“It is, heart-fire.” His tone softened, but his gaze remained fixed on the crowd. “The Resistance rounded up all the leaders of Malcarion’s army. Just this useless scrap of his line was in hiding.”
“It fits Malcarion being his father.” Ash drew away from Race, straightening her sling. “The apple didn’t just fall close, it took root in the same bloody dirt.”
A smile flickered on his tempting mouth. “What would I do without you?”
Ash huffed. “I dread to think.”
Then Race turned to the crowd again, and a hush fell once more. “Just a few more things before you go off and celebrate. One, I will be leaving in a few days—” He raised a hand as protests erupted.
Their panic strangled Ash, and she couldn’t blame them.
“I will be back, periodically,” he reassured. “In the interim, Wing Commander Braxion will oversee the entire army. Attor will serve as my steward and advisor. He’ll be available for whatever you need since I am committed elsewhere?—”
“Where?” someone yelled. “You are our king and needed here.”
“I understand that. But when Lemuria fell and my family was slain, I was captured and held prisoner in Tartarus?—”
A hush fell, rife with shock. Yeah, they all had heard of that vile place.
“But I was freed,” Race assured them, leaving out his centuries of endless torture. “Since I couldn’t return here, I served the ancient goddess, Gaia, and that allegiance is still in place and binding. So, bear with me. Just know your life will be better from now onward.” His gaze swept his people once more. “Hear this now, any more rebelling or even talks of a coup, and death will be swift. Now, I must take my leave. My mate still heals.”
He nodded to Attor, then removed the crown and set it in the chest.
Race went motionless, his gaze moving beyond the crowd, searching.
“What?” Ash asked, her wariness back in spades.
He merely grasped her hand, stepped off the dais, and strode through the parting throng. Being so much shorter than these shifters, Ash still couldn’t see what had Race striding with such determination.
The crowd thinned as they left them behind. Then she saw him, at the entrance of a street, leaning against a building, away from everyone—his hair bright against the pale stone, his arms folded across his chest.
Skaldr.
Chapter
Forty-Three
Race stoppedin front of his old friend. Years of secrets, scars, and betrayals now stood between them like a vast chasm.
Skaldr’s expression remained as remote as the mountains circling the city. He straightened, his gaze shifting to Ash, skimming the fading bruises on her face, the sling that supported her arm. His mouth tightened.
“I am glad you are well,” he told Ash, then, to Race, “Lemuria will thrive again.”
After a half bow, he pivoted and strode off down the narrow street.
“Skaldr, wait.”
“There is nothing left to say. I was wrong about everything.” He sidestepped broken rubble as if determined to be gone before words caught him.
Race went after him, grabbing his arm.
“What?” He yanked free, his amber eyes blazing. “Do you want to see me completely broken? She made sure of that. Right now, I’m buried so deep in the shit she left behind, you could dig for years and never find me.”
But beyond it all, Race saw the deep-seated wounds, the hollowness of betrayal that ran as deep as his own scars. “None of us knew, not until yesterday.”
Wind gusted through the narrow street, stirring ash and grit.
“What? That nothing’s deadlier than a she-dragon’s pride damaged?” Skaldr shoved back his tangled hair, his laugh raw, humorless. “She played me well, the few times I saw her. We might not have caught it all, but to hear the truth as we flew down the mountain…”
