His brow furrowed then smoothed as he watched me. “And then we prevent an assassination. We attempt to bring humanity and care back into a blackened throne.”
Harkin drew back slightly, frowning down at me. He turned me gently, his fingers burrowing deliciously into my hair.
I bit my lip to stop the sound of relief that threatened to escape me.
He was braiding my hair, preparing me for the battle ahead.
It reminded me of the first time he had done so, after I had embraced my mágik, as I dozed beside him. I remembered every moment since with aching clarity—wearing my hair unbound day after languorous day in the hope that he would touch me this way again.
My eyes fluttered shut, and my hands found his forearms unwittingly. My fingers played along the cuffs of his sleeves as he worked—rough-spun fabric beneath callous palms—and hehummed a pleased sound. When Harkin finished, he caught my hands tightly in his own. Skin on skin, and nails biting the barest half moons into flesh. I turned to face him, fighting the rising swell of tears—hot and salty on my tongue.
“Thank you.” My whispered gratitude was for so much more than the plaits in my hair, but I could not say so. He seemed to understand.
“Of course, Ren.” His fingers were tight in mine, eyes wary. He worried for me—for the both of us. “I don’t know what we will face inside this palace. Claudian could very well be waiting for us.” Harkin inhaled a long, shaky breath. “You are ready for whatever will come. Your mágik is strong.Youare strong, Ren, and I meant what I said before. You do not need me to save you, but I will be there by your side.“
Harkin drew me to his chest, arms wrapping tightly around my waist as he crushed our bodies together in a desperate embrace. Our hearts pounded as one, the steady thump a drumbeat against my ribs. His face pressed to my neck, and his lips ghosted across my throat—so tender, so slight I might have imagined it.
My fingers tangled in the waves of hair across the back of his neck, my mouth brushing his forehead. I felt the familiar pinprick of tears teasing the back of my eyes, but I did not let them fall—instead breathing in his spicy, sweet scent and steadying myself by the rush of his pulse. We stood there for a moment, unspeaking, not wanting to burst the tentative bubble of hope that swelled in our unguarded chests.
I had considered strapping on my armor, wearing it through the streets of Acsilla that day. My fingers had run over the smooth lines of the breastplate—tracing the rivets and dips and edges of forgedsteel—but I decided against it. I no longer needed it to protect the soft, aching thing under my ribs.
No, I had found something far better—someone—and I held him close.
A sharp whistle pierced the air, a striking imitation of a bird call. The sound was high and clear, and we might have been fooled had we not known it to be our signal.
“If it comes down to me or them…” I whispered. “Choose them, Harkin.”
“It won’t come to that,” Harkin insisted.
“But if it does, you know what you must do. Promise me.” My heart was fragmenting, shrapnel cutting me to ribbons. I choked on it.
“I promise,” he said, but he held me so tightly, I wondered if it was only another lie.
The bird call rang out again, sharp and insistent.
We drew apart with one last charged glance, and then we were off.
The palace wall dipped as we approached the westernmost side. Crumbling rock made for an eerie image—fog curling low over damp earth and moss—but the facade was easy enough to scale. Harkin and I darted through a courtyard, overgrown with disuse. Behind vines and thorns and the overwhelming scent of petrichor, stained glass came into view—moonlight gilding the colors in muted silver.
A sense of knowing familiarity crashed over me, and my blood turned cold. Lacquered images of royals and mágikal creatures painted the glass, and my heart stuttered in warning.
“Harkin…”
My feet kept moving, blazing forward even as my mind spun.
“I’ve been here before.” My voice cracked, a lilting, broken whisper.
“What?” Harkin turned to me, but the panel was already swinging open.
The world was already tilting on end.
A serious face greeted us from the other side, thick curls bouncing against her temples. Her brown skin was radiant under the moonlight, her eyes shadowed. She was, without a doubt, the woman I had dreamed of.
The spymaster.
“What the fuck?” I gasped, throat tightening around the words—squeezing them out of shape. “What the actual fuck is happening?”
My knees shook, and I pressed one palm flat against the glass—crystals snapping beneath the heat of my palm. In my memory, my fingers bloomed frozen white.
