Stark clicks his tongue in irritation. “Absolutely not. Saela can’t be trusted in this state not to drain you.”
And once more, hatred and disorienting gratitude mix within me.
“Maybe,” Aldrich says tentatively, “a large animal would suffice.”
I nod, desperate for anything we can try.
“Cratos and I will hunt. We will bring an elk for Saela,” Anassa tells me, and I shiver with relief.
“Let’s try that,” I respond. The wolves turn and sprint back the way we came, disappearing around the corner.
What’s next?My mind spirals through strings of logic to weave together a plan. What steps do I need to take to find a way out of this?
As a Strategos, my mindshouldbe able to weave strategy easily. It’s one of the powers of our pack, after all. But right now, I’m too disoriented to even reach that part of myself.
Still, I know that controlling the narrative will be important.
I meet Leader Aldrich’s gaze. “Does anyone know yet that Killian has left?”
He shakes his head. “After you killed King Cyril, the nobles all fled back to their fiefdoms, but the Bonded are still here. They await their orders to the front. Only their new ruler can issue those commands, and they were expecting to hear from the young Valtiere in the morning.”
Morning.Oh goddess. It will be morning soon.
My body has been operating on adrenaline alone, and the sudden reminder that so much time has passed settles a heavy blanket of exhaustion over me. I rub my eyes, struggling to keep them open.
“I’ll…” I pause, trying to remember what I was going to say. “I’ll speak to everyone in the morning, then. You should get some rest.”
I don’t realize I’m tilting over until my foot snags on stone in a clumsy, futile attempt to catch myself. I thud into Stark’s chest, his calloused, tattooed hands closing around my arms.
His touch sears me back toward momentary wakefulness, and I push him off, blinking rapidly.
“Go to bed,” he says gruffly.
“Absolutely not.” I’m too tired to even glare. “I’m not leaving Saela’s side.”
Stark huffs and drags his hand through his hair. He marches past me, Aldrich and Helene trailing in his wake, and grumbles something that sounds an awful lot like “Stubborn woman.”
Saela has quieted down somewhat. She still thuds herself against the bars repeatedly, but she does it weakly now, her temple just barely tapping the iron. Her eyes settle on nothing, see nothing.
A few minutes later, a loud scraping sound jars me from my misery. Stark sets a sleeping pallet down on the dungeon floor. He swipes his hand over it to remove some dust, then pats it like he’s trying to convince me it’ll be comfortable.
I thud down onto it without argument, too weary to try to find something to fight him about. But I’m determined to stay awake to watch over Saela, so I lie on my side as Stark settles in beside me, back against the stone wall.
I can’t help it, though. My eyes are too heavy, and no matter how much I resist it, they close.
The familiar spiraling sensation of falling into a dream hits me. I open my eyes to try to stay awake.
But I’m not in the dungeons anymore.
I’m somewhere dark, a room of unending grays and shadows, with no floors or walls or ceilings. The shadows swirl around my feet like fog.
It’s too real to be a dream, and my breath catches in panic.
Turning, I look in every direction, but there’s nothing but the endless expanse.
“You’re finally here, my child,” says a deep, echoing, eerie male voice—the same voice that’s been speaking to me all along. The voice that told me to get the crown.Whosevoice?
And where is it coming from? My gut churns; something is very wrong.
