Chapter 25
Soren dressed quickly while Vane paced silently near the entrance of the tent. When she had finished, he ran a hand over his face and spoke again.
“He’ll want to see you.”
She swallowed hard. “I know. It’s fine. I’ve dealt with him before. I lived in his palace for nearly all my life.”
Vane didn’t look comforted at the thought. She finished tying up her boots and stood, a little wobbly on her feet after recovering and all they had done in the past hours. He was at her side instantly, brow creased and a hand on her arm.
“I’m fine.”
He took a deep breath. “Alright. We should go.”
“How did you know it was him?” she asked as he turned away from her.
His shoulders tensed, but he merely replied, “The horn call is different from an alarm.”
She hadn’t heard the difference, and she had a hunch he was lying, but she ignored the feeling, following him out of the tent.
The camp was bustling, the soldiers’ breaths clouding in the cold morning air as they sat around fires or started training.
The winter season had truly reached Aren, even this far south.
Stares trailed both her and Vane as they walked the short distance through the camp to meet the king. Some looked at her with disgust and fear, others with awe. She didn’t blame those who despised her now. She had no idea who she might have taken from them.
A sudden thought sent a spike of fear through her.
“The princess—”
“Is fine,” Vane replied curtly. “She was on dragonback when you cast, and from what I heard, managed to burn some rebels before it was all over.”
Half relief and half anger overcame her. Of course, Cion would fight for Aren, and naturally, that meant killing both Miseans and any rebels who might push back. But the reality still hurt: Princess Cion was not her friend and never had been.
Vane stopped in front of the Commander’s tent, his features tense. She slowed with him, balling her hands into fists.
“Enter, Vane.”
Soren flinched at King Johannas’ voice. She had not been expecting him right away.
When they emerged into the tent, the king was windblown and taking off his riding gloves, appearing to have just arrived. He wore leather riding breeches and a ridiculous azure cape, latched with a gold brooch at his throat.
She wanted to take his precious gold and shove it down his throat.
One of the torches still lit in the corner flickered subtly, but Vane caught the small crack in her control. Discreetly, he brushed his fingers against hers in warning. She took a quick breath and swallowed her rage, kneeling on the ground with Vane.
Still, she must have not hid her defiance well enough, because the king laughed softly. “I would have never guessed that of all my slaves, you, Soren Cavell, would be the one to turn against me.”
Vane’s breath grew slightly uneven, not loud enough for the king to hear but enough that she caught the shift, kneeling next to him.
She kept her head bowed as she said quietly, “No, my king. I only—”
But cold fingers on her chin killed the words in her throat. She lifted her head to find the king staring down at her, smirking coldly. “Do not worry, Soren. I don’t plan on killing you, not as long as we can come to an agreement about your uses. Rise.”
Vane remained kneeling as she stood, and she glanced back at him while the king led her to the table at the edge of the room.
King Johannas flicked his gaze from her to Vane and snorted. “Ah. I’m not planning on killing him either. He is far too useful to me.”
Soren furrowed her brow at the statement. She knew Vane was strong and a good fighter, but exactly what did the king want with him? She had to be missing something here about his part in all this, and it made her deeply uneasy.
“At the edge of Aren’s border, there is still an encampment of Misean forces,” King Johannas said, pulling her back to the room.
“We had pushed them back nearly a week ago, but a recent resurgence of rebels—defectives from our own armies—aided them in the last battle. You are going to help me smother the spark the rebels have lit. We have Meesling and their wyverns now, save a few beasts the rebels managed to steal, so winning the war now should be a closer reality. I want you to ensure we don’t have any further missteps in that goal. ”
“And if I refuse?” she dared.
King Johannas met her eyes. He had the same green eyes as the princess, though his were a shade duller.
“I don’t think you even need to ask me that.
You’re smart. I suppose,” he laughed, “my daughter’s tales of her young, bright servant should have tuned me into your danger in the first place, but I will admit, you played the role well. ”
Soren tightened her jaw. She didn’t like him mentioning Cion. It made him feel too human, even as he threatened her.
“It was no role,” she said in a low voice.
The king’s eyes flashed. “So you thought.”
She went still at the words. The king could simply be referring to her magic, or…
He knew what she was.
Before she could push him further, he said firmly, “You are dismissed. If you decide to take my offer, ready your beast. I will send you off by midday to the border.”
She did not bow before turning, and that alone was a testament to all that had changed since she left the quiet prison of the palace walls.
Vane remained, still on the ground, his head low in submission, not meeting her eyes as she ducked out of the tent.
It unnerved her to see him like that, and once she had left, she lingered a moment outside.
“Apologies, but you know I cannot pass on such a useful weapon,” she heard the king say, adding dryly, “I know she is yours.”
“She is no one’s.”
“Hm. Kronos seems to think otherwise.”
Soren froze. How did King Johannas know anything of what Kronos wanted? It was impossible to speak to him, with the borders to Arcadia barred to mortals. Unless Kronos had crossed it himself…
Cold fear rushed through her, drowning her like the current of an icy river. She backed away from the tent and ran, away from camp and to the dragon field. Thessa waited for her there, her head resting on the ground.
Soren was breathless as she said aloud, “Do you know anything?”
Thessa huffed, the warm air from her nostrils hitting Soren in the face. No more than you. You need to prepare for flight.
“If I decide to take his offer,” Soren muttered, sitting heavily next to her.
You will. You want to live, and his threat is not empty.
“I know.”
Vane had disappeared without a word by the time she returned to camp. As she craned her neck, searching for him through the throng of wary soldiers, Commander Eton said from behind, “Evva is gone. It’s time for you to depart.”
She whirled. “Gone?”
“Yes. He was sent on a mission for the crown.”
“Where?”
The Commander narrowed his eyes. “Careful, Mise. It is unwise to reveal too many of your emotions to your enemy.”
“And is that you?”
He raised a brow. “That is up to you. The king awaits with your dragon to send you off.”
The words were an added threat—King Johannas was with Thessa, and her dragon was right: Soren did not want to die, not yet.
She hurried past a grim-faced Commander Eton and jogged back to the dragon field, dressed in leather riding gear, equipped with extra straps to stay secure, as well as several holsters for daggers she still did not know how to use. Her boots hit just above her knees, also secured.
King Johannas smiled when he saw her approach, but his next words stung a long-open wound.
“If you complete this mission successfully, I’ll allow them to remove the shackle hiding under your boots.”
She wanted to spit at his feet but instead bowed her head slightly, playing the part he wanted. “Yes, my king.”
“Good. And Sora, dear, when you arrive, do not hesitate. He will be ready for you, as will the others.”
He strode to the edge of the field to watch her go, and it was not until she was on Thessa’s back and about to take to the air that she realized what he had just called her, what he had promised.
Her stomach dropped as Thessa lifted off the ground, her enormous wings flapping on either side of Soren, cold currents disturbing her hair. The king knew who she was, and not only that—someone waited for her at the border, to lead the battle.
It had to be Mòr Maslach.
Perhaps finally, she would learn who he was. After all, he had been the one to save her when she had fallen from Thessa, her dead sister’s dagger in her belly. Perhaps she could return the favor by shoving a dagger in him too.
The journey to the border wasn’t a particularly long one, and as time crawled by and the landscape below began to change, she wished for more.
It was obvious they were nearing Misean territory.
The temperature rose slightly, even at their elevation, and below, more and more green began to dot the landscape. She even thought she saw a tiny farm.
Wheat brushed against her palm as she walked away.
“I can’t leave you to him again.”
She turned, finding his beautiful face full of anguish. Her smile was sad. “This is what you get for loving a god.”
Pain.
Powerlessness.
Ruin.
Shouts rang out, and Thessa rumbled beneath her. We’re nearly there.
Soren took a shaky breath. She hadn’t dreamt of Sora’s memories since she had been injured, and seeing another now was unsettling.
Below, the ground was covered in Aren’s vast army.
The fight was well underway as they held the border against Mise, ready to push it back and end this war.
Just above her, a shadow passed over. She turned, looking up to see an enormous, black Vemon dragon forging ahead, leading them to destruction and death.
Her hands grew white-knuckled against the saddle, and she tried to ball up the rage stewing inside her.
From all she knew, the masked rider was responsible for this war as much as King Johannas.
Aren was a reigning power, but Mòr Maslach was the blade that wielded that control.