“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.