Chapter 37
Ramiel doesn’t realize how much he’s improved in the course of a week, even with the praise I’ve given him.
After invoking our bond, each of his movements since has been filled with confidence. Even without his sight, he is able to sense me when I’m not in front of him. He can almost predict my movements now.
Almost.
I wouldn’t be one of the king’s targets if I didn’t have the skills to prove it, after all.
My fingers shift to the ring on my middle finger. Its smooth stone is warm—almost too warm—against my skin.
He’d given this token to me, even though it is something extremely important to him.
A promise. A decision. One that is mine to make.
The fire snaps at the air around it, hungry for growth though it is confined to the ash pit. The flames are angry, distressed. This little blaze reminds me of Ramiel, born into a world that means to destroy him. That doesn’t want him.
The sun has set. Ramiel tired from our practice quicker today, so he sleeps against the slab of ruined rock on a matted sheet of leaves. Ronan sharpens his knife beside him, his eyes glazed over with a faux expression of boredom.
I haven’t spoken to him, not cordially at least. Not one-on-one.
We’ve committed to a truce, though nonverbal, that binds us to Ramiel, which therefore restricts our involvement with one another. Puts our hate for each other on pause. I’m sure I won’t be seeing him after Ramiel defeats the dragon, anyway.
My fingers stop on the ring.
Maybe I won’t be able to see Ramiel either.
I know that’s what I initially wanted, but my heart’s increasing pace says otherwise.
The fairy shifts, his focus now on me. I dip my head, and he stands, walks toward me, and sits a few feet away. He clears his throat.
“It’s tough on him,” he mumbles, staring into the fire. There’s a resignation to his words. “All of this. It’s a lot of pressure. I didn’t realize it before. Not until I saw him struggle.”
I smirk. “What, getting all sentimental now? Are we… bonding over the prince?”
I cringe at the flicker of long-suffering reflecting in his eyes. He’s not in the mood for our usual quips.
His exasperated sigh confirms it. “Is everything offensive to you?”
The fire pops. “No. I’m also new to all of… this .” I gesture with my arm to Ramiel, then slowly to the space between us.
He raises his eyebrows as he drifts his fingers toward me, mimicking my gesture. “This?”
My tongue pops out and I scrunch my nose. “You know what I mean. I’ve never held a conversation like this with a fairy. I usually, well, empty their guts. But you’re different.”
“Thanks,” he utters coldly.
“My pleasure,” I snigger. I reach for a stick and begin poking the embers with it. A silence floats between us, the air growing hot. I have nothing more to say on the subject, so I twist my stick into the ashes and change the topic. “I believe Ramiel can do this. Do you?”
Ronan’s gaze drifts to mine. The firelight dances in the golden rims of his pupils, his wings glint faintly, and the hard lines of muscle in his arms shimmer with the fire’s red hues and the deepening violet of the sunset.
The curve of his back, the way his elbows rest heavily on his knees, and how his fingers graze the ground all speak of exhaustion.
In this moment, under the warm glow of the fire, he’s far too difficult to hate.
“Of course I do,” he says with a weary grin.
“He’s more of a man than Xavelor ever was.
Stronger too.” He rubs his hands together.
“I’m worried, but when push comes to shove, he’ll do it.
I feel it here.” He holds his gray hand to his heart, pressing it there for a solid second before letting it drop to his lap.
“What did you think of his performance today?”
He shrugs. “You’re just a heartless beast. Anyone would have a hard time. And he’s blind . Don’t forget that.”
I can’t help the smile curving on my lips at his praise. I’m taking it as praise anyway.
“I wouldn’t forget that,” I say. I finally toss the stick into the fire, and it snaps against a simmering log. “He’s doing great, considering everything that’s happened.”
“Much of it was your fault, you know.” He coughs.
I can’t bring myself to refute him. Especially not as he bends forward and his tunic stretches over his skin, hugging the muscles of his chest. His wings twitch to keep him stable.
The mark on my arm flares in warning.
“Do you like him?” he asks casually.
The question nearly knocks me over. I pat my ears down, trying to hide the heat tingeing them red.
“Yes,” I say, confused.
He tilts his head, raising an eyebrow. “You know what I mean. Are you interested in pursuing a relationship?”
The fact that he knows how our bond works, that it doesn’t fabricate our feelings beyond physicality, is impressive. His look of concern is genuine as he waits patiently for my reply.
My fingers stop spinning the ring around my knuckle. How long have I been preoccupied with it?
I am not in love with the prince. But…
The blood rushes to my face as thoughts of Ramiel stampede upon my composure.
“Not yet,” I swallow, my mark buzzing. “If I can find a way to unbind us from one another, I think something could happen between us. Having this tether makes things…easier, for sure. But there’s a falseness to it that makes it difficult to form a real connection.”
“And if you can remove your mated marks?”
The interest in his voice is so surprising, I have to wet my lips because they’ve gone dry. I laugh nervously. Of course, I would return to Pluto…
Right?
My eyebrows bend toward my nose.
Before I can reply, hoof steps clip sharply into the silence. I scramble to my feet, and my hand goes to my thigh, hovering over my dagger. Ronan rises to a crouch, his hands tense over the dirt.
Both of us glance at the prince, who is still calmly asleep.
The intruder approaches. He’s heavily armored and rides a tall black horse. A helmet obscures his head, but I know him from the second he dismounts.
Marchus.
I tense my shoulders.
Ronan groans.
“I told you of our location,” he begins, his face contorting with disapproval, “but I hadn’t meant for you to follow us.”
Marchus turns to me, flips the helmet open, and frowns. “His Majesty has requested for you to return. Immediately.”
“What? Why?” I shout.
Ramiel stirs.
“The Archon of Midra knows of Xavelor’s defeat.
He has declared war on Arioch, assuming we have a collapsed military.
” His eyes flicker to the prince, then to me, and finally to Ronan.
“Arioch needs a victor. King Azriel hastened the start of the Feast. It has already begun, and nobles have arrived. The duel is scheduled for tomorrow at dusk. Make your trek back to the castle,” he says with a grimace, “or forfeit the right to the throne.”
“Forfeit?” Ramiel grumbles, still half asleep.
Marchus bows before remounting his horse.
“And,” the soldier says, eyes crinkled with sorrow, “I am so sorry for what happened to your people, little mouse.”
My chest tightens, my fist clenches at my side.
He shuts his helm and drives his heels into his stallion. The horse turns and gallops into the thick.
Ronan sits again, chewing on his lip.
Ramiel wobbles over to us. His hands are outstretched for balance.
“What did he mean, forfeit ?”
“Nothing,” I say as I reach for his hand. His eyes focus on my chest, where my eluviam is. “Because there’s no way in the seven hells we’re going to let that happen.”