The aroma of her lingered too, vanilla and amber clinging beneath the wreckage. And something else, scorched violets, like starlight dragged froma mountain’s peak. The same scent seeped from Killian’s skin when the wind shifted just right.
“She deserved the peace.” Killian said. “If only for a little while.”
Finally, Ronan’s gaze shot to the blade still caught in Killian’s grasp, the steel balanced between them as Killian extended it.
The world thundered as Ronan closed his palm around the bronzed hilt. Heat ripped through his veins, searing, embedding itself as its stone flared wild, his power drinking it in. His chest rose once, slow, as if the weapon had reminded him of what he was.
Branches snapped where Nezra finally broke into the clearing, Callum half draped across her, his breath ragged, blood painting the grass with each cough he gave.
“We need to move,” she panted. “Now.” The ridge behind them shouted, steel flashing through the trees.
Ronan looked to Elysian. “Take the Liraern and commander.”
Without question, he nodded. A grip, an inhale, and the three were gone, snatched into the void, just as sunlight reached into the trees.
Killian slipped closer to Verena, his hand hovering near the sword across his back. “I’m guessing your plan is to leave us behind?”
Fingers trailing his heirloom Ronan smirked. “Not today.” He flicked his chin toward Verena, sheathing his sword across his back. “Take her.”
Killian bent low, lifting her close, not slung like a burden but cradled as though she might fracture further.
Over the ridge, soldiers poured, armor clattering, war cries bursting.
Smoke hissed between their skin as Ronan gripped Killian’s arm, the Angel stiffening under his touch. The forest bowed around them as Ronan exhaled, the faintest fragment of his roused power drifting toward the oncoming chaos.
Soldiers crested the hill, then faltered. Shouts cracked as their armor clattered, their charge dissolving into stillness. One by one they fell like a tide, and whatever remained of them drifted away with the wind.
Ronan didn’t look back as the world warped, shadows folding in on themselves. And in a blink—they were gone.
The camp Nezra had promised lay buried deep within the Firen Forest, where no wise creature, Fae or mortal, risked treading.
Ronan released Killian the moment they landed, watching him vanish between tents, still cradling the Viper against his chest.
His attention stayed fixed on Nezra now, where she lifted her hands in slow arcs, threads of illusion spinning from her fingers, layer upon layer, until a veil rippled across the camp.
From within, the world outside remained clear. But beyond the barrier, it was only untouched forest. No rebellion or dragons. No sound. No trace.
Brilliant, dark magic.
Elysian stood several paces away from her, his posture relaxed in appearance only. “Answer,” he snarled. “How did you get into that palace?”
Nezra’s chin tilted up a fraction. “You don’t need to threaten me to get the truth.”
Ford, who had annoyed Ronan from the moment they landed, let out a quiet scoff from where he lounged on a nearby rock. “Her first lie.”
Ronan shot him a look. Ford only shrugged, unbothered.
Nezra’s eyes didn’t move from Elysian. “I was already there when it happened.”
“They would have thrown you in those dungeons as well if that were true.”
Smiling, she said, “The guards can’t see what doesn’t want to be seen.”
His expression didn’t change. “You can cast illusions on yourself, then.”
“Among other things.” The words floated in an oceanic pull, the kind that lured men from ships. The kind that once dragged kingdoms beneath waves.
Ford blinked, then muttered, “And we’re sure this isn’t one of those Liraern traps, right? Because if I start walking into a lake naked, I’d like a warning.”
