She cut the Shee queen a sharp look—a warning to stay out of this—even as panic clawed its way up.
Fuck.
She still bore the scars from their last conversation, still recalled his callous words. His betrayal remained etched on her skin; a tattoo she’d wear for the rest of her days. She demanded the truth, and he’d given it to her.
And she’d been plotting his downfall ever since.
She drove her fingernails harder still into her palms and sought that calm, still place. She had to find that quiet loch before wielding fire, but if she was to face the Half-blood in private, she needed the same self-control.
And so, she slowed and deepened her breathing, letting her churning emotions settle before she finally answered, “Very well.”
“Speaking to me alone isn’t necessary.”
“Actually, it is.”
They stood together in the pinewood, around ten yards from where the others waited. The faint glow of torchlight filtered through the tight press of trees. However, Lara carried her own torch.
Glaring at him, she drove the torch into the soft damp ground before folding her arms across her chest. “Spit it out then.”
She’d agreed to this under sufferance; he should tread carefully.
Aye, he should—and yet a sudden recklessness burned in his veins. He hated her coldness, especially when he recalled the heat that burned just beneath the surface.
This wasn’t the woman he remembered.
You did this.
He took a step forward, and she retreated. “Keep your distance.”
Alar heeded her. He was on borrowed time here; he had to make the most of it. “Do you believe Mor’s tale?”
“Aye.”
“Why?”
“Cailean visited The Shattered Crown around five years ago … even then, he marked something strange about the place.”
Alar inclined his head. “And that’s all it took for you to agree to this?”
Heat flickered in her eyes, and upon her right hand theOrd-ree seal—the amber stone set upon an iron ring—flared gold. That ring. It was far more than royal jewelry, but something that had the ability to regulate a gap in the veil between the living and the dead. Powerful indeed. And dangerous.
“I didn’t want to believe Mor,” she replied, her tone brisk now. “But her story rings true.” Her hand lifted then, and she stared down at the gently glowing ring. “I guess I’ve always known … but never wanted to admit it.”
Alar considered this. He wanted to disagree, to call her a fool for being taken in, for forming an alliance with the Raven Queen. But something stopped him. He’d heard many stories about Mor, and none of them engendered trust. And yet, she’d never have approached Albia’s High Queen. Not unless she was worried. Desperate.
“It must hurt,” he said after a long pause. “Asking me for help.”
Her gaze hardened. “How I feel about this is none of your business.”
No, it wasn’t. He’d turned his back on her and her people. He had no right to answers. And yet, he couldn’t help but push. “And what if the rift can’t be shored up? What if what’s broken can never be mended?”
She stilled. He’d just reminded her of the things he’d said before they left Duncrag all those turns of the moon ago—of how there was no returning to how things were. Her father’s kingdom was fractured, and even Lara’s iron will, her fierce determination, couldn’t put it back together.
He’d just reminded himself too of how deep his betrayal of her had gone. There was no going back.
“Bastard.”
“Aye.”
