Wait—I should kill her first.
If I return to Eirik with proof that I've eliminated the Elven Queen and show him that I've put down the threat his court fears most, he might forgive the disaster at the Western Marches. The king might let me back in and restore my honor.
All I have to do is kill one elf.
The resolution hardens in my chest.
"I'll kill the Elven Queen," I say out loud, testing how the words sound. "I'll return to King Eirik with her head as proof of my loyalty."
Dorcha turns her head to look at me fully. Those golden eyes are ancient, wise in ways I'll never understand. She's seen centuries of war, of endless cycles of revenge and retaliation.
And she's tired of it. I can see that now.
"I know," I say quietly. "I know killing her won't bring them back. But what else do I have? What else is left? My warriors are being hunted in Avalon."
Dorcha lowers her massive head. Her golden eyes find mine and hold them. The wyvern doesn't blink. She simply watches, scales glinting like burnished metal in the dim light. There's judgment in that gaze.
"Don't look at me like that," I mutter. "I know what needs to be done. This bond means nothing. It's just a coincidence. She means nothing to me."
But even as I say it, the golden thread tugs at my chest. Pulling me back toward the healing house. Demanding proximity to my mate. It's telling me to go to her, protect her, care for her.
I grit my teeth against it. "I won't be ruled by fate. I make my own choices."
Dorcha snorts. Smoke curls from her nostrils.
"I mean it," I insist.
The wyvern shifts, turning her head away from me. Her gesture is clear. She wants no part of this plan.
"Don't be like that," I call after her. "This is survival. This is what we have to do."
I watched my warriors die. The people I'd commanded for decades, cut down by their own kind. Three hundred survivors are still out there, hunted by Eirik's forces. If I can prove my loyalty, he might let them come home.
Dorcha remains silent. Condemning me with her silence.
I stay there against her warmth beneath the stars. The bond continues to tug at me, growing more insistent. My mate is inside that building and I'm out here plotting her death.
Footsteps crunch on the path behind me.
I turn to find one of the healers approaching. A young elf with downcast eyes. She stops several feet away, afraid to get too close to the dangerous fae.
"Lord Landon?" she asks softly.
"Just Landon," I correct. I've never been comfortable with titles.
She wrings her hands, twisting her fingers together nervously. "The queen is asking for you."
My heart shifts behind my ribs.
Rhianelle is asking for me?
I shouldn't be feeling this fucking excited when I intend to kill her but damn it, I do.
"She's awake and she has questions. Questions we can't answer," the healer says, hesitation threading through her voice.
"What kind of questions?"
"About gaps in her recollection. About..."
