You will soon be free.
If that was true…
“Shit, shit, shit,” Serill hissed, sprinting out of the library, the paper gripped in his fist.
Brela was in a lot more trouble than they thought, and she needed help.
She neededa lotof help.
* * *
Cason closedhis bedroom door and leaned against the wood, smashing his bag awkwardly against his shoulder.
He didn’t care. Didn’t care about a lot of things over the last few days. Not about his father, not about Brela, and not about the look Serill kept giving him on the way back to Aelstow.
Disappointment. He hated it, but it also made him furious. How could Serill side withherin this? The prince knew how her lie would make him feel. He knew that the shadow-cursed had killed Cason’s mother. He knew how much Cason despised the magic they possessed.
Only a fool ignores the shadows.
Well, he’d ignored a lot of shadows recently.
He shot his hand toward the fireplace, both flame and lightning sparking the wood as it roared.
Too much magic coursed in his veins, swirls and jolts keeping his body rigid. Made worse with every damn emotion that wanted to escape.
The last time he’d been in this room, Brela had been here. She’d answered the door and teased both him and Serill. He’d soothed her nightmare hours before that. She’d brought him dinner and drawn in her notebook while she explained her role as the Veil Scholar heir and talked about shadow magic.
Mocking him, right under his gods-damned nose.
He wanted to scream and blaze and rip through the bed, the couch, and the wardrobe where Brela had stolen his shirts. He’dlovedthat she wrapped herself in his scent, and now he wanted to buy a completely new set of clothes. Ones that he could be sure she’d never touched or worn before. Unlike the shirts in the bag over his shoulder.
He wanted to set this entire room on fire. With him in it.
He settled for a vicious growl as he ripped the bag of clothes from his shoulder and chucked it toward the bed. It smacked the bedpost with a loud crack, wood groaning and shifting with the impact.
How the hells had shirts and pants made that strong of an impact?
Lightning crackling at his fingers, he stormed over to the bed and ripped the drawstring open. He dumped the contents on the bed. Shirts, pants, and then… a heavy envelope?
Cason dropped the bag and picked up the parchment. Not an envelope, but a sheet of paper that had been folded carefully to hide something.
He untucked the corners and watched as a throwing knife dropped onto the blankets.
The gods-damned throwing knife.
Snarling, he looked down at the handwritten text on the inside of the makeshift envelope.
I told you that if you survived, I’d give you the knife.
Cason crushed the paper in his hand, picked up the blade, and threw it as hard as he could. Fire and knife spun together, until it embedded in the door. Flame burned the wood until he smothered it.
Heaving, he tried to focus on calming his emotions again. Breathing, counting, any sort of grounding he could manage.
She’d snuck that knife into his bag… for what reason other than to piss him off? But something else was wrong. The knife wouldn’t have made such a distinct thudding noise on a bedpost.
He shoved his hand in the bag again, digging to the bottom as he found the source of the noise. He pulled out the book and dropped it on the blankets.
Not just any book.
