That damned wildling.
He released the guard and left the arena without another word. Soldiers and beasts parted as he marched across the courtyard, his eyes aching as he squinted through the smoke.
He grabbed soldier after soldier, the same question growling through his teeth. ‘Where is my wrangler?’
No one had seen her, not since the fires started. Dread gathered in his chest,shoving him onwards, towards the forest. A tall man bounded into his path – and it took Alarik a moment to recognize his spymaster. He grabbed his shoulders, pulling him close. ‘Give me good news, Elias.’
‘We have a survivor.’ Elias flashed a wolfish smile. ‘The rest of the gliders are impaled on the trees in the forest, but Vine picked up one by the mountain face. He was trying to break into the old mining tunnels. Bumbling fool must have lost his way.’
Dread pounded in Alarik’s heart.
Regna knows about the beast.
Or at the very least, the queen of Vask suspected something was awake inside his mountains.
Something that could quite possibly burn him to ash in the blink of an eye.
Did she mean to free it? To use it against him?
‘Don’t worry, he’s still squirming,’ said Elias, misreading the horror on Alarik’s face. ‘I’ll make him sing.’
Alarik snapped back into himself.
Forget the beast. Find your wrangler.
He shoved his crown at his cousin. ‘Put this somewhere safe. Then find Vine and drag that glider down to the dungeons. You can begin the interrogation.’
‘Aren’t you coming?’ said Elias, clutching the gilded crown to his chest in confusion.
Alarik was already stalking past him. ‘Later.’
Once he reached the treeline, the commotion faded. The call of his soldiers and the whimpering howls of his beasts were swept away by the wind. The smoke was thinning, enough that Alarik could make out the skeleton trees at the back of the forest and the charred pens beyond.
He whipped his head around as he walked, taking in the destruction. Hatred burned deep in his bones, for Regna and her gliders and her cloying avarice. Their war would come, and she would suffer dearly. He would see to it himself, slowly and painstakingly, until his blade turned red with her blood.
But revenge would have to wait. His wrangler was missing, and every step into his blackened forest made his chest tighten. There was no sign of her in the trees or down by the burnt pens. Unless she had gotten trapped inside one, hemmed in by a ring of flames …
The thought made him break into a run. For too long, there was only the gasp of his own panicked breaths and the thunder of his heartbeat in his ears, but as the rest of the smoke cleared and the wind quietened, he became aware of another sound. Not a cry or a howl, but a lullaby.
It was faint and lilting, and as lovely as birdsong.
Alarik chased it, his heart climbing into his throat as it got closer, louder. He was halfway through the forest, following the melody like a stream of sunlight, when he spotted his wrangler. She was sitting inside Saga’s pen, with the snow leopard stretched lazily across her ankles and her two young cubs curled up in her lap. She was singing to them, and when Alarik realized the lullaby was hers – and that she wasalive– he nearly fell to his knees in relief.
He gripped the wooden slats as he stood by the pen, watching her. She was sitting in a pool of fractured moonlight, smiling as she sang. Her gown was ripped and covered in mud, and one of her silver slippers had come off. The snow leopard was chewing on it happily.
There were smudges of ash on the wrangler’s cheeks and her copper hair had fallen from its crown of braids.She was ruffled and snow-mussed and singing like a nightingale, more beautiful in this mucky pen than she had been in that ballroom when Alarik couldn’t take his eyes off her.
He wasn’t just relieved at the sight of her. He was mesmerized.
Saga chirruped, noticing him, and the wrangler looked up, gasping as she fell out of her song.
CHAPTER 22
Greta
Greta froze under the icy spotlight of the king’s gaze. How long had he been standing there, listening to her sing? And why did he look like he had been run through with a sword? The agony on his face was so startling that she dropped her gaze, silently fretting as she scanned him for injuries. There was no blood, only ash, marring his ivory frock coat. Two of the buttons had snapped off, and the collar was ripped. His pristine hair was unkempt, falling in messy strands across his forehead.
‘Don’t stop,’ he said, a rasp in his voice.
