But in the wind, he could have almost sworn he heard that voice again. That voice that called himMonster. That claimed he belonged to it.
Clenching shut his eye, Aldric tightened his hold on his wife.
The war for Elmoria was only just beginning. The war for Drakmor had not even yet begun. But none of that mattered rightnow. Nothing else mattered. Not while she lay there with her head pillowed against his chest, warm and safe in his arms.
Thank you, Lord,he prayed, another shaky breath shuddering from his lungs. All these years, he thought his God had abandoned him. He thought the Lord on High had stopped listening to his prayers. Had simply refused to answer a single one.
But now, he realized, the Lord had heard. The Lord had answered.
He had answered with Seraphina. His wife—his clever, wonderful, maddening wife—was all he had ever prayed for and more. That truth settled in his bones, like the warmth of spring chasing away a long winter.
A tear escaped from the corner of his eye, slipping free before he could blink it back. He didn’t know what he had done to deserve this—to deserveher. She was sunlight. She was hope. She was the dawn.
And what was he? Merely a Crow. Filthy. Stained. A carrion bird and nothing more.
Yet she looked at him as if he were more. A man worth saving. A man worth love.
And for her, he would become thatmore.
To keep her safe from all the trials yet waiting, from all the darkness even now threatening to swallow them both whole, he would finally become the king he was born to be.
Because far beyond the canvas walls, he felt something stirring. A shadow waking. A threat unresolved. A danger yet to come.
Let it come.
He finally had something worth fighting for.
And the Lord help whatever dared rise against her.
Chapter seventy-two
Olivia
King Hamon XI.
Olivia rolled her eyes at the sheer pretentiousness of it all as she stalked down the palace corridor, weaving in between traitorous courtiers and fighting hard to keep the limp from her step. Pain thrummed down her left leg, all the way from her hip to her knee—a deep, grinding ache that pulsed in time with her heartbeat.
The urge to reach for her flask clawed at her. Her mind tried to trick her, to remind her of how easy it would be to take a sip. A familiar itch in her throat. A phantom burn on her tongue.
Sheignored it.
She needed her wits now more than ever. To stay sharp. To convince this den of traitors that she was one of them until she could find a way to burn the entire farce to the ground.
But for now, aimlessness guided her steps. She had no purpose in this court. No role. Her fingers itched for something to do, so she clasped her hands behind her back and turned the next corner, long legs carrying her toward the library once more.
A flash of crimson cut across her path, blocking the way forward.
Samira.
Olivia skid to a halt, her bad leg protesting the sudden stop with a spear of hot pain up her thigh. She swallowed the wince and forced her face not to flinch.
The witch didn’t just stand there; she occupied the space, sucking the very air out of the corridor. Samira probably thought she looked rather imposing and regal in her blood-red robes, golden chains flashing at her throat in the sunlight.
Really, she just looked like she was trying too hard.
Olivia tried to step around her, fighting to keep her face blank, but the other woman mirrored the movement, silk whispering against stone.
“Mistress Olivia,” Samira purred, a bright smile curving her lips. “Might we speak a moment?”
