No one dares speak the truth that gnaws beneath it all.
We do not know if she still lives.
To say it aloud would be to give despair wings and none of us are ready to watch hope fly away.
It is Orios who finally breaks the silence, his voice graveled and rough.
“What about the Tenders?” He clears his throat. “Can they aid us in An’kel?”
Daed shakes his head before I can answer. “I told Keeper Erania we would accept their aid, but these people have suffered enough. I won’t see them wiped from the earth.”
“They are not afraid to fight,” I say quietly.
Daed’s hand finds my shoulder, gentle but firm. “I know, wife. I meant no slight. The Tenders have warrior blood, as fierce as any Fae. But I would not curse them with what we are about to face. What waits in An’kel will haunt those who survive.” His jaw tightens, his voice falling low. “If any survive.”
Zyphoro’s voice cuts through the air. “What of the Legion dogs?” She jerks her chin toward the window, to the den where a few dozen prisoners are packed shoulder to shoulder.
“Yes,” Ronin growls. “Let them be fodder. Throw them in first.”
Daed shakes his head again. “Leave them where they are. I will take care of them.”
Zyphoro raises an eyebrow and stalks forward. She jabs a finger into Daed’s stomach.
He jerks back, scowling. “What was that for?”
“I was expecting to find your belly soft and pillowy,” she replies sweetly, “with all the sappy drivel you’ve been spewing lately.”
A ripple of restrained laughter circles the room. Even Ronin smirks.
“Because I won’t slaughter prisoners?” Daed asks, incredulous.
“Exactly,” Zyphoro snaps, arms crossed like a petulant child. “I was rather looking forward to it.”
“As was I,” Ronin mutters under his breath.
But the Fae hear him. Their ears are as sharp as their tempers.
“Leave our prince be,” Solena interjects, her voice silken but commanding enough to quiet the room. She looks up at Orios, her hand sliding into his massive one. “He’s given his orders. Now let us rest…” her eyes soften, “…and spend what precious time we have with those we love.”
Zyphoro rolls her eyes, throwing her hands up. “If I’m going to war with a god, I need to loosen my wrists first. I’ll be in the forest. Target practice.”
My brow furrows, and she sighs dramatically.
“Not on your precious creatures, Jewel. Only trees. I promise.”
“Trees have souls too, you know,” I remind her.
She groans. “I imagine the rocks do as well?”
“They do,” I say, fighting the smile tugging at my mouth.
Her glare sharpens. “Then I’ll throw my daggers at the air. Surely that’s not sacred?”
“Air should be fine,” I reply, deadpan.
Zyphoro mutters something about sanctimonious nature-priests under her breath, then strides to the window. With one boot on the sill, she flashes us a sharp grin.
“Try not to die before I get back,” she says just before she jumps.
