A minor weight releases from my chest, as if I’ve had a belt cinched around my ribs, and a grin curls my expression before I can stop it.
She points to my lips, her amusement growing like a shadow spreading across the earth. “Ahhhh, so she can smile.”
My gut churns as if I’ve been caught doing something cruel, and it drops from my face. When was the last time I allowed for that? Something as small as a smile shared with a friend. Kiana. But she was more than just that. My gaze for some reason snaps to Draven across the room, currently using his forearm to choke a third-year student into submission. His eyes flash to mine, both of us appraising the other—
“Attention! Seraphs on the premises.” Commander Soto walks into the room, and a moment later, seraph guards stalk in. I remember the seraphs from my father’s Selection, their unmatched beauty, purple robes, silver armor, and most of all, their wings, ranging from snowy whites to tawny tans to rich earth browns. Some guards even boast colors that remind me of the tropical birds from the Isle of Riches, with vibrant blues and greens. All of their wings are feathered, unlike the druids’, where such wings are a rarity.
One, with wings like winter, pure as snow but lined with gold, wears a crown woven in her platinum locks. This seraph princess marches straight for Draven. Her expression is cold, her large and achingly blue eyes holding only scorn as she sweeps the room. But when she reaches Draven, they shimmer with emotion.
The grit of his teeth and the haste in which he pulls on his shirt tells me he’s not happy to see her. Is a seraph visit a regular occurrence? From the held breaths around the room and the tension stiffening my instructors’ spines, I’m guessing not.
But soon I cannot focus on the princess and her crown of starlight, nor Draven and the taut lines of his shoulders, because trailing behind her is someone I never thought I’d see again.
My father.
My mother and I were always closely knit, like patches of a quilt—sometimes clashing but sharing the weight of the same hardships. But my father and I were cut from the same cloth. I’d never felt more understood than when sitting beside him in silence, or when feeling the warmth of his hand on my shoulder. He was the one who taught me to hold my head high, to treat any obstacle as if it were no more than an anthill, even if it was a mountain.
Before I know it, I’m running to him.
“Rune?” Ember calls, but I ignore her, parting through the sea of onlookers. Their suspicion keeps them rooted in place, and I move around them like a river over rocks. I can’t take in whatever sniping words Draven has for the seraph princess, nor the stony propriety of her too-perfect posture. When I reach the front of the crowd I stop, boots squeaking on the tiles.
My father doesn’t look a day older than when he left, but there are other changes that nearly make him unrecognizable. Mainly the wings across his back, both large and downy and perfectly golden. His skin is the same oak, darker than my bronze, while his eyes are radiant gold like mine, more so now that he’s been transformed. His hair is shorn and black, his beard well-groomed, cleaner than any day I spent at his side.
“Dad?” I can barely breathe the words, and his attention snaps to me, eyes blinking in confusion, then panic, aghast as he looks me over. There’s a slight upturn in his ears, a smoothness to his features where they were once rough-hewn. But he’s not chained or shackled, and I can’t stop staring at the wings. Accusations rise in the back of my throat. His hands tremble, and my eyes water at the sight of him. What has stopped him from returning to us?
He was likely sworn to fealty. Same as me.
I bury the pain of why and rush into his arms. He holds me tightly and all at once I’m small again. The years of suffering, of breaking myself over and over to survive this world shed from me like a snake from its skin. His arms are a shield that both protects and disarms, scented with his familiar aroma of vanilla mixed with petrichor, as if he flew through the rain to get here.
“Captain Riordan? Who is this?”
The imposing tone of the seraph princess has me straightening, and I take a step back from my father, suddenly remembering myself. Draven watches my every movement closely, his cunning eyes tracing the echoes of my father’s features in my own. But the princess wears a frown, brows drawn together.
“My apologies, Princess Reva. This is my daughter, Rune.” He introduces me with all the pride in the world, his voice quavering with emotion, chin up as he looks to her.
A captain? The other guards watch him warily, but they don’t bark orders at him.
My father clears his throat. “I know you are here to discuss your betrothal”—Draven and I lock eyes and I’ve never seen him so cagey, hands flexing at his sides, leg bouncing. I look at Reva. She’s beautiful, yet the ice in those eyes looks unlikely to thaw—“but would you allow me a moment with my daughter? I haven’t seen her since she was thirteen.”
Reva looks me up and down, scrutinizing every sweaty inch of me.
“I need you at my side. But she can stay.” Reva turns to Draven, his eyes darker than the bottom of the sea on a moonless night. “I’m growing tired of these games. Your schooling hardly matters when you are to be ruling at myside.Your delays grow boring.”
“This forced betrothal more so.” Draven pulls out a small tin, taking out wrapped paper that he puts between his lips and lights, a flame flashing in his palm. It doesn’t smell like tobacco; it’s sweet, intoxicating. I wonder what it tastes like as he breathes in deeply, smoke pluming like some great dragon. “I am not content to sit docile at anyone’s side, nor to leave my great country for one as morally constrictive as your own.”
The other changelings and druids watch on, rapt, pulled into the drama of it. Instructors shoo their attentions away, ordering more drills, but I catch many watching over their shoulders. Draven’s guards form a wall of bodies around us, separating us from others’ curious stares.
“It doesn’t matter what you desire. Our fathers set this into play years ago, or have you forgotten your oaths?” Reva’s brow rises severely, her lips full but pursed tighter than a coin bag. There is no humor on her face, just cold, rule-abiding pitilessness.
“Those are our fathers’ oaths. We’ve made none to each other.” Draven lets that smoke spool, coiling up the sides of that coy mouth of his. I’ve never liked smoking, and certainly never found it sexy before, not to mention how very rude it is to do indoors, in a sparring gym no less. So why can’t I stop staring at his mouth? His gaze shifts my way, delight forming there, and I clear out my thoughts, like beating dirt from an old rug. He seems loath to shift his attention but finally he looks dismissively to Reva. “At the very least would you consider ruling from here?”
“My father desires your people’s loyalty, not these lands. So, unless you have something better to offer, I will tell my father to set the dates.” Reva turns on her heel, flipping her long hair over a shoulder. Draven glares daggers at the back of her head, fangs peeking the next time he puffs more of thatheady smoke. I turn to my father, clutching his hand tighter in mine, my eyes threatening to water. No—he can’t leave. My heart pounds offbeat, drowning out everything else. I just got him back, we’ve barely spoken, and it’s all happening too fast. My father hesitates, looking between Reva and Draven before blurting after her.
“Your Majesty. Please. Your father reassured me that if my daughter should ever be Selected that he would pay for her transfer into Nevaeh. Allow me to take her with us.”
He grips my hand, his own warm in mine, and my hope flares bright. Every moment of pain and uncertainty from the last seven years might be worth it if I can just leave with my dad right here and now.
Reva looks me over, gaze narrowing slightly. Finally, she nods, a softness there I haven’t seen, like she would do this for him, and only him. She turns to Draven, waving her hand dismissively in my direction.
