He mutters, “This route is difficult on wyverns. I’ve made it a few times, but just watch your head, keep low, and let your mount lead.”
“Sure.”
He reaches down to adjust my buckle, tightening it one-handed with easy dominance. His hand lingers on my waist, gaze dragging down my body, and I swear I can feel its damn path, arousing every inch of me. My lips part and his own turn into a vulpine grin. Prick.
He snaps his reins and his wyvern dives off the outcropping of rock, gliding above the elven cityscape below after the emissaries. I hunch low, following his lead as my wyvern flies through a hole in a low-hanging stalactite, small enough that there’s barely room for us to slip through. We bank hard to the right, soaring nearly vertically, but my elbows and knees still graze the rocks.
We pass through a few more tunnels chiseled through the crags. My head spins as we squeeze between other spires at dizzying speed, bruises forming. The light from overhead cuts in and out, as if I’m riding on horseback through the forest.
I gasp as we come into a cavern large enough to fit most of Westfall.
The full sun shines down on the elven capital below through a circular opening above, the largest castle I’ve ever seen occupyingthe center like a sundial. There are figures, likely elven kings and queens of old, chiseled along the sides of this enormous space, stretching hundreds of feet skyward.
There’s no time to appreciate it as we dive down. We land on the top of a large turret, my legs shaking from the strain of gripping the wyvern.
But it was so exhilarating.
Draven dismounts smoothly and I fumble at my belt. Before I know it, his hands are on my waist and he helps me slide off Spirit’s back. I pat her head, running my hand over the soft scales, and the wyvern leans into it, her golden eyes sparkling, a strange purring rumbling through her. Draven’s hands haven’t moved, and his lips twitch upward.
“See, not so bad.”
“She will do until I have wings of my own. Unless your offer still stands?” I smile up at him, and his brows draw together in confusion. I fill in, “You know, to ride you instead?”
Draven chuckles deep, his tongue tracing a sharp canine.
“Why don’t you compare the two before you decide.” His hissed words raise the goose bumps across my body and I bite back a grin.
“Okay, you two, save the mate stuff for later,” Fable chides us. She puts a hand against her stomach and bemoans, “I don’t even know how you can be thinking about anything beyond throwing up after that ride.”
Scorpius rolls his eyes. “It wasn’t that bad, you’ve always been such a baby—”
“I am not, you little—”
“Quiet or Draven will think we’ve never been anywhere before.” Malik shushes the blonds, smoothly helping Zara down as if that ride didn’t bother him in the least.
“I thought it was a blast,” Zara says dryly, her hair pulled out of its long braid. She gives me a slight smile, probably rarer than direct sunlight in this place, and I feel a bit of tension ease with it.
We leave our mounts on the tower, and the emissaries take us through several corridors and courtyards until eventually we reach a grand throne room.
“Here is where we will leave you, Prince Draven,” the emissary says. “The elven king awaits.” He gives a stiff bow and beckons the others after him.
We turn to the chamber and follow Draven inside.
Atop a dais at the back of the hall sit four tall thrones, crafted from white oak. Vines and flowers wrap around them, spreading up the wall so thickly that I cannot tell where they end. Our footfalls echo across the chamber, our eyes sweeping across the walls as we slowly approach. Soto’s hand stays on the sword at his hip, his men equally tense. A few uniformed elven advisors linger about the room and elven guards line the hall like statues. Their king is the only royal member in attendance, watching our arrival with unblinking eyes as he stands with preternatural grace on the dais.
The elven king is so beautiful he’s almost hard to look at for too long. The symmetry of his face is nearly unnatural, and the sweep of his flawless hair is oddly mesmerizing. He watches us with bored, pale green eyes, all the more piercing against his deep brown hair, and his attention stays on me a moment longer than the others before he addresses Draven.
My heart raggedly paces, and I feel a surge ofwant, of adoration. Draven’s eyes cut to mine quickly, and I realize … this must be the power of compulsion and manipulation he warned me about. I cannot necessarily trust anything I feel in the elves’ presence.
“Prince Draven, welcome to the great halls of Alfheim. You are our treasured guests. Is there anything we can do to bring you more comfort during your stay?”
“I am honored to be here, King Eldarion. My only request is the recovery of zenith crystals, at your leisure,” says Draven. His cold formality is so at odds with the version I’m privy to.
“I must confess we’ve heard rumors even down in our hallowed kingdom of war brewing between the seraphs and druids.” King Eldarion’s light eyes settle on me once again. “King Altair has said there’s a dangerous changeling in your midst, one whose future has foretold our downfall, and yet you keep this Forsaken One as apet? He also claims you’ve broken your word, and you’re no longer betrothed to his daughter. Is this correct?”
Forsaken One? Seems a bit exaggerated.
Draven’s body is occultly still. Then he turns to me, his eyes burning like fire opals, holding a hand out for me to join him at the forefront of our group. I link mine to his and stand at his side, curtsying swiftly for the king, my back ramrod straight. Draven’s voice is tight as he says, “It’s true I’ve broken the engagement set by my father for someone far superior. But it was nevermyword I was breaking.”
