I would miss the griddle cakes.
I do not tell him that. I make a sweeping gesture, indicating he should make haste. “Go on, then. Arwen has nearly reached the front of the fleet. It’s going to take you an awfully long time to catch up by skiff, so—”
Suddenly, Soren moves. He does it so fast, my eyes do not register it happening. Yet there he is, standing a handspan infront of me. My words cut off at the look on his face as it comes close to mine. Closer than it has ever been before, closer than I ever thought it would be.
Before I can brace for it, his lips hit the side of my neck, just below the fragile hinge of my jaw, where my pulse is pounding twice its normal speed. My mind blanks, every coherent thought sweeping straight out of my skull in the single heartbeat his mouth lingers against my skin.
It ends almost before it’s begun. Pulling back from me, he turns on a heel, plants his palms flat atop the balustrade, and heaves himself up onto it. Frozen in place, I watch him straighten to full height. I cannot seem to speak a single word. My throat is effectively sealed shut, preventing all airflow.
Soren glances down at me. His mouth is set in that sardonic grin I have come to know quite well. But beneath the playful guise, his eyes are swimming with emotions I have never encountered in all our time together.
“In case I really do die,” he says in a whisper meant for my ears alone. “I had to do that. At least once.”
Turning, he swan dives off the top of the sea gate.
My heart drops straight to the harbor as he vanishes from view. My blood runs cold as ice.
Is he utterly insane?
To jump from such a height…
Flying to the balustrade, I peer over just in time to see Soren’s tall form disappear below the surface like a hot knife cutting through butter. There is hardly even a splash as he disappears into the blue depths.
I do not breathe for the endless seconds it takes for him to resurface. When he finally does, he is much farther out to sea than I expected—nearly halfway through the anchorage, hisswift strokes carrying him with blinding speed into open water. Around him, the swells surge, buoying him above the waves, rippling outward to rock the boats on their chains.
I let out a ragged breath, watching his form growing smaller and smaller as he heads toward danger. No hesitation, no fear. He and Arwen have that in common—two gallant hearts wrapped in sea urchin spines. I cannot decide which of the two is more reckless. Or more dauntless.
My fingers reach up to brush the hinge of my jaw, where I can still feel the shadow of a kiss. Below the skin, my pulse is a mad tattoo of anxiety and anticipation.
About the battle.
Nothing more.
I shove aside the storm of feelings swirling inside me as it begins in earnest. It is hardly a fair fight—one winged mount against sixty longships. I, along with every soldier on the ramparts, watch with my heart in my throat as Arwen engages them. Her bow twangs again and again, silver flashing in the sunlight, as she picks off Frostlanders. It is difficult to make out precise details at such a distance. Only the splashes of the corpses falling overboard indicate her arrows have found their marks as Atyr dips and banks in dizzying loops, pulling up to avoid the retaliatory spears that whiz toward the woman on his back.
Despite the casualties, the ships come ever closer.
Arwen is not battling alone for long. Panicked screams echo back to us across the water as rogue waves begin to swamp sections of the fleet. I’ve momentarily lost sight of Soren amid the rolling swells, but he is out there somewhere, using his maegic to sink ships and drown every Frostlander in his path. The bond between us is an open current of power, flowing straight to the center of my chest as he systematically sends his enemies to the bottom of the bay, one after another after another.
Still, it is not enough to stall them all.
The remaining ships advance. There are simply too many of them, even for Soren and Arwen attacking in tandem. The breath catches in my lungs as the first of their curved bows row into range of the Twins. Two streams of water are now all that separate them from the spoils of war. As though they can taste it, their oars increase speed.
Pull!
Pull!
Pull!
But the tower gunners are ready for them.
More screams ring out as wood splinters and hulls are pummeled under the roaring surge. There is no resistance, no fighting back. A single sweep of each cannon can obliterate an entire line of longships. The soldiers around me cheer with each direct hit, filling the air with the song of victory.
For a moment, I allow my heart to brim over with hope. The second line of longships slows, oars pulling back to avoid the fatal spray. The front line is no more than driftwood, much of the crew no longer breathing. A smattering of survivors swim for rescue and are promptly hauled aboard.
“They’ll turn tail now,” a soldier close by says under her breath, leaning against the parapet. “Thieving cowards.”
I hope she’s right. The anchorage is not yet fully evacuated. Panicked civilians are crammed into lifeboats, rowing frantically for the safety of the city walls.