And for some reason, the witches were looking for something beneath Mysai—something their false goddess wanted. Something important.
No, he was far from safe. Because he knew that whatever that something was, he was going to have to find it first. To use as a bargaining chip. Stealing Skatia’s witchblade had been a fool’s hope. Destroying it, even worse.
Butthis…whatever the witches wanted…ifhefound it first—
A grim smile cut across his face.
This is how he would secure his freedom.
This is how he would reclaim his soul.
Chapter twenty-six
Seraphina
Humming a jaunty tune to herself, Olivia plucked another scroll from the leather satchel thumping against her side with each long-legged step. Fumbling it open with her unbroken hand, she reported, “You’ve received well-wishes from some Drakmori lord. A Lord Flemoine, Count of…” She squinted. “Some place I can’t make out. But it’s just more of the same.”
Her friend fluttered the parchment in her face. “Promises to swear fealty when the Crow takes the throne, not before. Unless you can send aid to help him deal with thisBonesingerwarlord, and then he might reconsider.”
Seraphina pursed her lips and continued down the corridor, making for the balcony overlooking the yard where Aldric wastraining the new recruits. “Flemoine…where do we know that name?”
Alyx stirred where she lounged—coiled about her neck beneath the warm ruff of her fur cloak. The usuru purred, clearly content with her lot in life despite the dreadful cold slicing through every inch of the palace.
Seraphina lifted a hand and absentmindedly stroked the winged serpent’s scaled throat.
Olivia clucked her tongue against the back of her teeth. Laughing, she asked, “That’s Master Kyn’s kin, isn’t it?”
Seraphina huffed out a sigh. Yes, that was where she had heard the name before. Kynielle Flemoine, medic for the Twelve Sons. The only member whose father recognized him despite the fact that he was still illegitimate.
If not even Lord Flemoine was willing to back Aldric’s claim to the throne of Drakmor, who would?
Olivia’s expression soured when she didn’t share in the amusement over the wordplay. “Now don’t go being in a foul mood just because the Drakmori aren’t falling all over themselves to start a civil war. You can call that man the King of Drakmor all you like, but that doesn’t actuallymakehim the King of Drakmor.”
They came to a pause before the balcony doors, the windowpanes thick with frost. The moment a Queensguard stepped forward to open the doors, the air that whipped into the hall sought to pierce her straight to the bone.
With a hiss, Alyx burrowed deeper beneath her cloak.
Olivia groaned, “Can’t we just watch from the windows?”
Seraphina thinned her lips and forged out into the cold. “One,” she rattled off, “I am not in a foul mood. I am merely pensive. Two, Aldric Hargraveisthe King of Drakmor. Warwick Hargrave divorced his first wife on the grounds of sexual immorality, citing that Aldric was the product of an affair. But he’s not. Ergo, the divorce would be nullified were Rosa Hargrave still alive—”
Olivia snorted and muttered, “Ergo,” under her breath.
“—which makes Charlotte Hargrave a mistress and Edmund Hargrave a bastard,” she concluded, flicking her friend a sidelong glance. “You can dislike him all you like, but you can’t argue with my logic.”
“Youdisliked him just a week ago,” Olivia complained, “and now you’re just…”
Seraphina’s attention shifted across the yard to where her Crow stood watching his men spar with the youngest recruits. His glaive in hand. His expression stern. Though he wore his usual attire—black leather, as ever—the fading light of late afternoon glinted off the hammered gold crown now resting on his brow.
Simple, practical, with sharp points and an utter lack of adornment, it was the first crown she had found that she could convince him to wear. It made him look like a warrior king.
A man ready to reconquer Arlund.
“…completely ignoring me. You know, you remind me of someone.”
Seraphina blinked and dragged her attention back to her friend, her eyebrows knitting together. “Who?”
“You,” Olivia drawled. “When you were sixteen and mooning over Tiberius.”
