you heal?”
A sad smile touches his lips. His bloodied hand caresses my face. “I’ve never had that talent.”
A soft tingling runs across my skin, and I know without turning that Ambrose has returned.
Sigurd swallows, turning to face the newcomers, and I do the same.
The human who stands at Riven’s side, one hand still clasped with Ambrose, is nothing like what I pictured. Somehow, I thought she’d be almost fae-like—tall, ethereal, radiating power and beauty. After all, this is the consort that Sigurd ordered Galen to steal, one that nearly sparked a war. But she’s no Helen of Troy.
Rather, she’s a lot like me, really. Maybe slightly younger with brown hair instead of blond, but she could be anyone in our world. A girl I went to school with. Someone I met in town. She’s not clothed like one, not in the flowing green dress whose light and airy construction speaks to fae clothing, but otherwise, she’s…average.
Her gaze fixes on Sigurd, and she pales, almost swaying on her feet. A look of pity crosses her face as she covers her mouth with one hand.
A dark side of me is smug. Good. Let her see her king’s nasty handiwork. At least she’s affected by it, even if the fae seem nonplussed.
“Lia.” Riven holds a hand out to her.
She releases Ambrose, shuddering slightly, her gaze still glued to Sigurd and me, before she recovers and moves to join her king.
“My consort and future queen,” Riven finishes once she’s at his side.
Sigurd stiffens a little. It’s at that moment I notice the giant emerald set in the ring around her finger.
Riven cuts his gaze to the other woman who returned with Ambrose, a stunning dark-skinned fae who is every bit the elegant princess I expected Lia to be. “And Solona,” he says, a hint of a question in his voice. “My advisor.”
“I thought I might be of help,” she replies.
Lia shrugs and looks at Riven. “We were already together.”
Enough chat. Every moment we sit here, Sigurd gets worse, and I won’t let him linger in pain, not now that he’s free. “Past grievances are done,” I say with all the strength I can muster. “Let them die. Let this be a new start, a fresh one. Let us leave so he can be healed.”
“Are they?” Riven asks. One brow rises. “Despite my feelings, I took no direct action against him, but he—”
“Made mistakes.” I interrupt. “Haven’t you?”
He flinches, and I know it’s no little thing he regrets, whatever it is. Lia looks up at him, and I can see it written in her features too.
Something recent then? Good. Even fae kings are fallible, mortal.
“Everyone, fae or human, makes mistakes,” I say. “But it’s how we move on from those that makes the difference. It’s done. The past cannot be changed, but the future can. Let it be done.”Please.
The four look between one another, some silent conversation occurring that I’m not privy to. I straighten my spine, meaning to speak again, but Sigurd beats me to it.
