“Wherearethey?” Elvira’s voice came again, nearer now.
Her face was swollen, streaked red. Her lavender gown clinging damp and ruined, hem torn and muddied. Fistfuls of fabric were clutched in her hands as she stomped toward Ronan.
A boy scrambled after her, Wells, his hand darting for her wrist. She tore free with a sharp jerk, never slowing.
Ronan inclined his head, shallow, a bow only in form. “Princess.”
Her steps cut short, but her eyes—they were wild, a sea at war. “I saw him,” she said. “That brute carrying her. Is she alive? Where did he take her?”
The words tumbled one over the next, too fast, no space for breath, the fragility in her voice betraying her fury.
Elysian appeared at Ronan’s side. “I’ll take you to her,” he offered.
“No.” The answer was immediate.
“Elva,” Wells coaxed from behind her. “She’s alive. They both are. I’ll take you.” This time, he didn’t touch her.
Her glare shot to Ronan first, before sliding to Elysian, unimpressed. A harsh huff slipped from her lips as she spun, golden strands whipping across her cheek. “Fine.”
“No thank you?” Ronan muttered under his breath.
But the quip fell dead in the air as Elva brushed past, skirts dragging, and followed Wells toward the tent where Killian had disappeared to.
Once she was well enough away, Ronan asked, “Commander Hale?”
The canvas flaps had long closed behind the princess before Elysian answered. “The blood was from his mouth. Nothing internal. He’ll hold. By tomorrow, he should be able to move.”
A flock of birds startled from the canopy as light leaked through, scattering across the sky where the sun hung low.
Ronan followed the birds’ ascent, cracking his neck, then knuckles. He wasn’t sure the Viper would even wake in the next twenty-four hours. Her heart was only barely beating mere moments ago.
“If the Liraern’s illusion holds true,” he said, “we’ll buy them an extra day.” A pause. “We leave at first light, two days from now.”
Elysian grunted, rubbing a palm across the nape of neck as he moved to step past. But Ronan’s hand caught his shoulder—
“She’s a princess, brother.”
Elysian stilled, attention fixed forward. “Do not mistake vigilance for longing. She’s vulnerable, that’s all.”
“You’ve worn that mask before. Don’t think I won’t notice when it cracks.”
A ripple of white fur morphed over Elysian’s jaw before he forced it back. “Stay out of it.” Shaking off Ronan’s grip, he stepped past him.
“I would,” Ronan said over his shoulder, “if distraction didn’t reek so strongly off you.” Elysian’s jaw clenched, but he said nothing. “Fetch Inessa and Kanoa,” Ronan ordered. “Tell them to meet us here.”
Elysian’s head snapped toward him. “You’re dragging more of us into this, into her curse? Setting fire to this kingdom is not strategy, Ronan. When does it end?”
Ronan rubbed the leather cuff around his wrist, wishing it charred the mark beneath it. “It’s necessary. Having the Angel here has changed the game. And I don’t intend to play it; I intend to end it.”
Exhaling deeply, Elysian turned, striding deeper toward the forest. Ronan didn’t follow. He knew the wound Elysian carried. Centuries had passed, and still the scar had not healed.
And this Elvira might be the thing to break it open again.
Ronan remained, staring at the tent that hid his own distraction. The Viper deserved the ending he saved for her. He had promised himself that, promised his kingdom.
When his darkness found her throat, it would be justice, vengeance. It would be balance restored.
But not like this. Not half dead on a rebel’s cot, stinking of iron and anguish. Not stolen from him by someone else’s cruelty.
