“I can hardly contain my excitement.”
The flight passed quicker than I’d expected, filled with easy conversation. Every time Lincatheron started to go quiet for more than a few minutes, I’d poke at him with another question or observation. Partly because I wanted to make sure he stayedconscious, but mostly because I genuinely enjoyed talking to him.
Without the weight of command or the formality of court between us, he was surprisingly good company. Quick-witted, sarcastic when he forgot to be diplomatic, and possessed of a dry sense of humour that matched my own. We argued about everything from military tactics to the stupidity of formal dining customs, his responses growing more animated as the miles passed beneath us.
“And that’s why,” he was saying, gesturing with his good arm. “Formal state dinners are just elaborate torture devices designed to?—”
He cut off abruptly as the castle came into view ahead of us, its familiar towers rising from the mountainside like something out of legend. But it wasn’t the sight of home that made him curse under his breath.
It was the courtyard.
Even from this distance, I could see figures moving with urgent purpose below. Servants scurried between the buildings, guards forming up in hasty formations, healers rushing toward what was clearly a hastily assembled triage area. Someone had arrived before us, and clearly word had spread through the castle.
“Fuck,” Lincatheron muttered, his shoulders sagging with resignation. “This is going to be a complete shitshow.”
I followed his gaze down to the organised chaos below, watching as more people poured into the courtyard. Among them, I spotted a familiar figure—Fenric, striding across the stones. As we descended, I could see the way he held himself, the deliberate distance he maintained from the other courtiers gathering to witness our arrival.
He looked like a man caught between overwhelming relief and the desperate need to appear professionally concerned rather than personally devastated.
“He can’t exactly run over and kiss you better in front of the entire court,” I observed quietly.
Lincatheron’s jaw tightened, a muscle jumping beneath the skin. “No. He can’t.” The words came out flat, laced with a frustration that had nothing to do with his wounds. “He’ll have to stand there and watch the healers work and pretend his heart isn’t trying to beat out of his chest.”
Fenric paced the edge of the courtyard. “That must be hell,” I said softly. “For both of you.”
“We’ll manage,” Lincatheron admitted, his voice rough around the edges. “It’s the only way we can—” He stopped himself, shaking his head. “This is going to be torture. Watching him pretend he doesn’t care while I pretend I don’t notice how badly he wants to touch me to make sure I’m really alive.”
The frustration bleeding through Lincatheron’s words made something twist in my chest. I wished there was anything I could do, some way to shield him from the performance he’d have to put on, some magic that would let Fenric be what he needed to be instead of what duty demanded.
But there wasn’t. All I could do was sit behind him and watch the rigid line of his shoulders as he prepared to play his part.
Kaelen hit the ground with enough force to rattle my teeth, his claws carving furrows in the stone as he skidded to a halt. The impact sent a jolt through Lincatheron that made his good hand go white-knuckled on the saddle grip.
I swung down from the saddle first, landing hard enough that my knees protested. Behind me, Linc started to dismount, and I grabbed his good arm before he could topple face-first into the courtyard stones.
“Easy,” I muttered, steadying him. “You’ve already bled all over Kaelen. Let’s not add concussion to the list.”
He grunted what might have been agreement or might have been an insult, hard to tell with the way his face had gone grey beneath all that blood.
The healers converged on us before we’d even fully stopped moving. A swarm of purposeful figures in white robes, their hands already glowing with the golden light of healing magic. Behind them, came Fenric.
For a heartbeat, he looked every inch the powerful third-in-command—composed, focused, present only to gather information about what had happened.
But his gaze devoured Lincatheron’s form, cataloguing every visible wound, every drop of blood on his leathers. Then it landed on the deep slice that carved through his cheekbone, bleeding crimson that dripped down his jaw and soaked into his collar.
Fenric’s breathing went shallow. Fast. A pattern of rapid inhale-exhale that preceded either panic or murder.
Still, he didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just stood there with every muscle locked rigid.
The healer’s glowing hands went straight for the makeshift bandage I’d wrapped around his shoulder, peeling away blood-soaked fabric. The moment the wound was exposed, Fenric made a sound.
Not a word. Not even really a sound a person should be capable of making. Something between a snarl and a broken sob, raw and animal and absolutelywrecked.
“What the fuck.” The words tore out of him like shrapnel. His composure fuckingshattered, exploding into a thousand jagged pieces that left nothing but rage and terror in their wake.
He was moving before anyone could stop him, closing the distance between them with the sort of speed that spoke ofcenturies of training and absolutely none of the control that should come with it.
“Who.” His voice dropped to something lethal, something that made the air itself feel dangerous. “Who thefuckdid this to you?”
