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“… reached Kamstead by now, which means they’ll know we kept going north. That is, if they’re not still scouring the villages around Norcaster.”
My heart skips at the sight of Zander leaning over the table, his gauntlets cast aside to display cut forearms as his arms bracket the map. It’s a common sight—his handsome face is rigid with the weight of Islor’s problems, his golden-brown hair pushed back off his face, likely from a frustrated shove of his hand.
Even dressed in the leathers of a warrior, he looks regal.
And he’s mine.
Had someone told the jewel thief from New York City that a red-haired sorceress would send her to an alternate world to inhabit a treacherous princess’s body and chase a stone at the behest of the God of Fire, the girl would have laughed in their face and called them delusional.
And yet, here she is now, in love with a king who abandoned his throne and kingdom to save her life.
Zander has always felt larger than life to me, from the first moment we met on that riverbank outside Cirilea’s gates, he in his suit of armor, his dagger primed to spear through my heart. In the days and weeks and months since, he has played every role in my life here, from executioner to captor to reluctant accomplice, unlikely ally, and suspicious lover.
But now he holds my heart, and he’s my reason to keep accepting every new challenge this deadly world throws at me.
Zander breaks from studying the terrain to watch me stroll in. “I do not understand how you sleep so much.” There’s a hint of scolding in his tone.
I saunter over. “Someone kept me up late into the night.”
“Someone kept me up, and yet I’ve already walked half of Ulysede.” A glimmer of humor peeks through his steely mask as he slides his hand into mine for a moment of contact before releasing it. I’ve grown used to the two sides of Zander—the passionate man who will take his time admiring every inch of my flesh with his mouth, and the unyielding ruler with curt words and a brooding nature. Behind the privacy of our doors is the only time I’m treated to his affectionate side, but I don’t mind. It’s intoxicating, facing this stony version during the day and then watching him break for me each night.
In front of others, though, he is an exiled ruler solely focused on how to regain his throne and save Islor.
Both tasks seem impossible.
And now that the Legion feels satisfied there isn’t a deadly threat lurking within these walls—not an imminent one, anyway—Zander has been spending all his time in here, pacing over his next move.
“You were talking about Telor and his army?” I eye the map and the path from our location in the Venhorn Mountains, south toward Norcaster.
“There is still no sign of his approach, or of the Ybarisans, but our scouts are only able to cover so much ground before they’re forced to turn around to avoid nightfall.”
Or more specifically, to avoid the saplings who emerge at sundown to hunt and are armed with paralyzing raw merth, a silver cord that Princess Ybaris gifted them in a deal we don’t understand. It’s already cost us two legionaries captured in Norcaster and additional lives lost during the attack on our journey here.
“Nothing from that sapling you’ve been … questioning?”
Abarrane stands on the opposite side of the table, her ripe-wheat-colored hair freshly plaited, a dozen blades strapped to her lithe warrior’s frame. She wears her usual grim expression. “Nothing yet, but he will yield.” Zander’s Legion commander has been outside Ulysede’s gates every night since we arrived, torturing the prisoner in a bid to find Iago and Drakon’s location.
Yield or die. She isn’t known for tame methods of persuasion. That he’s still alive—and remaining quiet—is shocking.
“If he has not given up their location by now, I am not hopeful,” Zander says, as if reading my mind.
“Then I will take a handful of legionaries and search.”
“We cannot hunt aimlessly through these mountains looking for two legionaries who may already be dead,” Jarek says, joining the conversation.
Abarrane’s eyes flash at her former second-in-command. “Then we draw them out.”
“And if you draw out a hundred of them? Without those merth cords, I would say that is an even match, but with them?” He shakes his head. “You will find Drakon and Iago, when you are lying next to them, being fed upon.”
“Then what do you suggest? Abandoning your brethren to those … those …” Her face twists with rage, the thin scar that runs from her forehead to her ear crinkling.
“We’re not suggesting that.” Zander shoots a warning glance at Jarek. For as coldhearted as Abarrane can be, she is fiercely protective of her warriors, especially those she trained as children. “But we have more pressing matters than rescuing two legionaries. Hudem is coming, and between this poison that circulates and Atticus’s edict to execute humans without trial, Islor will soon tear itself apart.”
