Chapter 35
S hadow clung to the mountain. A fog enveloped every face among the clang of metal and bursts of sparks. Heavy and cloying, refusing to mist away, making it impossible to see him and Ezander clearly. Acrid to the touch—exactly how his veins felt as he ruthlessly fought back the sharp needling through his veins. Fought back the darkness from thieving his eyes and controlling him.
It was not working.
Do not kill him. Do not kill him. Do not fucking kill him.
Chanting it made little difference. Garrik craved his death—fixated on the satisfaction of it. To rip Ezander apart limb by limb. Carve out his teeth and choke him with them. Strangulation by entrails before throwing him off the nearest turret.
That would have been easier than … this .
Garrik tried to feel nothing at all.
To morph outside his body and watch blow after blow, strike after strike. Ezander was nothing but a smear of shadow. A blur in his vision that expertly defended every swing and attack. Focused and confident, the princeling fought like a practiced dance. Smooth and precise, little room for error. Which was not a surprise. Thalon had trained them both as elder faelings. Their fighting styles complimented each other.
When they were not trying to kill each other.
Overnight, word had spread as swiftly as a plague that their princeling would spar with the gray-haired demon of Elysian. That was why so many were gathered. His Dragons too. Sitting high on the course platforms and bridges, feet dangling over. Others on the stones of the cliffside as far as they could climb without risk of a deadly plummet below.
Garrik was better suited pretending they were not there. Nothing more than irritating distractions hovering like gnats—and murmuring like them, too.
In a gracefully brutal spin, Ezander whirled around and brushed his blade inches from Garrik’s shoulder. A move most believed generated power within the rotation but only left vulnerability. It was something he taught his Dragons to avoid. Foolish parlor tricks used for entertainment, not defending a life.
“You think this is fucking younglings-play?” Garrik snarled and knocked Ezander’s blade sideways, but the prick held strong. “Leaving yourself exposed for theatrics?” Why the fuck was he schooling him right now? It almost felt like … like old times. A glimpse of who he once was. Back so long ago when they were friends. Before Ezander?—
The heir to Land and Growth produced a baiting grin.
If Garrik could see color, the princeling would be cast in crimson. Darkness had transformed his vision into a grayscale long before he descended from the sky. Garrik raged forward, parting clouds of shadows at his feet. Scolding himself for nearly forgetting what Ezander had done when iron swung for Ezander’s exposed chest.
Subtle movement stirred at the edge of the crowd—beside Alora and Aiden. And before his blade sunk into the flesh and bones protecting the traitor’s heart, Thalon twisted a ring on his finger.
Garrik’s sword met a wall of nothingness—of air as solid as the mountain—and bounced off.
No one would have noticed it; the scheme his brothers concocted as they had flown from the castle. Their only hope to keep Ezander alive against Garrik’s all-consuming desires. Against the magic she left inside him. The new silver ring on Thalon’s finger was not only equipped with Garrik’s powers of shielding but of illusions, too. To the spectators’ eyes, they would have seen Ezander block it.
But the confusion rushing off the princeling posed a threat to their efforts.
Ezander was not convinced. He skeptically stared at his sword and cut his suspicion to Garrik. Glaring, he stuttered, “What … you?“ That confused expression hardened. Ezander retreated a step and repositioned, sword extended. “You’re holding back,” he accused, now humored. “Because of me? I didn’t think you cared.”
With a rotation of his wrist, Garrik twirled his sword by his side and crossed a foot in front of the other, stalking in a semicircle. “I have killed princelings before.” Another step. “What makes you think your life is any different?” He did not allow Ezander a moment to consider anything more.
Ezander whipped his head up. Managing to swing into the edge of Garrik’s blade before it cleaved him in two.
Vibrations thrummed through Garrik’s arms. Daggers sliced into every inch of his veins from a massive clang of metal that should have reduced his old friend to pieces. Should have pooled blood at his boots and stained the air with a coppery taste, leaving the High Guard crowded around them without a leader and Kadamar without its eldest male heir.
“ Yield ,” Garrik snarled. If the fight continued much longer, serpent darkness would completely take hold. And he was already suffering the effects of warring her off this long. He was about to snap.
But the princeling pushed, “Wasn’t it you who once said, surrender to no one— not even you?”
“Wasn’t it your tongue that convinced our High King to see my mother killed?” Too close . He was close to snapping that tether on his faemanity.
Garrik risked a glance at Alora. A plea for help or simply for a reminder—he didn’t know.
If Ezander kept pushing?—
“ No .” It appeared Ezander had been punched in the gut. His baiting grin fell, and pleading clouded his russet eyes. “It wasn’t me—” Ezander bent his spine backward, nearly missing Garrik’s neck-splitting swing.
He should make him beg— make him beg for his unworthy life.
“And you expect me to believe that? After you hid in your golden kingdom all these years without one fucking word—not even a mention of grief?” Nearly six decades’ worth of pain and rage and vengeance darkened his eyes and cracked the iron hilt beneath his grip. “You loved her—the same as I. You were like her son !”
She was gone… His mother. Gone. Because of him— because of him.
Darkness flared in his sight and crowded the borders of his vision in tendrils and whorls of ink. His control … it was slipping. Seeing nothing but shadows, his veins burned so badly he was not entirely sure they were not split open and bleeding. Venom blackened every vein as he felt the bite of poison. Felt that vital piece of him beginning to shift. His mortality—his will—crumbling and splitting and fracturing.
A rapid succession of brutal, merciless attacks followed as Ezander stumbled and scrambled to keep his footing. Keep his head.
Do not kill him. Do not kill him. Do not ? —
Kill. Him.
The full force of Garrik’s powers slammed into Ezander, barreling him into the crowd at the cliff’s edge. Those with battle-black armor and wings retreated to the skies, but others adorned in the colors of autumn were not so lucky.
Garrik barely registered the white flames or the golden sunlight calling to him—to his mind. His shadows formed a higher barrier inside his head. He could not let them in now. Not when he had Ezander backed to the ledge. Not when he tasted his fear and reveled in it.
Ezander could hardly push himself from the ground. Blood seeped from his mouth, wiped away by the back of his hand. “I sent you letters!” he admitted through gnashed teeth. “You never responded to them.”
Garrik swung, clipping Ezander’s arm before he could roll away and jump to his feet.
“ Starsdamnit, there must’ve been thousands of them!”
Blood pounded in his head. Consuming every thought and feeding others. A pulse of energy rammed into him. Caging him where he stood.
Garrik whipped his gaze to Thalon, whose eyes had filled with holy fire as he twisted that starsdamned ring on his finger.
The fool .
Didn’t he know Garrik’s powers could not contain this? They were his to command.
Tightening his fist, Garrik willed the shield to surge off him and swung, slicing Ezander’s leg. Drawing blood.
But it was not enough. Not until he drew his last breath.
Ezander panted, wincing from the pain, and hissed, “Look into my memories. You need to see?—”
“ Enough !” Garrik thundered, rattling the mountain.
His throat—Garrik was staring at Ezander’s throat when the princeling lunged with a speed he had not yet shown but Garrik remembered was there. Almost like time had sped up. And before Garrik could counter him, the pommel of Ezander’s sword cracked into his jaw, sending him stumbling backward.
If his vision had not already darkened, he would have seen spots. Garrik wildly shook his head and blinked, pushing the pain away when the gleam of metal caught his attention. But his head tried to collect his balance before sharpened iron slashed across his tunic, a hair from mauled flesh.
Everything went silent.
Against the sweat dripping down his abdomen, a frigid chill breezed across his scars.
Color rushed from Ezander’s face as he barely breathed, “Garrik.” There was pain there. Something entirely devastating cloaked the flaxen flecks in his eyes as they observed every hideous raised ridge on display. That sword gripped so tightly in his hand lowered. The blade embedded itself into the stones beneath their feet. Ezander’s stare did not falter as a haunting question spilled from his mouth, “What …”
“Pick it up,” Garrik snarled. The sound a little more broken than he meant it to be.
“What … what happened to you?”
Garrik’s throat knotted. He suffered a breath, fighting off the memories. Off the poison stirring in his veins. Ignoring it all, ignoring Ezander, Garrik closed the distance between them and lifted his blade to the princeling’s throat. “ Pick. It. Up .”
Something cracked in him. Seeped out his soul like a bleeding wound.
Perhaps something in Ezander did, too. As if he held not an ounce of strength remaining, Ezander’s sword clattered to the stones. The sound echoed off the faces of the mountain. There was no denying it. That was genuine pain softening his face. “Gar?—”
“ You yield ,” Garrik decided with a deep-throated growl. His words clear and lifeless as he cursed, “I will hear no more of your words. If you ever darken my doorstep, if I ever see even a glimpse of your face, a mention of your name, I will drop your head on the ground.”
The slash of metal breezed along the princeling’s throat, enough to draw a thread-thin line of blood. Ezander’s chin dropped to his chest at the dismissal, yielding as the Savage Prince prowled away.
The same expression Alora had seen in the Dawnspace not so long ago plagued him now. In Garrik’s eyes … that bloodlust. That desire to obliterate anyone who stepped in his way. Though no one was foolish enough to do so.
Still, she walked to him, determined and unafraid.
Death—terrible, dark, consuming death—raged inside his eyes. Smokeshadows tendriled around him like guardians of the night.
Cold abyss mirrored her reflection the moment they met. Alora deepened a settling breath and stared into those soulless eyes. She extended her hand but hesitated, noticing every Dragon and High Guardsmen still surveyed the thing of nightmares she wanted nothing more than to embrace.
Alora ignored them and managed to warmly smile, whispering, “Tell me what you need.”
Garrik seemed to be teetering on the edge of something animalistic. That beast thrashed to be freed at any moment. His voice was sharp and unrecognizable when he answered, “Silence.” Before the last of the word escaped, Smokeshadows exploded, braiding around him in a murderous frenzy.
The last thing she saw before only a whisper of darkness remained … was those eyes … vacant of all light.
Of all life.
Freezing rain sank down her neck, deep inside her leathers.
Not long after Garrik’s darkness receded from the skies, a storm had unfolded. Thalon was lucky. He missed the storm, having gone after her High Prince moments after he dawned. She couldn’t say the same for Aiden. He leaned against stone, stark still, watching her while twisting a scaled ring on his finger and resembling a drowned rodent shivering under dripping wet hair.
The prince’s feet were near-silent as he approached her overlooking the valleys on the edge of that cliff. Only his warm presence beside her gave him away. Cool and damp, she didn’t turn, just remained silent, remembering Garrik’s eyes. Throwing her mind—herself—her warmth—along the swift breeze to the castle, hoping he could feel her like a hand extended and waiting. Offering her presence in the silence.
“I … I didn’t know.” Ezander was shaking his head when she turned to him. His eyes appeared haunted as he stared at the castle peeking through the mountain and evergreens. His throat worked. All the light she’d seen earlier had been entirely snuffed out in his eyes.
He opened his mouth, but instead of words, his lips trembled, too stunned to speak.
Alora knew the feeling.
She offered him a little smile but said nothing. Afraid if Garrik could hear her … that speaking would be too much for him.
Silence. He needed silence.
Ezander mindlessly smudged mud off his pommel, lingering for a moment. Nothing but the ring of metal and boots sliding on the slick beams of platforms and bridges behind them. Scanning the rain, he mentioned, “The darkness.” And paused. A muscle flexed in his cheek. “His eyes… His face… He didn’t have powers like that when I knew him.”
Alora furrowed her brows. Still, she said nothing.
When she first met Garrik, she had assumed he was born with Smokeshadows. Not until that first annulus when he described he didn’t know what they were or where they manifested from. Didn’t know they found him until she was pulled into his nightmares.
“Are you not speaking to me because you heard what was said between us?”
Alora considered a moment and drew her attention to Aiden, who still watched her. I’m fine , she mouthed with a smile. He didn’t smile back. Didn’t move at all.
The stones beneath their feet trembled as if thunder had cracked above them and echoed around the cliff, yet there was no noise. A quick scan of the training ground showed Jade scowling at the blood-eyed spymaster, Silas, beside her in strained conversation.
Countless Dragons had disappeared, but Draven and Deimon remained.
Alora heavily breathed in the earthy aroma of wet dirt and leaves and decided to answer, “No.” She didn’t feel pain or discomfort stirring along the silver tether. So she went on, “I don’t know you. I only know what my High Prince says. But I will listen as I do for others.”
“So you can orchestrate a report of me?”
“So you can get out whatever it is haunting you,” she confessed, meaning every word. Not all monsters were born cruel and depraved. Somehow, she felt that maybe Ezander wasn’t all they coined him to be. Like stories of her gray-haired demon, Elysian was vicious with rumors. But even so, she wouldn’t be recklessly credulous. Ezander still couldn’t be trusted, but she would allow him to speak.
Another tremble underneath their feet.
Ezander arched a brow. “That’s … unlike you.”
Alora scoffed and angled her head. Using his own words, “You don’t even know me.”
The sound of whirring and beating wings disturbed the cold air between them. Some of the Wingborne were sky bound to trade with those waiting in camp. Alora wiped raindrops from her cheek as another quake rattled the ground. This one much larger, a little more brutal than before.
Thunder. There should’ve been thunder.
“I’m not your enemy.” Instinctively, she dropped her hand to her hilt. Ezander noticed.
Rumbling—more rumbling. “You’re our High Prince’s enemy.”
Ezander’s jaw tightened. “So that automatically pits us against one another? Does he not allow you to have your own opinions? Your own decisions? Or are you a female controlled and bound, a mere puppet?—”
“You’re crossing a thin line, Ezander.” She was willing to stand there with him before, but now?—
A crack tore through the training course, across the arena, splitting the cliff between their feet.
Kadamar’s prince snapped his gaze to their boots, then to her. A silent question on his face. He’d stopped smiling. Stopped smiling because it felt like two mountains had crashed together.
Faeries screamed. Others cursed, lost their footing, and fell from the ropes and beams.
By the look on Ezander’s face—on every soldier’s face—this wasn’t normal.
Aiden was running toward her now. That look of terror and worry …
“This isn’t from the storm.” There was nothing but cold warning in Ezander’s eyes.
Something murmured across that silver tether, and she knew…
No. No, it wasn’t.