Prologue
4 weeks ago—Ravenstone
Alanna satin the carriage beside her father-in-law, watching Val as he rode ahead with Captain Tristan.
Tristan’s shoulders were stiff and Val had angled himself subtly away, wings drawn back and battle-ready, never quite looking at his former best friend. They weren’t speaking. If anything, they were activelynotspeaking.
Bard, she hated this.
She cast a glance at King Geraint out the corner of her eye, at his clenched jaw and narrowed eyes. He wanted to sit next to her as much as she wanted to sit next to him—not at all—but Prince Ballanor had woken with terrible stomach pains and had been unable to join them.
Ballanor had insisted that if the treaty ratification were to go ahead, then they would have to do it without him. King Geraint had no choice; it was his treaty after all. And neither did she—she had sacrificed everything for this treaty. To keep her people safe.
It was only after she was already in the carriage that she heard the soldiers whispering behind her, saying that she had thrown a tantrum and insisted that her husband stay behind.
More lies. More slander to destroy her reputation and any chance she might have had of making this her home. But what could she do? King Geraint could hear the gossip just as clearly from his place beside her. He could have easily stepped in and put an end to it, yet he simply turned his head and looked away.
Did the king have any idea of the living hell that he had consigned her to? He detested Ballanor, so maybe he did.
Val had wanted to go to Geraint and ask for help that first terrible night. But she had told him no—the marriage had to stand for the good of the treaty. And now, all these months later, she felt sure that the king knew exactly how bad things were…. He simply didn’t care.
There were only two people in the world who cared about Alanna. Keely, who would be waiting for her with a hot bath and a kind word when she got back. And Val.
Val, now riding ahead of her with his wings back and his face shuttered.
She watched him for one long moment, and then looked away. Tried to keep her expression utterly blank. Tried not to show the devastation she felt when she saw how harsh his expression was. How grim he looked. And how alone.
From the first moment she’d met him, Val had been formidable and stoic, the consummate professional soldier. But he had never made her feel like the prisoner she was. He had always been kind to her, protective even. That forbidding soldier’s demeanor hiding a quick sense of humor and innate sense of honor.
She used to have to force herself not to laugh at his barbed comments about the court, delivered with dry sarcasm, too quietly for anyone else to hear when he guarded her at palace functions.
To force herself not to suggest yet another walk together in the palace gardens, where she could relax with the sun on her face and enjoy having Val beside her.
Just as she had to force herself not to fling herself weeping into his strong arms when she was frightened and lonely, knowing he would catch her and keep her safe.
More than anything, she had forced herself not to fall hopelessly, irrevocably in love with him.
Once, after a particularly bad night, he had taken her to walk along the battlements, where she could look out across the river to the forests on the other side. There, with the breeze whipping around them, and the world falling away into open space, he had told her the story of the snowdrops. How the flowers had sprung up from the drops of blood spilled by Lady Spring as she defeated the Winter Witch.
His deep blue eyes, speckled with tiny silver flecks, had focused on her so intently as he promised that darkness could be defeated—that hope would endure, and that he would take her to see the snowdrop drifts one day—that she had felt as if she could fall into them and float away.
But slowly, inexorably, that Val had been lost.
Oh, she knew that her warrior was still there somewhere, locked behind his flinty scowls and crossed arms. But he was hidden under so much rage. So much distrust. So much pain. There were no more jokes. No more walks. He was losing hope, and it was her fault.
Now he shadowed her like a vengeful ghost, his soul shuddering under the strain. He wouldn’t see his friends. He had returned to visit his family only once, and then refused to go back. He worked every hour of the day, protecting her. But no matter how hard he worked, how many hours he stood guard, he could do nothing to save her. And it was hurting him.
His pain made her want to weep. She had made peace with her own sacrifice, but not with his. Never with his.
Eventually she had asked him to resign his post. To leave her and go back to his squad. To his family. To tell them the truth. But he had refused. Arms crossed, wings folded tightly against his back, scowl furrowing his brow, he had refused. It was too late, he’d said. Anything he told them could put them at risk from the prince. And he couldn’t leave her alone with Ballanor. He had sworn an oath to guard her, and nothing would sway him from it.
So, she watched him retreat into himself, deeper and further with every passing day. A strong, honorable man, forced to stand helpless, cut off from the people who might have helped him.
On those increasingly rare occasions when Ballanor bothered himself to come to her room, it was only her body he hurt, not her heart. It was her choice to stay. And with Val standing outside the door, she knew that nothing truly terrible would happen to her. All she had to do was open her mouth, and he would be there in a heartbeat. The knowledge gave her strength.
But it was Val’s heart, the very essence of him, that was being tortured. And she couldn’t bear it anymore. When they were back at the palace, she would have to speak to him again. She had to convince him to go.
Ahead, Val seemed to be having some kind of disagreement with Tristan, the irritation in their low voices interrupting her thoughts.
