Chapter 34
B linding sunlight wept across the Blackstone Mountain peaks, waking Kadamar’s privileged hours after the working class had been on their feet in the lower towns. Though Garrik had been awake for two nightfalls, this sunlight was not as welcoming for him.
Silence made a terrible companion.
Leather groaned beneath his fist. Every crack on the hilt of his sword, every dip, was a familiarity that settled him more than any moment of peace he could imagine. Knowing every inch of the weapon in his hand, begging to be used, begging to bleed, was something akin to peace.
Garrik dug his shoulder into the stones by a window in his sitting room. Thinking. Weighing.
Scanning down to Alora’s balcony, then over the rolling mountains and the endless sea of trees concealing mysteries beneath. Down to the High City of wealthy shops and weaving through the guarded gates to the lower towns, through the city streets teeming with the less fortunate folk.
For a moment, he closed his eyes and called on his powers—on the stronghold deep within his mind. Indulging in the weightless feeling and pressure pouring off his bones as if he were being swept away on a phantom wind. In this state, his awareness of the reality around him drifted away like it did when in pursuit of powers that only he could locate—of yet another soul cursed with magic needing rescue.
Only this use of power was selfish. There was no reason to arrange his attention to the forest on the other side of the castle, to weave between the evergreens and the path laid within, to feel the splash of rivers, or to fly alongside wolves and their pups.
No other selfish reason but to find him .
Garrik’s jaw tightened as hatred carved at his chest.
Ezander. The name was like burning coals in his mind.
As if soaring on the wings of thousands of flying things, Garrik’s mind transcended across the Blackstone Mountains until his thoughts settled on a landing place hewn out of a cliffside not far from Castle Karanagar and the High City. Close enough that those wealthy and fortunate could hear the clash of metal echoing along the streets and businesses.
The High Guard’s training grounds.
Jade and Alora were already there—standing back to back with swords positioned in front of them. Much to his relief, though they did not need them, his Dragons, training and sparring, surrounded them.
The High Guard crowded around the arena and courses teeming with ropes, climbing walls, and swinging wooden beams. Walking tightropes and bridges, ripping battle axes and broadswords from the weapon racks. Some were bloodied, caught in a fury of swinging fists.
In the reflection of the glass, he watched Thalon, who lay in a window seat, boots propped against the stone wall, twist upward and stand. The warmth of Thalon’s presence hit him before that strong shoulder dug into the stones on the side opposite of Garrik’s window.
Thalon extended a crystal glass while holy fire simmered in his objectionable gaze. “This is a foolish idea.”
Garrik accepted the glass with an appreciative nod and drank. As expected, it did nothing to settle the rage constricting his veins. He said nothing, only sighed and returned his gaze out the window.
“You could kill him.”
What would be so terrible about killing Ezander? he scoffed, finding satisfaction in the very thought.
Thalon did not find it so amusing.
On the floor behind them, Aiden groaned low and rough and bent up a knee before the back of his arm dropped over his face. “Some wretched little pixie is playing target practice inside my head.” He groaned again as his boot scuffed the night-dark hardwood and flattened his leg.
Garrik pushed from the stones and walked across the floor. Crouching, he extended the glass to Aiden and finally said, “Drink.”
Without argument, Aiden pulled it to his lips. Revulsion twisted his features the moment he swallowed. “Bloody hells,” he cursed and examined Garrik’s glass. “What the devil is that?”
The crystal dropped to the hardwood like Aiden could not be rid of it fast enough when Thalon chuckled and answered, “The locals call it water.”
Aiden’s face twisted. “That’s disgusting.” And dropped his head to the floorboards.
Garrik shook his head and stood, turning to Thalon, who had his attention fixed out of the window. Up close, that golden glow regarded a dark female with pearlescent wings in the gardens. Something unsettling tightened his Guardians lips, lethal judgment perhaps, before Garrik acknowledged Thalon’s earlier thought. “Are you not the one vowed to stop me from making foolish decisions?”
That tore his critical gaze away. “I have a hard enough time keeping him”—Thalon gestured his head to Aiden—“out of trouble. You should be wise enough to know the stupidity of your decisions.”
“You are angry,” Garrik noted.
Thalon scoffed and returned his attention to the female.
Garrik crossed his arms and leaned against the stones. “Am I to allow the bastard to spin a false narration as to his involvement?” His jaw tightened to where his teeth ached when Thalon said nothing. “What would you have me do, then?”
“Not kill him.”
“He deserves it.”
“Are we certain of that?” A low growl of warning rumbled from Garrik’s chest, but Thalon weathered it and reasoned, “Think of the consequences if you kill the princeling. You go on the warpath and kill Kadamar’s eldest male heir, and Ladomyr will stop at nothing until he finds revenge. And that could very well include Magnelis’s attention for the sake of his most loyal ally. There is too much at stake.”
Thalon held his stare as Garrik studied his face.
Starsdamnit. There was no point in arguing his selfish intentions. Though he wanted—no. Wanted was too calm a word. The desire burning in every kernel of his body to relieve Ezander’s neck of his head was something all-consuming.
Thalon was right, regardless. The risks to his legion, to everyone in it and those protected outside it, to those he brought to this castle, were far too great.
“Do you always have to be the voice of reason?” Garrik grumbled in a way that let Thalon know he agreed.
A smile as bright as sunlight widened on his Guardian’s face. “Love you too, brother.”
Garrik palmed Thalon’s shoulder and ignored the urge to rub the ache from his chest. “I cannot withdraw from the fight,” he stated flatly. The Savage Prince would never do so. But with the serpent’s magic inside him, sparring with blades would turn lethal. “And I will not entertain an audience with him. What other alternatives do we have remaining?” It was reckless, he admitted, the position he had put them in.
Thalon pondered a moment. “We could have Aiden fight him.”
“Cursed hells. I battled enough for my life last night.” Aiden dropped his arm to the hardwood with a hard thunk and exhaled a long breath. “If you see that bronze-skinned beauty, tell her my cock fell off.” He shuddered and added, “Kadamarian females. Either I’m growing old or they are bred with the stamina of the sea. I think I’m done fucking for a while.”
Deep bursts of male laughter echoed across the room.
“You hear that?” Thalon was still grinning as he angled his head toward Garrik. “One night in a Kadamarian bed and it broke him.” He chuckled and pointed his gaze down, addressing their sea captain skeptically. “Done with bedroom proclivities. You. Really?”
Mischief cloaked Aiden’s answering grin.
“And while you interpret that…” Garrik rubbed his chin, covering his grin, and walked to the door.
Thalon was quick to follow. “Where are you going?”
Garrik sent a withering glare over his shoulder, smirked, and said, “I have a princeling to not -kill.”
Alora didn’t doubt that look in Jade’s eye. Not for a second.
Peering over her shoulder with delight, a silent understanding coursed between them. It was the same look Jade had worn in the tavern in Alynthia. Ravenous hunger. Only this time, it wasn’t a reckless bar fight. They weren’t holding broken table legs or forks. And these males weren’t drunken fools.
Just … fools.
Behind her, Jade swung her sword overhead, blocking the male who jumped from the crowd and showering sparks on them both. In four perfect thrusts and cuts, the male blocked her blade with his gloved hand—just as she’d intended. A move Alora recognized from their personal training sessions.
Jade flicked a throwing dagger from the sheath at her thigh and whipped it to his balls as she leaned in close and snarled, “ Yield . Or the family bloodline ends here.”
Six, Jade. Four, Alora.
She needed to catch up.
When he didn’t move, from foolish male pride, arrogance, or simply sheer stupidity, Jade stepped backward and kicked him in the gut, launching him into the dirt on his ass.
From the dumbfounded look of the male, Alora couldn’t contain the laugh. It roared from her belly and bounced off the crowd and stones around them, mixing with displeased growls and murmurs. She cupped Jade’s shoulder and squeezed, meeting those green eyes full of exhilaration and a hint of cruel amusement.
This was where Jade thrived. Her love for the blade, the fire inside her, and the passionate will of a fighter. The thrill of the win. The kill. Jade’s eyes danced with a wickedness Alora only glimpsed around pompous males, and she wasn’t afraid to admit she’d adopted a hint of that same contempt. Especially against these males?—
Jade’s eyes widened only seconds before Alora comprehended why.
The slice of a blade split the air behind her.
Alora whirled on her heel, sword an extension of her arm, prepared to block the incoming blow.
Then, from within the crowd, cold iron swung and stopped the blade from embedding in her back.
Her swing stopped short inches from meeting flesh. Pressed to the neck of the fighter, who leapt from the crowd and now stood as a darkened form between the guardsmen and her.
Perhaps she should’ve been grateful. As they stood there, two blades crossed, and another held to flesh. She should’ve looked whoever had aided her fight in the eye with something like gratefulness. But in that moment, only annoyance remained.
“I don’t need your chivalry,” declaring up to the silhouette blocking out the sunlight. “Unlike your comrades, I can take care of myself.” Alora withdrew her sword and spun around dismissively. She stalked away and met Jade’s eyes with a curt nod before Jade sheathed her sword and found Deimon in the crowd.
Alora only made it four steps when a voice, as intense as sunstorms, called from behind, “So full of fire, aren’t you?”
It felt as if she’d smacked into a wall. Her fist tightened around the hilt of her sword as she willed embers to remain dormant in her eyes. Pompous male. Deciding not to stroke his ego further, Alora stepped away.
But the asshole dared to speak again. “Come now. Undoubtedly you aren’t angry that I saved you?”
That did it. Alora suppressed the overwhelming urge to scorch his pristine attire and spun on him. A singe or two would be perfect. But not here. Not when Mystics were outlaws and this kingdom collected them for Magnelis.
“If you speak again, you’ll find my blade somewhere unpleasant. As my sister threatened … your family bloodline will end here.” With the tip of her blade, Alora gestured below his belt. It was only then she noticed …
That soldier had moved toward her, dressed unlike the others.
Those weren’t Ladomyr’s colors or metal armor on that carved body…
A snow-white tunic tickled against his sculpted torso from the mountain breeze. In the morning light, the strands of his sun-colored hair beamed as russet eyes settled their full attention on her. And unlike the night before, there were no circlets or jewels in his blond hair.
The eldest male heir of Land and Growth simply smiled.
Instead of wavering, she studied him. Conjuring a look of boredom, she acknowledged flatly, “Ezander.” For a moment, her heart pinched, but she warded off the sudden unease of addressing royalty so callous and informal. She wouldn’t be intimidated. If she’d been a Lady of Telldaira forsaking his title in such a manner, the punishment could’ve been life-threatening. But not now. Not with whose constant presence and threat lingered in the air when Garrik wasn’t there.
Chin poised high, she offered a feline grin, and challenge danced wildly in her eyes.
Ezander apparently decided he didn’t mind her insult, crossed his arms, and chuckled. “I may need to reconsider the ban of females in my father’s armies.”
“Finally. The first intelligent thing you’ve said,” Alora dared, sheathed her sword, then went on, “You don’t allow females in your army? Quite foolish of you. Seeing as every male here has been bested by us today.” Her attention flashed to Jade, who kept careful watch. Even Deimon’s feathered wings unfurled slightly.
“No,” the princeling countered. “ That would be foolish of me. If they were half as beautiful as you, what a distraction that would be, my lady.” And if she ever needed more proof of royal arrogance, Ezander’s half-lidded eyes and flirtatious tone were the prime examples.
Alora saw through it and rolled her eyes. “I’m not your lady and certainly not interested. Stop trying to convince me you’re not the bad guy.” If not for Garrik’s encounter with him last evening, then maybe … maybe she would entertain his kind grin and bright eyes. Nevertheless, she needed nothing more than Garrik’s judgment to not trust the High Fae royal.
Ezander frowned and straightened his shoulders, shaking his head. “You don’t even know me.” The sky darkened a fraction, dulling the flaxen flecks in his russet eyes. But even the clouds gathering in the sky didn’t hide the still small gleam that settled when he offered, “Though … I’d like you to. If you would allow me the honor. Perhaps a tour of Karanagar—the High City?“
There was something honest there. Some openness and decency most royals didn’t possess. The way that arrogant smile fell into something sincere…
Perhaps if she hadn’t been sitting at her High Prince’s table the evening before, this type of attention would’ve flattered her. But there was only one male she considered indulging in such a way, and it wasn’t Ezander.
“You’re delusional if you believe I’ll say yes.” She raised a brow and crossed her arms.
“ Confident , I think you meant to say.”
Garrik . Alora was tempted to grin. Just like Garrik . “I think you should be more concerned with yourself.” Alora’s gaze cut skyward above the prince’s shoulder. In the distance, darkness gathered across the sky. Only it wasn’t a fury of storm clouds and thunder swiftly thickening over the peaks.
It swallowed the sky like ink in water. A slather of black that turned the morning to night.
One after one, High Guardsmen, as if in a trance, looked to the skies and squirmed. Unable to still their trembling when eyes of petrified wonder recognized what she knew was coming. Something terrible enough to frighten them—the elite of Kadamar—and what they could all feel coming.
Power—brutal, desolate, unending icy power—trickled over every inch of flesh.
The air. It was calm and still and quiet… For only a moment.
A sudden rush of darkness swelled in the sky, crashing like a wave against a rock.
And from within it …
Wings.
Great, terrible, incredible shadow wings.
Barely visible without the light, three males adorned in battle-black scales burst from the swell. Over the blackstone crests and intended directly for the arena and crowd.
It wasn’t her friends she’d laughed with at their firesite. Not the males who raced each other up a mountain. No hint of happiness or peace or comfort. But ruthless Celestials of Death. Rulers of every dark and depraved thing. Masters of bloodshed. Carried by powerful shadow wings with faces hewn from unyielding stone…
Thalon.
Aiden.
Sadistic weapons—ready to lay waste to the crowd trembling around her at the mere whim of the creature of nightmares they flanked.
Alora looked at Jade and Deimon when a pulse of energy seeped over her. Feeling him there.
Ezander cursed.
A veil of night slammed into the cliffside a moment after, rattling the stones beneath their feet.
Not one Dragon moved. Not even the princeling. Grunts of pain and shock rang out as Ladomyr’s High Guard stumbled backward and knocked into each other. If not for the blast, she was certain soldiers would have skirted in fear at the mere sight of them hovering.
Something entirely sinister clawed at her inner being. Finding amusement from their panic. Knowing that not one of them could leave. No hope of escaping the terror-storm dawning on the mountain.
Alora caught Ezander shifting beside her, slowly drawing his blade.
The Savage Prince’s rapturous stare narrowed on the movement, forging a wicked expression more dangerous than any death she could imagine. And she wondered if they would witness one today. This male beside her. Would Garrik reduce him to splinters of stone? Misted into air by nothing but a thought?
What did he do to deserve Garrik’s wrath? She shuddered at the thought.
Oblivion cut to her, and she held that predatorial gaze.
A thrill washed over her like when a knuckle brushed down her jaw. Her neck.
“You might want to move,” Ezander warned, but Alora would do no such thing. She was waiting right there for him. For Death to descend. For Garrik.
The entire mountain quaked as three incredible male bodies slammed into the arena. Every muscle rippled as they stiffened straight, power rolling off them in waves as they drew their blades.
Breaking the barrier of darkness, Garrik, covered in unholy night, emerged.
Curse the stars. Every one of them. Alora felt like she hovered on the edge of insanity.
Garrik …
He was no longer wearing his armor. A tunic was cut perfectly to his muscles, and the veins in his forearms bulged like paths down a mountain. There was something alluring—unsettling—about it. As if to prove that armor was more of a prop. That he needed nothing but a blink of his power to lay ruination.
He looked …
She had to focus on the smell of blood, the taste of sweat in the air, on the fear in the younger soldiers’ faces to distract herself.
Ezander did the next foolish thing she witnessed that day. He stepped forward, closer to her Savage Prince and his reapers, and dared to question, “You’re not going to order your female away before death beckons us?”
Female. Alora seethed. If not for Garrik’s words, she may have destroyed Ezander instead.
“She belongs to no one but herself.” Garrik’s canines flashed a bit as that beastly voice promised brutal death. “It is her decision as to when she moves or who she wishes to kill. Though, if you are asking for a suggestion, I gladly offer you for her sword.”
“And deny you a chance of vengeance?”
“ We do not need to speak .” Garrik’s voice was rough, bordering on something lethal.
Thalon, Aiden, and Alora exchanged wary glances. Jade and Deimon backed away as she tensed. Watching. Ready.
Ezander’s wrist rotated, twirling his sword by his side as he smirked at Alora, then smoothly said to Garrik, “I see, like old times, then?” And dug his feet into the ground.
Without warning, Garrik’s blade cut through the air.
The eldest male heir of Kadamar raised his and clashed irons in a shower of sparks. He leaned in close, meeting abyss for eyes before he snickered, “Exactly like old times, then.”