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It would have been fine—an embarrassment for the Legion commander, showing his weakness, but nothing more.
But then Romeria rushes out to aid him.
“No!” I roar.
The next few seconds happen in slow motion, and yet too fast for us to react.
Romeria, reaching for her commander’s arm to help him up.
Jarek, catching the sweet scent of her Ybarisan blood and, unable to control himself in that moment, rearing up on his feet to grab her by the chin, his incisors elongated.
Romeria, eyes widening as she comes face-to-face with the warrior, realizing her mistake, seeing what’s about to happen.
I grasp for flame with my affinity, hoping to stop this before it’s too late.
But before the spark can reach him, Jarek is in the air, landing on his back in the dirt some distance away.
It only takes one look at Romeria—her eyes glowing silver, like that night in Norcaster, when she freed the mortals trapped in the pillories—to realize she was the one who sent him flying.
And now the ring of Ybarisan soldiers wear expressions of shock, confusion, and suspicion.
Even with my worry, a flare of pride swells in my chest. She is quickly learning to wield her affinities to protect herself. In this case, though, it was likely more about protecting Jarek. If he’d bitten her, he would be a corpse rather than winded.
“Fool,” Abarrane scoffs. “He has been too busy playing babysitter inside to grow accustomed to the outside world.” She charges out with Loth, stalling by Romeria for several beats, long enough to whisper, “I can’t wait to hear your explanation for that,” and then she and Loth march forward. They waste no time collecting Drakon from the ground and hauling him back past the gates to settle him against the wall for support.
The other legionaries attempt to keep their focus on the threat ahead while offering nods of greeting for their comrade, a normally loud and boisterous warrior who slumps where he sits, his face drained of color.
Jarek has climbed to his feet and moves slowly to Romeria’s side, as if nursing an injury. They exchange a wordless look—Romeria’s laced with apology for her mistake, Jarek’s with regret for his—and then the warrior winks at her. The only communication, but it’s enough.
If I couldn’t feel Romeria’s pulse race every time I approached her, if I ever doubted her feelings for me … I might insist she find a new commander, one less devoted and powerful and male. Still, my jealousy spikes at their growing connection.
The chaos of the last few minutes seems to have unsettled the Ybarisans. Their horses shift their weight, likely sensing their rider’s unease.
Kienen finally dismounts and approaches. His weapons are sheathed, but that provides me no comfort.
I move to step out.
Abarrane’s sudden grip of my arm stops me. “You have only been outside once. You will not fare much better than Jarek did, especially around her,” she warns. “Islor’s king cannot appear frail before them.”
“They are sitting ducks out there.” Two hundred and fifty-four Ybarisans on horseback against two.
“She has proven herself more than once. Trust that she can handle this, one way or another.”
I grit my teeth and plant my feet, but keep a strong hold of my affinity, ready to engulf the entire company in flame if needed.
“Your Highness.” Kienen bows. His eyes flip between Romeria and Jarek—surely, he has questions for both—before settling on Romeria. “We were able to negotiate the release of one captured legionary.”
“I see that. And the other?” Romeria asks calmly, sounding more like a queen, born and raised, each day.
“Will be released when we know your promises are as credible as your threats.” The wall of horses shifts again, and a rider passes through a sizable gap, tucked in a cloak. Even still, the glow of the fire illuminates the sunken cheeks of the sapling.
My lips twist with distaste at the sight of the abomination. Of all the dark creatures within my lands who wish to kill us, these are the only ones that stir my apprehension. And now that they’re armed with merth …
“It seems you may not have failed after all. At least, not yet,” he croons.
Romeria gasps. “You.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
ROMERIA
I never got a good look at the sapling that night on the bridge, when he bound Annika with merth and tossed her over, assigning her a slow death. But the moment I hear those words and that voice, a wave of déjà vu slams into me.
“It’s good to see you again,” I force, trying to hide my surprise. Several dozen cloaked figures move forward on horseback to form a line behind him. More saplings.
The Ybarisans have shifted away, carving out empty space around them. They seem as uncomfortable around these creatures as the Islorians are.
Radomir’s chuckle is dark, as if he doesn’t believe me. “I was sure you had perished, but you have proven more formidable than I expected.” He brings his horse closer, the light revealing his sunken cheeks and a tattooed design that crawls up his neck. It was easy to see these saplings as monsters rather than men when they were attacking us in the night. But listening to him speak now reminds me they were once like Zander and Jarek—Islorian immortals who then fed on their own kind and turned into these hideous cannibal-like creatures.
