“She can’t go to Lumaria,” Thorne said, glancing at Finn. “Not until she accepts that she can’t go back—if she took any information about it back to the Arcanum?—”
“What about Ithralis?” Finn suggested. “It’s abandoned, but secure. We can contact Eloria once we cross the Veil?—”
“Eloria?” Loren’s voice came out hoarse, the name hitting him like a lightning strike. “My sister, Eloria? She’s alive?”
Finn leaned back, a grin breaking across his face. “You mean yoursister the Queen Regent?” He laughed. “She’s alive, well, and more terrifying than ever.”
Loren’s heartbeat thundered in his ears, a little of the ice around his heart cracking. His sister was alive. She was out there—leading and fighting, holding their people together.
“When do we leave?”
Loren cradledAraya’s limp form as he stepped onto the rickety gangplank leading to the glorified fishing skiff Nyra had the audacity to call a boat. The wood groaned beneath his weight, threatening to pitch them both into the frigid black water below.
Loren carried her straight to the cabin. It was as cramped and unwelcoming as the rest of the boat—dank and musty, with the pervasive scent of salt and mildew clinging to the air. The thin wooden walls blocked the wind but did little to hold back the biting cold. The narrow cot bolted to the deck looked more like a slab of wood than a bed, but Loren laid Araya on it gently, making her as comfortable as he could.
“Someone she trusts should be here when she wakes,” Thorne said quietly from where he watched Loren tend to her.
Loren let out a bitter laugh. “Not me then.” He tucked her injured arm carefully against her chest, his fingers brushing hers as he pulled back, taking comfort in the faint pulse of life beneath her skin.
“Drugging her probably isn’t the way to her heart,” Thorne said wryly. “But you shouldn’t give up hope, Loren.”
Loren glanced at his oldest friend—the male who had been like a brother to him. Guilt and regret tangled in his chest, thorny vines coiling tight around his heart. “Do you think it was better or worse than tricking her into removing the iron collar around my neck and using her true name to compel her to come with me against her will?”
“So not you, then,” Thorne agreed after a beat of silence. “I can sit with her if you want. I’m a Healer now.”
“Like your mother,” Loren said, smiling at the thought of the bright human woman who had welcomed the fae crown prince’s friendship with her son. “She must be proud.”
Thorne’s expression tightened, his smile fading as he looked past Loren. “She’s dead,” he said flatly, like he’d had to say the words a thousand times before. “Killed for sympathizing with the fae monarchy.”
The words hit Loren like a blow, the air in the cabin suddenly too thick to breathe. “I’m sorry,” he managed to say, his voice rough. “Your father?”
“Died with yours, on the battlefield trying to avenge her,” Thorne said, clearing his throat. He looked away, not meeting Loren’s gaze, and when he spoke again his voice was stiff. “I have things handled here. Nyra will need an extra set of hands getting underway. You should help her.”
Loren nodded, recognizing the request for what it was. Thorne needed space—not just to tend to Araya, but to wrestle with his own ghosts. As soon as he stepped onto the deck, the wind hit him like a blade, slicing through the heavy cloak Serafina had given him. He made his way over to the helm, where Nyra adjusted the sails.
“How can I help?” he asked.
Nyra glanced over her shoulder at him, her sharp gaze flicking down to his hands before returning to her work. “Take that line,” she said, nodding toward a coil of rope near the rail. “Tie it off before we lose the mainsail.”
Loren caught the rope, his fingers numbing slightly from the cold as he worked to secure it. The tension between them hung heavy in the air, unspoken but undeniable. He could feel Nyra watching him out of the corner of her eye, but she said nothing until he finished.
“Good,” she muttered, testing the tension on the rope. Satisfied, she stepped back toward the helm, her hands resting lightly on the wheel. “We’ll be faster with the wind at our backs,” she added,mostly to herself. “We can skirt close to the shadows and find a gap?—”
Loren’s gaze drifted as Nyra spoke, her voice fading into the background. His sharp eyes caught a flicker of movement against the darkness of the shoreline—a flash of light. “Nyra,” he said, cutting her off.
“Dammit—” Nyra’s head whipped around, her sharp gaze locking onto what could only be a patrol boat. “Cut those ropes and find something to hold onto.”
She tossed him a knife, not waiting to see if he was following her instructions as she dashed for the helm, throwing her arms wide. Her power lit the air, every hair on Loren’s arms standing on end as the wind rose to a shriek. He sliced the first two ropes, lunging for the third as the patrol boat changed course, drawn by the sheer power Nyra was calling to heel.
He’d only cut halfway through the last rope when she released it.
The wind sliced across the deck, filling the sails with a deafeningcrack. Loren grabbed for the rail, almost plummeting into the icy water as the last rope tore free on its own. It whipped past his face, left behind as the skiff lunged across the waves like an arrow, leaving nothing but churned water in its wake.
“They’re following us?—”
“Of course they are,” Nyra snapped, her eyes never straying from the darkness ahead of them. “Hold on to something—this is going to get rough.”
Instead of hugging the safety of the shoreline, the skiff barreled straight toward the looming wall of shadows. At the last moment, Nyra turned the wheel, bringing them parallel to the writhing mass—so close Loren could have reached out and brushed his fingers through the inky blackness.
