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Arran. Arran. Arran.
I sang his name, a chorus in my blood and in my magic.
I felt my magic wrapping around me then, its embrace warmed by the thought of him. This time when it lifted me away, I was not afraid.
4
ARRAN
The winds whipped in off of the mountains ringing the Effren Valley, slapping across my face with the force of a hand. Maybe it was the ghosts of the dead from the throne room, punishing me. No less than I deserved.
I tried my hands, was unsurprised to find them bound with vines. But in the next breath, the deep emerald tethers loosened and slid away. I expected the voice that came next.
“You were feral,” Guinevere said, her voice chilly as any elemental’s ice.
My chest tightened. “How many?”
“Me, Lyrena, Elora, twenty others wielding our powers in tandem to hold you long enough for Osheen’s vines to restrain you so I could knock you unconscious.” She cleared her throat from behind me. “It would be embarrassing if it wasn’t so horrific. The Brutal Prince, felled by only twenty fae, not even a battle unit. Clearly, you were not in your right mind—”
“How many?” I was done with her prattling. She only rambled like this when she was avoiding something.
I didn’t care how many it had taken to restrain my beast. I wanted the real number.
Footsteps echoed behind me, heavier than Gwen’s. Osheen, retreating now that his vines were no longer needed to hold me in place. As if I couldn’t have turned those vines against him and Gwen with half a thought.
The door closed softly. Osheen was gone.
“Twenty-two.”
I closed my eyes, waiting for the wave of guilt. I hadn’t felt it in so long, but it came as sure and familiar as it had all those centuries ago. When I’d first come into my full power, I’d killed so many. Servants in Eilean Gayl who happened to be nearby when the beast took over; courtiers who sneered at my mother when we visited Wolf Bay; anyone, anywhere, anytime, was vulnerable.
And today, I’d killed twenty-two fae courtiers in the throne room.
But that wave of guilt didn’t last as long as it should have. It was blotted out by something stronger, the very thing that had driven me feral for the first time in more than two hundred years.
Veyka.
I shot to my feet, my eyes opening and tracking my surroundings with brutal, battle efficiency. They’d taken me to my apartments, the ones I’d hardly occupied in the months since my arrival in Baylaur. They probably thought if they took me to Veyka’s, I’d be unhinged further.
No chance of that. The worst had already happened.
Not the worst.
But I wouldn’t allow myself to even consider that. Veyka was alive. The tether in my chest, the pull I’d felt ever since arriving Baylaur, had solidified the moment our blood was joined. The mating bond between us was intact, pulling at me with more strength and intensity than any emotion I’d ever felt, even if it wasn’t quite an emotion. It wasmore.
She was alive, but she was gone.
Which meant all that mattered was finding her.
But when I spun, Gwen was blocking the door.
“Where are you going?” she asked, one hand going to the sword sheathed at her waist, the goldstone at her shoulders gleaming in the dispersed candlelight.
“To find my mate.”
Her eyes widened, the black pupils nearly swallowing the gold rings.
“Mate?” Even Gwen, composed and cool, choked on the word.
