The crowd, filled with dozens of elven lords and few women, echoes the responses in unison:As it was in the first age, so shall it be now.
Where the hell is Mrath?
I can’t move until she arrives, and even then, I will need to find a way to get to that stupid throne. The attack will be an ample distraction, but bringing Arlet with me might complicate things.
Leaning slightly over the edge, I grab onto a marble railing to keep myself steady. I wonder what the women think. Most of them look on, without any hint of disgust, but my gut churns. It reminds me of a time before, when my people also treated women as something more akin to products than people. I mean, we didn’t hide our women. But there were rules—strict ones.
Our rebirth cured us of that. Hard not to see the value in women when there were so few of us left.
As I watch my mate getting married to another man, I back away, and my fingers curl around the hilt of my cleaver. Fucking fool I have been. If I had not been so stubborn, so resistant, so stuck in a life that hadn’t existed in a very long time, we wouldn’t be here right now.
“Come on, Mrath,” I growl.
A white-hot rage, coupled with all the feelings that pump through my veins thanks to the heart that once again inhabits my body, scalds my muscles and bones from the inside out. It cooks me alive.
Is she planning to wait until the ceremony is complete? Dread spreads through me at the thought
When the priest speaks again, his voice takes on the rhythm of prophecy.
“Through her, his blood may endure. Through him, she is granted purpose.”
My hand tightens around the railing until I hear the smallest cracking noise.
Fuckingpurpose. She had purpose—a whole damned life before she came here.
Arion extends his hand. “Kneel.”
She does.
His fingers move along the silver lace studded with green gems at her throat. Then the collar flares gold.
Her body arches as the spell strikes. She gasps and folds, catching herself on trembling palms. The crowd almost seems to sigh in relief, entertained and reassured. Arion merely watches, lips curved in satisfaction.
I feel the Fuegorra surge inside me, a hot pulse demanding violence. The stone glows under my shirt.
Mrath is a bitch.
And then, finally, smoke billows across the crowd. Gasps of surprise turn to screams. Angry shouts fill the darkness as I begin to distinguish between those who were here before and new arrivals. Confused, soldiers swarm to Arion. The priest flees, book in hand, from the scene.
Coward.
One of the pillars breaks, cracks, and falls down. Relieved to finally be set into action, I hold my cleaver between both hands and leap from my hiding place among the columns.
I adjust my grip, as if I am able to wring magic from this old weapon, one that has assisted me in cutting down enemies for decades. A great wind picks up behind me, blowing me forward.
One of the elven soldiers spots me instantly.
“Stop!” he shouts, throwing his hand out. Magic hits me like a wave. I blink, digging my feet into the ground as the glamour shatters. Light floods outward, blue and raw. Gasps echo through the audience as my true form burns through illusion—silver hair and blue skin.
I feel like I am washed clean and stripped bare. Both the Elf King and Arlet turn to look at me.
When Arlet sees me, her mouth falls open. Her eyebrows draw together, and her skin goes paler than normal. Like she’s seen a ghost.
I march toward her.
“Lord Vann,” Arion says, almost laughing. “So it was you who has been?—”
“I’m here for her.”