Chapter 22
VANN
Flae Sprig was much younger than I had anticipated. When I mentioned Mrath’s name, he immediately took me to a back room and showed me options for a costume. It took several days for him to finish, and I paid him well.
The time gave me an opportunity to scout. The palace was well guarded, but not enough to stop my investigation. I don’t know where Arlet’s rooms are, but I have a good orientation of where the throne room is.
I leave my things in a hiding place I found near the palace gardens. Among my clothes and rations, there are two romance scrolls and a soft, warm dress Arlet can use while flying back to the mountains.
The night of the masquerade, it was easy for me to enter with a crudely forged courtier sigil, mixed in with the hordes of courtiers coming from every corner of the Elven Dominion.
I need to find Arlet and get her out before Mrath moves against Arion. In my last correspondence with Liana, she had said there was a skirmish near the enclave, and Mrath is keen for vengeance.
Patting my pocket, I feel the seed I’d been given, along with the speaking stones. It should be at least a day or two before the sisterhood arrives.
The inside of the palace is elaborately decorated, mirroring the decorations I’d passed in the streets. I’ve only just barely arrived at the ball when I was stopped in my tracks.
Rooted to the spot.
Arlet dances with lord after lord, dressed as a doe. Seeing her for the first time in weeks is a shock and a comfort all at once. My heart pounds, overwhelmed. She is so beautiful…
And frail.
I watch two men brush across the dance floor with her. She looks different. The light and warmth that used to glow within her are cold.
My fingers twitch. Everything that I loved about her seems dull and masked under a wash of decorum. When I see her, my Fuegorra burns painfully under my glamour, and I am frozen in place by the song.
The same one I had heard when they replaced my heart. Perhaps even the same she had heard on the witches’ isle.
While she is dancing, despite being close to me, she does not see me.
She doesn’t even hear the song of the Fuegorra. Our mating song. How? How can she be near me and not hear, not even look? Is something wrong?
That’s when the light shines on her more fully, and I see her gaunt face and pronounced collarbones.
Has she been eating?
I hadn’t planned on talking to her. I didn’t want to approach her. But seeing that…I can’t hold myself back.
The king has already left her side by this point. A part of me considers killing him on the spot and saving Mrath the trouble of doing it, but a deeper part of me knows that I can only choose one thing.
Violence against Arion, or time with Arlet.
The choice is easy from that point. I step into the line of lords waiting for their turn to dance with her. That’s when I see Thorne for the first time.
Once again, I see red. But I can’t ruin my chances. I can exact revenge later.
Right now, I just need Arlet.
The next few minutes blur together. I can’t remember what I say—all I know is that she is here, and she is in my arms. I can take her away now.
Everything will be…fine.
And that’s when the first explosion hits like thunder inside a bell.
Shards of glass rain through the vaulted ceiling, scattering light across the marble like a second sky falling. The scent of blood and smoke hits a beat later.
She is thrown away from me. I claw toward her, trying to reach her before the lights come back on fully.
“Firelocks!” I shout.
Screams bloom from every side. But strangely, the music accompanying the dancing doesn’t stop right away. The harp keeps playing half a bar, then dies under the roar.
I search for her, instinct taking over.
Where is she? Is she hurt?
The earth rumbles and shards scatter, and I burn as images of Arlet sweeping gracefully through the room play through my mind.
The noise clears, and the dust and shaking settle, and then I am moving.
The glamour Neryth cast over me burns, but when I look at myself, my hair is still black, and my skin is still darkened, with the appearance of ashwood. For now, I’m still invisible to them.
I slip through the crowd of chaos. Many of the masks are now askew, courtiers tripping over antlers, silk, and blood. And then more shouting starts up. At first, it sounds like separate cries, but then they come together to create one, unified feminine voice.
“End the king’s rule.”
The attackers pour in from the shattered windows, blades flashing in one hand and something over their shoulders. Bodies, I realize. They are half-decayed elves, all wearing Arion’s insignia.
Dead soldiers.
No. Mrath wasn’t supposed to be here yet. I was supposed to have more time. How did Liana not warn me?
I turn around to see Arlet back in Arion’s arms, the two of them much closer to the dais.
My eyes narrow on that fucking collar around her neck, gleaming like a brand.
And then my eyes travel lower, hot, to the place where her Fuegorra should be.
I’ve seen it in the past, felt it with my fingers and tongue. Is it gone?
For a second, I assume it might merely be glamoured, but this feels too wrong. I recognize the pain in my own chest. The song starts again, and I wait for her voice to enter my mind. I wait for the mating song to bring her back to me.
And then I feel the bond between us tug weakly, like a muscle long unused, trying to remember how to flex. It can’t. It’s…gone.
They must’ve found some way to take it.
That’s why she looks and feels so frail.
She’s dying. They took out her stone, and she’s fucking dying.
She turns her head slightly in the chaos. Her mask hides the upper part of her face, but I feel her. Not see—feel.
Arlet, I plead through my mind. I’m here. I’m so sorry, but I’m here for you, I won’t let this continue any longer.
A thread stretched between two half-broken hearts. A memory of warmth. She watches me, the man who broke her. Who lied to her.
My chest heaves, pumping with the weight of my sins bearing into me. I can’t stay away.
I’ve lost my chance to take her to safety, but I wonder why the fuck aren’t they taking her out of here?
I take a step forward. Then another. I shove through a pair of courtiers—one bleeding from the arm, another clawing for the door. My hand goes to the spot where I hid my cleaver.
Before my hand brushes behind the curtains to grab it, Arion tilts his head to the side. On the dais, he stands, eyes bright with delight. The bastard doesn’t flinch when a rebel’s arrow grazes his shoulder.
Red blossoms through his leather tunic, and guards duck forward, preparing to execute the masked elf who now runs through the palace.
The deranged Elf King starts laughing. Laughing like this is part of the show. And then he moves.
Magic ignites from his palm, black fire roaring, and the man in front of him disintegrates.
He leaves no blood, no body. Just ash falling in a perfect circle.
The others falter, blinded by firelight.
Arion reaches for Arlet, seizing the new collar like it’s a leash, yanking her in front of him.
The motion is sharp enough that her head jerks back, her mask coming askew.
I have never seen Arion use his magic. I had heard that it was weak, that it didn’t exist, but clearly, those reports were wrong.
My jaw clenches. The fire inside me surges, but the glamour strains against it. I can’t afford to break cover, not here—not when the whole hall is wrapped in his magic.
Still, my body moves before my mind can stop me. I need to be closer to Arlet. If they won’t protect her, I can try.
I cross half the room in seconds, the crowd a blur of feathers and flame. One of Mrath’s sister assassins lunges at me, her face covered in fabric and smeared with ash.
She withdraws a blade and tries to stab me.
“Stop,” I insist. I don’t want to kill an ally, so I try to reveal myself. “I’m with the Enduares.”
She swipes at me again. “And I am actually the one set to marry the king,” she laughs.
“Please, I don’t want to do this,” I say. “We are not enemies.”
She continues to ignore me. I grab the top of her bound hair.
“Please,” I beg.
“Your king tried to kill us all. He tried to take Mrath’s right to the throne. You all deserve to rot.”
Understanding blossoms. That’s what the men in the tavern were referencing. Arion tried to get the artifact and now Mrath has decided to strike back. Her troupe is bringing back the corpses of his men.
Genius.
Then she cuts through my thoughts and slices my arm.
Growling, destroyed by the loss of Arlet, my anger at myself, and my despair at the situation, I act in self-defense. I will end this as quickly as I can.
I take a deep breath and slam the back of her skull hard against the pillar. I hear a crack, and then see the red streaking the wood behind her. My hand comes away red, too.
I hear Arlet gasp, and turn back around to see her watching me.
My heart breaks again. For the smallest breath, we are exactly what we have always been—the connection too fierce to sever even after death and distance. I feel her heartbeat. I feel the collar burning her skin.
Then the royal guard swarms her, shields forming a wall of silver between us.
“Arlet—” The word dies in my throat. The name comes out like an oath and a curse.
I can’t reach her. Not with a dozen spears between us.
Arion pulls her backward, placing her in front of him, the light of the collar flickering as he shields himself with her body.
It’s as if the king of cowards hides behind his prey.
Then she is gone. A part of me is relieved, another wants to tear through this place to get to her.
I run, knowing that this isn’t even my battle to fight. I could follow her, but now the place is swarming with guards. I can’t get her if I’m dead. So, like other courtiers, I turn and run away. The screams follow me down the corridor, mingling with the sound of blades and burning wood.