Prologue
August,Ravenstone Meadow
Tristan rode next to Lanval,glad of the breeze that stirred the warm summer air. Insects buzzed in the long, fragrant grasses on the side of the road while bees danced between the bright yellow hay rattle flowers. It was a perfect day.
Or, at least, it should have been.
He glanced sideways at Val. Damn, he missed his friend. Something had gone brutally wrong with their friendship, but for the life of him, he had no idea what it was.
He had hoped Val might use this chance to finally talk to him. Instead they had been riding in strained silence for hours.
Since they had both been promoted, Tristan to Captain of the Palace Guards and Val to Princess Alanna’s personal guard, Val had changed completely. But not for the better.
It had been an unlikely friendship. Val, the golden boy, the beloved oldest son of the Mabin magistrat, followed everywhere by his adoring baby sister. The complete opposite of Tristan—the unwanted, ignored when he wasn’t being punished, and thank the gods, only child of a minor Tarasque baron and his beautiful, privileged wife.
Tristan couldn’t remember the woman that had given him life. She had woken up one day when he was four years old, decided she was in love with a man that was not her husband, packed her bags, and left. Without even saying goodbye to her only child.
She had never come back.
He only ever heard from others about how beautiful and privileged she was. Although to be fair, the descriptions his father used were more likely to be “wanton harlot” and “spoilt bitch.”
And yet, somehow, his friendship with Val had always worked. They had played together, grown up together—Tristan with his inner Tarasque beast, Val with his Mabin wings—as close as brothers despite their differences. Campaigned together. Laughed together. Even in the darkest, coldest, hungriest places in the kingdom.
But not anymore. Now, Val was hardly recognizable.
In the months since he had taken over responsibility for the new princess’s personal safety, Val had become increasingly grim and withdrawn. Increasingly difficult to talk to. Even about the most innocuous subjects.
This new Val was irritable and secretive. His black eyebrows were permanently drawn together in a heavy frown. His heavy leather wings pulled back, tightly furled in attack position, as if he expected danger at all times.
Did Val ever laugh anymore? Tristan couldn’t imagine it.
He had asked Val repeatedly whether something was bothering him, but he had been shut down every time. The last time he’d said anything, Val had simply pushed away his ale, stood up, and walked away. Tristan hadn’t seen him again since then.
Well, he couldn’t stand up and walk away now, could he? He looked over at his friend and waited until Val met his eyes. “What’s going on, Val?”
Val glanced at him briefly, then looked around carefully before replying with a short, “Nothing.”
Tristan fought the urge to lean over and shake him. “I can tell that it’s something.”
Val’s scowl deepened, and he ran a thumb down between his eyes as if his forehead ached. “It’s nothing I can discuss.”
Tristan grunted. He would rather stick his dagger in his thigh than talk about anything that hinted of feelings. His scales flickered along his arms as his discomfort grew, but he couldn’t let it go. “If you don’t tell me, how can I help you?”
Val’s reply was so soft that he almost didn’t hear it. “You can’t.”
Tristan leaned over Altair, the massive bay destrier that had been with him since their northern campaigns. “Please, Val, just—”
Val flinched, interrupting with a rough whisper, “No. Hell, Tris, don’t you think I would tell you if I could?”
Tristan looked carefully at his friend. He seemed exhausted and miserable. The last time Tristan had seen him so unhappy was when his mama died.
In addition to this protracted, uncharacteristic unhappiness, Val was also obsessively vigilant. Even out in the pleasant summer sunshine, with a full company of Blues, his eyes were constantly searching. Constantly flicking back to the open carriage that trundled along, carrying Princess Alanna and her father-in-law, King Geraint. Alanna and Geraint, but no Prince Ballanor.
Ballanor had been set to attend the meeting right up until that morning, but then Alanna had refused to get into the carriage if he joined them, and they’d been forced to go without him at the last minute.
That’s what he’d heard, anyway—the princess had stamped her foot and told Ballanor not to come, and the crown prince had been only too glad to comply.
Personally, Tristan could see why Ballanor had no desire to spend the day with his wife. She was beautiful—if you liked skinny blondes. But frosty and aloof, disdainful, refusing to make friends or fit in at court. Prone to infantile tantrums. And a foreigner. All the other women hated her, and the men ignored her.
