Chapter 44
Chapter
Forty-Four
He couldn’t feel her.
The sun was well past its zenith by the time they reached the temple, beating down on the small group of soldiers Thorne had gathered.
They were all tired, their footsteps lagging—but Loren took the steps two at a time, ignoring Thorne’s shouted warning.
He couldn’t slow down. Couldn’t wait—not when there was only silence where their bond should have lived.
His shadows led the way, twisting and crawling over the broken stone. Loren crossed the threshold behind them, his steps faltering as the iron tang of blood filled his nose.
Loren reached Eryn first. Eloria’s spymaster lay on his face, the blood around him cooled into a tacky pool. Just a few steps away, Darian Hale slumped awkwardly where he must have died, nothing left of his throat but a mangled ruin.
“Goddess,” Thorne swore, stepping up beside him. “Who is that?”
“Darian Hale. The Arcanum’s High Inquisitor,” Loren said, hardly able to hear himself over the pounding of his own heart.
The shadows stirred around him, murmuring as he stared down at the body of the man who had dedicated his life to torturing him.
For decades, Darian Hale’s name had meant pain—cold iron and burning flesh, questions asked in a silken voice and answers demanded in blood.
Now he was dead. But Loren couldn’t bring himself to care.
“She’s not here,” he said. “I can’t feel her, Thorne. What if—” His voice broke, the shadows keening as they shifted and milled, searching for her.
“They were supposed to take shelter in the crypt,” Thorne said, using the same calm, soothing tone he used on panicking patients. “We should at least check.”
The door opened easily under Loren’s touch, revealing Veria standing guard at the top of the stairs, a kitchen knife clutched in her hands. When they realized it was Loren, the other adults and the children spilled up the stairs, all of them talking at once.
But Araya wasn’t with them.
“Eryn betrayed us,” Veria said. She stared at the bodies, looking older than Loren had ever seen her.
“There were inquisitors waiting for us when we got here. He lured Araya away—I don’t know what he said to her, but she came running in here, desperate to save us.
She used a shield perfectly—gave us the chance to make it into the crypt. ”
She’d used her magic. Pride flickered through Loren’s panic, but it was gone in the next breath, buried under a rising tide of fury. Eryn—he’d ignored every instinct, confident that even if Eryn wasn’t wholly trustworthy, no fae would ever betray another to the New Dominion.
And now Araya was paying the price for his blindness.
“Were any of them wearing sigils? Markers of rank?” Thorne pointed at Hale’s body, indicating the gold trim on his padded tunic. “Like him.”
Veria nodded. “The woman—and two of the men.”
“Four inquisitors,” Throne said, glancing sidelong at Loren. “And the others?”
“They were younger. One barely spoke—kept his eyes down. But the other—” Veria shuddered, squeezing the child in her arms tighter. “He took Eilwen’s babe from her. And the way he spoke to Araya…”
“Jaxon,” Loren said. His shadows curled around him, cooling the air in the sanctuary. He didn’t need proof. There was only one person arrogant enough to wait here for her, like a spider poised over a web—while the rest of the New Dominion moved on Lumaria.
And Loren had sent her right into his hands.
He reached inward—into the bond, into that fragile tether he’d clung to since the day he met her.
Still nothing.
Loren clenched his jaw, his magic crackling in the hollow space where her presence should’ve been as he stretched out his mind and his magic, straining to reach her.
He poured everything into that desperate reach—his steadiness, his strength, his vow that she wasn’t alone. That she would never be alone again.
But she didn’t answer.
The shadows rippled at his feet, one peeling away from the rest. It crawled toward him, its edges bleeding dark mist as it struggled to hold its shape. Her shadow—as lost and left behind has he was. Loren bent, letting it curl around his arm to rest across his shoulders, exhausted and wounded.
He straightened, fear hardening into resolve. If Jaxon thought he wouldn’t come for her—that Loren would choose the crown and let them take her—then the High Magister’s son was about to learn a very hard lesson.
“Leave soldiers here,” Loren ordered, turning for the door. “Enough to organize the supplies and keep the children safe.”
Thorne matched his stride. “And you?”
“I’m going to get my mate,” Loren said. “And Goddess help whoever gets in my way.”
They had nearly reached Ithralis when the shadows broke from him, surging ahead in a rush of darkness. Loren sprinted after them, ignoring Thorne’s shout. Something was wrong. He could feel it—like cold fingers wrapping around his heart, ready to crush him completely.
“Loren, wait!” Thorne yelled somewhere behind him. “It’s—”
A figure burst from the underbrush, nearly colliding with him. Eilwen—wild-eyed and bleeding, her child clutched so tightly to her chest that his cries were muffled against her shoulder.
“Stay back!” she screamed, her body curving around her child as she twisted out of his grasp. “Don’t touch us!”
“Eilwen!” Loren swore, ducking as branches lashed at his face, turned on him by the terrified grower. “It’s me! You’re safe!”
“Your Majesty?” Eilwen blinked, the terror in her violet eyes fracturing into disbelief and panicked hope. “Araya—you have to go. She needs you—”
“What happened?” Loren demanded.
“She saved me—” Eilwen’s voice hitched, breaking on a sob. “She saved us. She couldn’t even stand, but she convinced him to give me back Selan. She threw herself from the cart to give me a chance to run. But she couldn’t get away—”
“Where?” Loren demanded. “Where is she?”
“Ithralis.” Eilwen looked up at him, fresh tears streaking her cheeks. “I heard him say there was a boat—already loaded. The human runesmith helped us, but she couldn’t get away. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry—”
“Loren—” Thorne started, but Loren didn’t wait to hear what he had to say.
He ran.
Branches clawed at him, thick underbrush dragging at his legs. But Loren barely noticed the thorns raking his skin or the vines that tangled around his ankles. His world had narrowed to the single, pulsing demand that pounded in his chest, echoed by the shadows that raced alongside him.
Reach her. Save her.
He plunged out of the tree line, nearly tripping over the cart. It sat across the path, its wheels mired in the mud. Abandoned. Loren’s nostrils flared, taking in the traces of iron under the acrid stink of vomit, threaded through with the iron tang of blood.
His mate had bled here.
Loren stalked past the abandoned cart, the wind rising with every step. He stopped at the edge of the cliff, staring out at the single ship that cut across the Shadowed Sea like a knife. A man stood at the rail, staring back at him.
Jaxon Shaw. Fury rose like a tide in his blood, the shadows singing in answer. They surged, spilling over his shoulders and coiling down his arms like a living storm. He didn’t need the bond to know—Araya was on that ship. Jaxon Shaw was taking his mate.
“Go,” he snarled. “Get her.”
The shadows exploded forward, pouring over the cliff like a black tide.
They broke against the rocks, their whispers a dark promise in his ears as they streaked across the waves.
They would rip Jaxon from the deck—drag him screaming beneath the waves.
It was a kinder death than he deserved. But all that mattered now was her.
Then Jaxon raised his hand.
Sunlight flared off pale bone, the reek of stolen magic so pungent that Loren could taste it through his shadows. The air itself twisted in on itself, the shadows faltering mid-surge. They hesitated.
Jaxon didn’t.
He drove the staff down. Power cracked like lightning across the water, lashing into the advancing shadows. They twisted, a thousand voices screaming in his mind, splitting his skull and driving him to his knees.
Your blood. Hers. He wields your magic—he is not you. Not a king. But he dares—he dares to command us—
Loren clutched his chest, unable to catch enough of a breath to answer. The salt-soaked air sawed in and out of his lungs, burning his mouth and throat.
“You’re too late, Loren.”
Jaxon’s voice boomed across the waves, amplified by magic to cut across the distance and the shrieking wind. “If you want your mate, you’ll have to come and take her from me yourself. Assuming she still wants you by the time you get there.”
Jaxon laughed, the sound echoing off the cliffs as the ship vanished like a ghost into the lingering mist that hung low over the Shadowed Sea. Maybe the ghostly remnants of the Veil would have destroyed another ship, but with Araya on board and Jaxon wielding that staff...
Loren doubled over, a raw scream of rage tearing from his throat. His shadows flailed, writhing around him in wild, frenzied arcs, striking out at the rocks, the sky—even him, his blood soaking the rocky ground from a hundred cuts. But it didn’t stop the pain. Nothing could.
He’d failed her.
Lorne didn’t know how long Thorne let him grieve. It could have been minutes or hours before his friend stepped forward—straight into the raging shadows.
“Stop—” Loren gasped, blood soaking his shirt. “They’ll hurt you—”
“You won’t.” Thorne’s hand landed on his shoulder, his warm healing magic running over Loren’s skin like water. The shadows hissed, but stilled, drawing in around him.
“You won’t get her back from here,” Thorne said, his amber eyes steady. “We need to go back Lumaria—make a plan. We’ll get her back, Loren. But not from here.”
Loren’s throat worked, his voice hoarse from screaming. “We?”
Thorne clapped him on the shoulder, standing. “Do you really think I’d let you do this alone?” He held out a hand, pulling Loren to his feet. “She’s not just your mate, Loren. She’s our queen. And I’ll follow you into the heart of the New Dominion itself to bring her home—we all will.”