Sir Arkwright paused. “Wait here,” he whispered as stone groaned and shifted. A shaft of light spilled into the darkness. Without another word, her captain and five Queensguard slipped through the opening, leaving her there with the rest of her guard and Lord Tiberius.
She squinted against the brightness and craned her head, trying to catch a glimpse of the forest beyond. Was it clear? Were they free?
With an impatient hiss, Tiberius tightened his hold on her and shouldered the door open further. “We are wasting time—”
“Tiberius,” she gasped, fighting against his grip as he dragged her out into the sunshine blanketing the edges of the King’s Forest, where the wood met the palace grounds. “What are you doing?”
Dry grass crunched underfoot. A cold wind whistled past,cruelly reminding her that she had forgotten to don her gloves again.
The rest of her guards poured out after her, staying close.
“Saving your life,” Tiberius hissed out of the corner of his mouth, shifting his hold on her from her wrist to her hand. Her numb fingers twitched within the clasp of his. Silent now, refusing to glance her way, her once dear friend bodily dragged her, chasing after Sir Arkwright.
Just up ahead, her captain and his men were halfway to the ruins of the hunting lodge looming nearby—like jagged teeth jutting upward from the ground—before a horse’s distant whinny pierced the air. Before the thunder of hooves unfurled beneath the whistle of the wind.
She shivered. Why did the horses sound so far away? It was almost as if…as if they were running away instead of being tied within the ruins.
A wordless shout rang out from Sir Arkwright as one of the horses rounded the corner of the lodge, the whites of its eyes showing. What remained of its reins dangled uselessly beneath its bridle, cut.
Tiberius cursed and sheathed his rapier before he lunged for the beast, dragging her with him. She staggered, nearly losing her footing, as he snatched the horse’s reins with his free hand and urged it to a halt.
That was when the shadows moved.
Figures stepped out from behind the broken stone of the lodge, drawn steel glinting in the light. Fighting men wearing all manner of colors: her own blue and gold, Coreto’s black and green, men dressed like Aldric’s Sons with no color at all.
But worst of all were the men wearing red, for those men were not even Elmorian.
They were from Arath.
“Arkwright!” she cried. He was too close. He needed to get out of there.
All around her, her guards still loyal to her shifted into motion, shields and swords at the ready. But her captain did not even have time to retreat before one of the Arathians lunged for him, the halberd in his hands flashing almost too swiftly for her to track.
“No!” That scream exploded from her lips and shattered on the frozen air as the Arathian drove the halberd between the plates of Sir Arkwright’s armor. As the knight’s sword slipped from his fingers. As his knees buckled.
As he collapsed to the earth.
A blur of blue and gold rushed forward—the rest of her guards. Shields raised, they formed a wall between her and her enemies.
Her own breath shuddered in her ears, too loud. Vaguely, she was aware of Lord Tiberius releasing her hand. Of movement on her right side as he swung himself into the saddle of the recovered horse.
A piercing shriek filled the air, making her ears ring. Flinging her wings wide, Alyx shot forward, barreling toward one of Coreto’s men—an archer with his bow raised, arrow already drawn.
Aimed directly at her through a gap in the shield wall.
Run. That thought screamed through her mind, willing her to move. But her muscles locked. She couldn’t run. She couldn’t do anything.
An arm wrapped around her chest, yanking her out of the way just as the arrow hissed through the air. But not quickly enough.
Heat lanced across her left cheek. Warmth trickled down her jaw.Pain. Real. Immediate. The man had shot her.
“Hold your fire!” Tiberius roared over the clash of steel as her guards rushed forward to engage the enemy. Hauling her atop the horse, as if she weighed nothing at all, he settled her in front of him.
“Change of plans,” an enemy soldier called back. “His Majesty no longer wants her alive.”
Her stomach plummeted. The baron was speaking to her enemies. And they were listening. “Tiberius—”
Her once dear friend’s arm locked around her waist like a band of iron, squeezing tight, slamming her back against his chest. His body sat rigid, as if carved from stone. “Trust me,” he whispered, low enough that only she could hear.
