Chapter 5
T hat grave seemed closer now than it had been in a long time. The only advantage now was that his arms were around her.
His face pressed against Alora’s neck, taking in her scent—embers in a winter wind. Then he nuzzled closer and used every bit of strength to control his powers and illusion them as if they were made of air.
Wholly invisible to the eye, they slipped into camp past his sentries without alarming them of his condition. There was little choice. It had to be done. His sentries were needed against any attack of Ravens outside Alynthia’s fallen wards, not fussing over him.
Before long, his eyes fluttered open. Only he was not toweled around Alora anymore, soaking in her heat that he so desperately needed. Dark arms cradled him tight. And through the haze of double vision, the stars above Thalon’s head appeared. Next, he recognized tents, rows of them surrounding him, as his own grew closer.
Home. He was home.
He had thought he would never see this place again.
Bright candlelight created an ache behind his eyes, and although they placed him on something soft and forgiving, all he could focus on was the sharp pain in his abdomen.
Delirious, Garrik could not determine if he was on his back. His limbs were unable to move and aid in any clarity.
Roll over. You are not safe with your back exposed.
On the borders of his mind, he heard … voices. Felt the brush of hands against his armor, pulling it open. Removing it.
No. Stop.
Was he screaming? Groaning? Just breathing? He felt the vibrations in his throat, but pain overtook all his senses.
Something pinched his arm and burned the longer it held there.
A needle. Garrik’s breath quickened. I cannot go back there. I cannot go back there. I cannot ? —
His heart thundered so terribly it hit the point of being painful. His fingers curled into the furs. Furs he knew. Furs and a bed and a lantern on a side table he recognized.
I am not back there, he reasoned. But it did nothing, because in one moment, he heard Thalon and Eldacar’s questions. Felt Alora cupping his forehead and squeezing his hand as she answered. And in the next …
“Do not scar his face. I have use of it.”
“And the rest of him, Your Majesty?” Night-blue flames flickered in the darkness, dancing on the fingertip of a dark-haired High Fae male who leaned against the iron door of his dungeon.
Malik.
Garrik could hardly breathe, tied to that chair creaking beneath him, body convulsing in the afterwaves of the fiery treatment inside his veins. The treatment he had only just endured.
The sound of chair legs scraping against stones echoed off the blood-splattered walls, and the High King prowled forward, every step a haunting threat. A crushing reminder that Garrik was nothing more than a slave—not a son, not even a lesser male.
Magnelis gripped his hair and stared cruelly into Garrik’s eyes. His face a work of cold stone as he callously admitted, “I do not care.”
A moment of calm … before ? —
Choked gasps ripped from Garrik’s throat as his head snapped backward. The rest of his body seized up, pulling his bonds taut while Malik’s burning fingertips dug into his thighs. Unable to do anything more than thrash, boiling waves of blood surged through him, throwing him into another helpless convulsion.
“If you tried to relax, it wouldn’t hurt so much,” Malik snickered and flexed his fingertips, sending another wave of flames through Garrik’s system. “Why are you choking? Come now, breathe.”
Garrik jolted upward, panting, and cried out, “ Stop !”
He had to escape. Could not bear going through this again. I have to escape, have to escape, have to ? —
“You’re okay, mighty prince.” A warm hand flattened against the middle of his chest and carefully guided him back. “It’s the drugs. Don’t fight them.”
Them . The only option was to fight them . He would not escape otherwise. “I have to,” he slurred, feeling another wave of darkness brimming.
Through the dimness, Garrik glimpsed three figures hovering over him.
Malik. Brennus… Her.
“This isn’t the drugs.” Eldacar’s youthful face appeared. Distressed consideration stole those brown eyes as Garrik tried—and failed—to convince himself he was not in his dungeon.
“He needs to sleep.” A voice like the warmth of the stars cut through his delusion. He held onto Alora’s voice like it was the only tether to life.
But Thalon answered, his voice as devastating as a bloodied battlefield, “He won’t get any.”
Then roaring night-blue flames and the eyes of the High King swallowed him whole.
So many months ago, Alora wanted nothing more than to never sit in this tent again. The bitterness and overwhelming desire for freedom had consumed her thoughts to the point of carelessly raising a blade to the throat of Elysian’s gray-haired demon. Imagining his slow and painful death. Once, she had wanted to see her obsidian dagger pierce his heart and leave him for dead in the forest.
Only now …
As she held Garrik’s frigid hand and stroked his hair, she pleaded to the stars for another breath. Another breath without his constant winces and pain. Without him trembling with whatever played behind those silver eyes.
She could still smell the way his flesh burned. Still heard his screams.
Dawn would rise soon.
The few times his eyes did open, there was pure terror there.
Would there still be the next time he woke?
The warm sunlight faded hour by hour, yet no one could convince her to leave his side. How many times had he been there when she needed someone to pick up her shattered pieces? She wouldn’t leave him now. Wouldn’t let him wake up alone. And as the sun traded the moon, silver peeked between his eyelids.
“We need to stop meeting like this…” her voice traitorously cracked as she brushed the hair from his soaked forehead. By the stars, the terror that had plagued his eyes was gone, and never had such a rush of breath calmed her so thoroughly.
Garrik’s stare was unfocused, lids bobbing as he said, “Indeed.” Weakened hands traced down his exposed abdomen, across burns that were nearly healed. Then confusion stole his face.
Alora leaned closer and gently murmured, “What do you remember?”
His throat worked, a shudder like a momentary burst of starlight flickered dread in his eyes, collecting her heart in a vice. But Garrik squeezed them closed. For a moment he only breathed, then whispered, “Everything.” He looked up at her, face grim. “Thalon… The rest of them?”
She grasped his question and considered her reply. “They’re angry but relieved you’re alive.” Alora fought the urge to remind him of her displeasure and swiftly added, “We’ve all agreed you’re not going off alone ever again.”
He scoffed. There was that smile, the one she admittedly missed. “Is that so? High Kings and Queens have infiltrated my camp, I see.” A touch of annoyance simmered in his tone but became blanketed in something less disapproving, almost roguish. “Am I granted a vote in this referendum?”
“Not when you’ve been deciding on meeting Maker of the Skies or not.”
He leveled a glare, but she crossed her arms.
“It’s decided,” she said. It wasn’t. None of them were delusional enough to believe they could shackle boundaries on their High Prince. But the look on his face was worth it.
Garrik smirked like he knew that too, but for now, he entertained their short-lived victory and sunk deeper into the pillow.
Alora shifted in Garrik’s chair. Her battle leathers remained caked in his dried blood. All these hours, she hadn’t once thought to trade them for anything else for fear the moment her eyes would turn from him, he’d seek the Stars Eternal.
But now …
The smell of iron was heavy as she dipped her hand in cold water inside the basin on his bedside table.
He tracked her movement and scanned over those leathers, eyes bouncing across each darkened spot of his blood. When she wrung out the frigid cloth and began washing the blood lining her fingernails, his evaluation dropped to her waist.
On the obsidian dagger sheathed there.
Cold unease blanched his face. “There is something you must know.”