Thorne nodded. “We’ll have to take the river path and come up from behind. Less visible.”
The river path.
The last time I’d been on that path, it had been to attempt escape. Rydian had caught me. I’d been angry enough to blast him with my furyfire. He’d been immune to it then. But not to me. It had been the same night he’d come to my room through the secret passage. We’d shared a bed, and I’d officially lost my heart.
It had belonged to him ever since.
I forced the thought down before it could unravel me.
Focus. Survive. Stop Heliconia.
We crept closer through the underbrush, moving slowly so we wouldn’t crunch dry leaves. My furyfire thrummed beneath my skin, but I didn’t let even a spark escape.
Not here.
Not now.
The closer we moved, the more wrong the air felt. Heavy. Chilled. A kind of cold that didn’t come from any season.
Heliconia’s power was inside those walls.
For the first time since the valley, I felt something sharp and dangerous settle in my chest. Not fury. Not fear.
Resolve.
“I’m stopping that wedding,” I said.
Slade cracked a wicked grin. “Well, you have experience with that.”
“Let’s hope, this time,” Thorne said, “you don’t burn the whole palace down.”
My mark pulsed once—almost offended.
I squared my shoulders.
“Let’s go,” I said. “We don’t have time to lose.”
Because somewhere beyond those icy walls, a prince of Autumn was about to give away his throne. And somewhere beneath a river far behind me, the man I loved was fighting his way back to me.
I wouldn’t let either of them down.
Not tonight.
Not ever.
Chapter Forty-One
Aurelia
Even from a distance, I could tell the city wasn’t itself. The streets bustled—banners fluttering in the wind, vendors calling out prices, fae dressed in their finest silks, hurrying toward the palace gates. It looked festive. Joyous.
But the joy felt… empty.
Every banner waving the goldleaf stag had frost creeping along its edges. And in between the bustling fae, Obsidian soldiers patrolled with hollow gazes and blood-crusted blades.
Slade stared at the city and let out a low whistle. “Callan really knows how to throw a party.”
“It’s not a party,” Thorne muttered. “It’s a funeral dressed as one.”
