Come on, Amryn . . .
He’d removed his gloves, though he still wore his uniform. He flexed his grip on the dagger in his hand, keeping his muscles as loose as he could without moving more than absolutely necessary. The space between display cases was too narrow foran effective sword fight, but his longsword was secured at his side, ready to draw if needed. Soldiers with crossbows would hopefully be enough to persuade the rebels to give up without a fight.
Soft light glowed in the doorway on the far side of the room. The men around him went utterly still, perfectly trained and utterly prepared. As the light grew brighter, Carver winced. But he refused to close his eyes completely. The sooner his eyes readjusted to the light, the better.
Quiet voices drifted toward them, echoing faintly against the stone walls of the chamber just beyond this one. Carver recognized Ivan’s. “. . . understand my concern.”
“Of course. But orders are orders.” The rolling accent—so similar to Amryn’s own—made Carver assume the speaker was Bram.
“I am no longer needed here,” Ivan said. “Samuel can guide you the rest of the way. Let me go to—”
“No,” Bram said. “We finish this. Then I’ll happily go with you.”
The light increased to a painful level as the rebels entered the room holding the Hafsin collection. Eyes watering, Carver blinked rapidly. He didn’t understand the context of the conversation, but his hold on his knife clenched. He glanced at Ford.
His friend was crouched at his side and also squinting against the light. But when he met Carver’s stare, his furrowed brow made it clear he wasn’t liking the undertones of the conversation, either.
“How much farther?” Bram asked, impatience riding his tone.
“It’s just on the far side of the room,” Samuel assured the rebel.
Say something, Amryn. Let me know you’re all right.
Carver didn’t get his wish. Silence fell among the rebels. Their footsteps echoed through the vast chamber, growing louder as they drew nearer. Carver looked to Keats. The older general was positioned a fair distance from Carver, but they were still able to lock gazes. As the rebels approached, Keats raised one hand, making a fist.
Adrenaline coursed through Carver’s veins as he copied the sign, showing it to the soldiers hiding among the displays on his other side. The faces he saw were filled with resolve as they gripped their weapons and prepared for the order to move.
Carver looked back at Keats so he wouldn’t miss the final signal, but his focus was on the men he couldn’t see—and the woman who owned his heart.
Light drenched the space now. The footsteps finally stopped.
“The Dagger of Hafsin,” Bram breathed out. “It’s ours.”
Keats dropped his fist. Carver echoed the signal, and then he rose with Ford and the other men, weapons in hand. It was pure military precision as soldiers moved fluidly from their hiding places and formed a tight ring around the rebels. Loaded crossbows were leveled at their targets and drawn knives shined in the glowing lantern light. The rebels reeled back in surprise, but there was nowhere for them to run.
Carver’s eyes raked over the group. Five rebels, a grim-looking prince, and one icy-gazed Wolf. Carver’s heart stopped. Amryn wasn’t among them.
Keats stepped forward, his authoritative voice booming. “In the name of the emperor, you’re all under arrest for treason. Resist, and you will be killed.”
The rebels were frozen, their shock and panic clear. They all wore the uniform of the palace guard, but none had drawn weapons. Their eyes darted to their leader—a man Carver knew instinctively was Bram.
Carver barely spared him a glance. His eyes slashed to Ivan and Samuel, who had taken a step away from the rebels. “Where is she?” he demanded.
A muscle in Ivan’s jaw ticked. “There was a secondary mission. Amryn was sent to help free King Jamir.”
Shock slammed into him. “She’s at the prison?”Freeing Jamir?
“Yes.” Tension rode Samuel’s voice. “We tried not to let her go alone with them, but—”
“Traitors,” Bram hissed, glaring at Ivan and Samuel.
“I was never one of you,” Ivan said flatly. “Therefore, I cannot be a traitor to your cause.”
“Put down your weapons,” General Keats ordered.
The rebels hesitated. Bram was seething, his hands curled uselessly at his sides.
“Now!” Keats barked.
