He doesn’t move, his focus still locked on the guards, his shadows trembling with barely restrained rage.
“Now, Jax!” My voice rises. “She needs to see a healernow.” I emphasize the word, and my pulse quickens.
Is she even breathing?
“I’ll go with you,” I say to them, holding my chin high.
They cannot hurt me.
They open their eyes, exchanging nervous glances, but their gaze doesn’t fall on me, and I’m grateful.
I take a step forward, but Ryjax’s arm lashes out, blocking my path. My fingers curl around his wrist.
“Take her to a healer, and then come for me.” I push his arm out of the way and move past him.
I don’t make it far before I feel fabric draped over my shoulders.
His shirt.
The scent of him surrounds me, warm and grounding, and I wrap it around my torso, leaving the buttons undone.
“She better not have a damn scratch on her by the time I join you in the throne room.” The threat lingers, and the guards nod stiffly.
The shadows recede, retreating into the walls like obedient hunters called back by their master.
Ryjax crouches beside Ishla, his bare back to us now. My breath catches as if it’s the first time I’m seeing it, the scars carved into his skin, a roadmap of so much pain.
My chest tightens, and the guards gasp as they too see the evidence of his suffering.
Ryjax’s cheeks hollow, and then he and Ishla are gone.
Chapter 27
Serafina
“Keep moving,” one of the guards mumbles from behind me, but he doesn’t touch me, none of them do, and I almost wish they would if only to see Ryjax bring them to their knees.
Or watch as I do.
It’s what they deserve for what they did to Ishla. My veins heat, but I hold the fire at bay, not wishing to expose myself in front of themagain.
Hugging Ryjax’s shirt tighter to my body, I place one foot after the other until we find ourselves in a grand room lined with guards that could be mistaken for statues. They don’t move,they don’t even seem to be breathing, but I know they’re not statues because their eyes follow my every move.
Each one wears protective mesh, the same kind I saw on the man Jax had been sparring with in the training room. It’s draped over their shoulders, but the royal red of their uniform still peeks through.
Paintings fill nearly every space along the walls. Paintings of kings and queens who have long since died, but the one of the Pyro King catches my eye.
It’s the largest one in the room, nearly double the size of the others, resting just opposite of where I stand. His dark hair descends to his shoulders, and a sly smile rests on his face.
I’ve never seen a drawing of the Pyro King before, but the flames engulfing every inch of space behind him are a dead giveaway.
Impure.
Impure.
Impure.
The words from his journal play on repeat in my mind, and I angle my head, as if I could understand them. If only I look closer, lookharder.
