A howl ripped from one varhound’s throat in reply.
And as a sea of white fur rippled over the edge of the ridge, racing toward the valley, the cove, and the promise of war, Seraphina drove her heel into Mourn’s flank and peeled off through the forest, banking hard toward the exposed hill in the distance.
She had to be the bait. That was her role.
But still, a part of her soul cried out, urging her to throw caution to the wind and follow the hounds down into the valley, into the heat of battle.
To ride straight for the one heart in all the world that beat in time with hers.
The one heart that nothing—neither witch nor war—could possibly keep from her now.
Chapter sixty-seven
Aldric
He lay on a bed of verdant green, the blades of grass cool and soft against his neck, pillowing his head like the finest down. Somewhere near, water danced over stones—a burbling brook that sang a lullaby to his weary bones. The air smelled of wildflowers and rain.
For once, there was no scent of ash. Nor blood. For once, there were no ink-black sands nor cruel voice whispering in the dark. There was only her.
“My Crow,” his kirei whispered, her breath brushing against his ear, warmer than the sun above.
Aldric turned his head.
Sera lay beside him in the grass, the light catching the copper fire in her brown hair. She was not the broken thing from the black sands. Not the queen drowning beneath the weight of her kingdom.
Here, she was whole. Radiant. Smiling that soft smile that had stolen his heart months ago.
His pulse stuttered. He didn’t dare move—didn’t dare blink—afraid that if he did, the illusion would crumble and he’d lose her all over again.
“Am I dead?” he asked, lifting a hand to brush the velvet warmth of her cheek. She felt real beneath his knuckles. Warm. Alive.
Her palm came up to cradle his jaw, thumb tracing the scars beneath his beard. “Not yet, my love,” she whispered, gaze flicking to his mouth as she leaned in.Closer. Closer.
Until he could feel the ghost of her breath caressing his lips.
Until he ached to kiss his wife one last time—
Aldric’s eye snapped open.
Canvas. Damp. Filthy. The cloying stink of stale sweat, human waste, and the briny rot of the sea rushed in to replace wildflowers. For a breath, he lay frozen, the phantom warmth of her mouth still lingering—an ache sharper than any wound.
Finally, his mind had offered him a good dream. And it had been fartoo short-lived.
Aldric sat up with a groan, shoving heavy fur blankets aside. Even that small effort was nearly too much. His vision swam. Nausea clenched low in his gut.
He snarled.
His head was hollow. His limbs weak. The fever that had ravaged him had burned itself out only to leave him trembling like a newborn kitten rather than the Crow of Drakmor.
He glanced down. Brigandine gone. Boots gone. Weapons gone. Only his undershirt and trousers remained, bare toes curling in the cold, damp air.
Wonderful.
But at least he wasn’t bound.
A small improvement.
He swung his legs over the edge of the cot, teeth gritting as the world tilted hard to one side. He needed a weapon. Needed his armor. Needed a plan.
