I. Am. Flying.
How…extraordinary.
Not too cold?Isla asks me.
I’m too exhilarated to feel much of anything beyond the buzz of riding the wind and stars. Besides, my brother tossed me a fresh, fur-lined coat, so odds are my blood won’t congeal during my trip to Voshna.
If it does, I know a surefire way to warm you up,she says.
I smile.Could it involve riding you in skin?
What a deviant mind you possess, my king. I was thinking of dropping you off at the harbor and letting you run the rest of the way. The uphill climb to the Patchenkovs’ manor is a killer.Though she says this with great aplomb, her tone smacks of wickedness.
I much prefer my solution.
She laughs. I will never tire of hearing that sound.
As I run my fingers through her silken barbs, I gaze around me at my chattering family and cawing friends. I notice two more Crows have grown our little murder—Vance flying atop Imogen, and Elio atop Lachlano. Or at least, I assume that’s who the Serpent and the Faerie are riding. I’m loath to admit that I cannot really tell Crows apart in their beast form.
As the land ribbons beneath us, I’m overtaken by a sense of immense peace. One only disrupted by the presence of Ksenia and the absence of Salom. I glance from the prisoner, caged in Fionn’s talons, to the heavens. My throat burns like an inferno as I whisper an apology to the man I failed.
May the Gods have already shepherded his soul to the overworld and reunited him with my father, whom he served with unwavering loyalty.Be at peace, my friend.
I seal my lids against the sting of bereavement that will only worsen once I lower my friend…my general…my second father into the family crypt. How I dread having to fill his station, to sit through meetings without his insight, to walk through my castle halls and visit my people without his shadow at my side.
The gauzy clouds tear as the Crows rip through them with their bladed talons and sweep them away with their great wings. With each mile, the thundersnow rolls farther south, making the horizon flicker. May it abate by the time Isla’s family reaches our shores, so they aren’t welcomed with hail.
I turn my attention back to the ones around me, my ears clasping every snatch of laughter. Sofiya and Ilya haven’tstopped chatting since we took to the skies. The same way Mestyla and Izolda—who share space on Aodhan’s spine—talk, though their conversation is far less animated and joyous than my brother’s.
The only silent one—besides me—is the sister who watches the kingdom she tried to steal. I, too, watch this land draped in indigo, tracing its star-silvered edges and moon-bleached hollows.
My beautiful land.
Mine and Isla’s.
Once our dead are buried and peace is fully restored, marry me,I murmur into the bond.
Her head turns, her amethyst eyes holding the glow of a thousand constellations.I suppose I might as well now that we’re mates. It isn’t as though I can marry anyone else.
My lips curl.Do bench your enthusiasm, mate.
She laughs, but then she sobers.Izolda already started planning our nuptials, though I doubt she’ll have the heart for it in the coming weeks. What have you decided to do about Ksenia?
I haven’t decided.
I drift into my mind, only returning to the present moment when the dense forest thins, giving way to pinpricks of lights that resemble fallen stars. I stare my fill as we approach Dimitri’s cliffside property, which is so vast that all the Crows are able to land in perfect synchronicity.
“How’s your back?” I ask Isla once she’s shimmered to skin.
“I will require much manual stimulation—I mean,kneading, to feel restored.”
With a snort, I splay my palms on the base of her spine and pull her into me. “I will see to it once we’re alone.”
She rolls onto her toes and stamps a kiss on my curved mouth. I deepen it, only pulling away once gasped wails and clacking doors rend the night.
Sofiya’s parents stumble forward, arrowing straight for their daughter. They alternately cradle her face and kiss her cheeks as if to confirm she isn’t a wraith bidding her last farewell. The uprising has done a number on them, crosshatching their faces and hollowing their cheeks.
Even Milana seems to have aged a century as she clasps Ilya and Izolda in a bone-crushing hug and sobs against their shoulders. When she pulls away, she’s shaking. With fury. It ignites her reddened eyes like the rotund moon ignites the scarred property and scattering of combatants.
