And he knew if he didn’t move, they’d kill him and his sister next.
He sprinted back from where he’d come, yanking Iaoth by the arm and forcing her to race alongside him. Their manor home wasn’t far, and yet each step toward it felt as though it took centuries to reach.
“Demons!” he shouted as the first field workers came into view.
That singular word was enough to spring everyone into action.
In the distance, someone yelled, “Fetch Kisst Räviel!”
Farmers gripped their hoes and axes and raced to the trees.
Finally, the young male slowed. His sister’s weight was nearly dead, tugging heavily on his arm. Her sobs broke through the haze of red and fear coating his vision.
“Where is she? Where is mommy?” she hiccuped, little chest heaving and strained.
But he couldn’t reply. He couldn’t tell her what he had witnessed. It was better if she didn’t know.
A shadow loomed over him, and he flinched, preparing to fight again, before realizing his father stood there.
Glacial irises glared down at him. “What happened? Why does your hair look like an ore of iron now?”
Someone else swept around the two males, collecting the small, sobbing youngling.
Vaeron waited until his sister was out of earshot before conveying the tale. “A group of Demons attacked us in the orchard. Mother gave her life protecting us.”
Kisst Räviel’s blow landed without hesitation, sending his son’s head whipping sideways. Tears sprang to the heir’s eyes, mixing with fresh ruby.
But he didn’t dare turn back toward his father. To show him how badly he’d been hurt was to sentence himself to further punishment. Instead, he remained frozen, heart thumping in his ears, and waited for the inevitable, cruel words. The ones that would confirm what he already knew—that his mother’s death was his fault.
The head of House Räviel studied his son—bloody, wounded, and hiding the slightest tremble. His daughter's weeping reached his ears over the rest of the chaos. And the space beside him, the space his wife had always occupied, was achingly empty.
“You have failed us all, Vaeron.”
The words landed sharper than the blade that had cut his face, carving themselves into the youngling he’d never be again and peeling back the flesh of the monster he’d become.
26
The seemingly endless summer drizzle broke at midday, leaving behind a hush so heavy it felt unnatural. Gold flecks fractured through the canopy that stretched into the clouds above, dotting my skin in false warmth. The Issaraeth spoke in low tones to the horses, and we slowed to a crawl before stopping altogether.
A flash of silver snapped my attention to the trees, heart leaping into my throat.
Ilae swooped down, clicking a greeting. My shoulders relaxed, air spilling out in a quiet rush.
No one is coming to attack us.
“Hello,” I cooed at the bird as he landed on a thick branch a short distance away. He ruffled his crystalline feathers, shedding water droplets beneath him.
The Issaraeth hopped down from the driver’s seat, swaying the wood beneath me. “I’m going to scout the area,” he told me, not even glancing over his shoulder as he drew his sword.
I couldn’t deny the gratitude that flickered through me—traitorous as it was—at the extra caution. Ever since the first attack, whenever we stopped, my mate scoured our surroundings before settling down to eat.
To him, motion was safety; to me, hiding had been my haven.
I wriggled upright, bracing against the rear of the wagon, and scanned our surroundings. Lush ferns, their leaves still beaded with moisture, swayed in the breeze. With it brought the heavenly scent of roses. Wild brambles hugged the sides of the road, and the Issaraeth emerged from between two thorny bushes brimming with glittering blue blooms.
“All clear.” He rounded the rear and pulled the pins in the wood to lower the flap. In one smooth motion, he hopped into my space.
“Bread and jerky?” he asked, pulling one of the supply bags toward him.
