Val blinked. The pain throbbing through his head had clearly removed his ability to think. “I don’t believe you.”
Dornar stepped closer to Val and glared at the soldiers who had pinned him until they moved back a few paces. He lowered his voice until only Val could hear. “The king and I have come to an agreement. I have stepped into Grendel’s role. His full role. Do you understand?”
The acid in Val’s throat rose in a nauseating wave, the king’s sudden renewed vigor making a horrific kind of sense.
Dornar continued, “I’ve convinced the king that, together, we can get him that heir he so desperately wants.”
It was too much. The image of Alanna in the hands of Dornar and Ballanor. That was what they wanted from him. To hand her into hell.
Val turned, collapsing onto his hands and knees as he heaved, vomiting everything that was in his stomach into a foul puddle as the soldiers behind him sniggered and Nim and Tristan stared at him in confused concern.
Finally, with nothing left to purge, he sat up and wiped a shaking hand across his bloodless lips.
He had to make a decision. The worst decision of his life.
Val pushed himself to his feet and caught Tristan’s eye. They held each other’s gaze for a few seconds, communicating silently. Tristan didn’t know what Dornar had said. But Val could see in his friend’s eyes that he would trust his judgment.
He pinched the top of his nose, humbled by Tristan’s willingness to follow his lead. He thought about Alanna, about Nim, about everything he wanted and believed. And decided.
There was no safety, not even a true guarantee of a clean death. They could sacrifice their honor and their morals, condemn an innocent woman to a lifetime of torture, and it would still gain them nothing.
Dornar was terrifying, even worse than Ballanor. Ballanor ranted and raved, but Dornar manipulated and schemed. He was intelligent, skilled, and could be charming when he chose. He would lie to get what he wanted and think absolutely nothing of it.
There was only one solution: agree to Dornar’s offer, hike deep into the woods, and then kill the quad that were shadowing him. Then make his way to the Temple at Eshcol and beg for help—and pray the entire time that he was successful at defeating four armed men and quick enough to get back before Dornar lost patience and started torturing Nim.
It was unbearably risky. He would be heavily outnumbered by well-armed, well-rested opponents. And he’d be under extraordinary time pressure. But his only other option was to force their hands and fight to the death, and, surrounded by so many soldiers, the Hawks would almost certainly lose. Worse, if they tried it, one of them would have to kill Nim. They couldn’t risk that she might survive, left in Dornar’s and Ballanor’s hands, when they died.
Whatever he chose, the most likely result was pain and death.
He looked over at Nim, who gave him a shaky smile. She didn’t fully understand, but she knew what was coming could only be bad, and she accepted it. Forgave him. Trusted him. He looked up at Tristan, who gave him a brief nod of understanding. They stood by him, whatever he did.
Gods. He could never deserve such a magnificent family. His sister and his brothers. He only wished he’d realized it sooner. That he’d told them how much they meant to him.
Dornar stepped back and raised his voice once more. “Come on, Captain Lanval, I’m getting bored. Who is it going to be? Shall we start dismembering your sister or will you hunt down the queen for us?”
He took a final long, slow breath and was about to release it when a clear voice called out from the woods behind him. “He’ll hunt down the queen, of course, won’t you, Captain Lanval?”
Fuck.
He spun around just in time to see her stepping out of the woods. She was covered in mud, her face flushed deep red, her brutally sheared hair slicked down with rain and sweat.
But her head was held high, her shoulders relaxed, and he had never seen her look more regal.
“Alanna, no!” He pushed himself forward, toward her, only to be hauled back by the soldiers surrounding him. He kicked and bit and threw vicious punches, but eventually five men forced him down, back to his knees.
He lifted his head just in time to see her walk across the road and stop in front of Ballanor, who looked simultaneously annoyed and amused. The king lifted his goblet and saluted her with a sneer. “Wife.”
She looked between Ballanor and Dornar. “Let them go.”
Ballanor gave her a smug look as he shook his head. “Absolutely not. They’re about to be executed for treason.”
“On whose authority?” She demanded.
“Mine,” Ballanor said pompously.
“Actually,” Alanna said loudly, turning in a circle so that she could smile sweetly at the array of soldiers and court advisors watching them. “Even you can’t execute people without a trial.”
She lifted her hand and gestured. There was a quiet rustling, and then a company of gleaming Nephilim Clibanarii stepped forward, every single one gripping a massive shimmering sword.
