Only then, when I lifted my head, my vision finally clear, did I see him.
Only then did every feeling, every sensation, come rushing back into me all at once.
Ronan stood above me, one hand gently gliding up and down my back, the other securing my own shaking hand as I pushed myself off from the ground.
He rose with me, the sky beyond still grey but darker now, the moon’s half glimmer struggling against the veil of cloud.
There was no movement at the top of this lost fortress except wind, fog, and two hearts thundering too close.
The way my body yielded to his voice, the way it calmed at his touch, that pull—I was beginning to believe it stemmed from something other than hatred.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Ronan
HE COULDN’T SHAKE IT.
The weight of Verena’s body, ice cold in his arms. The black veins that had begun crawling up her arms, twisting like roots. The way he’d held her close, as if his chest alone could shield her from the curse that had taken hold.
And that voice, slithering and flooding his ears as he rushed her from that cave.
It had promised death. Promised ruin.
She had refused to set foot back into that buried graveyard. So, he carried her, rocks shifting under his boots, as they descended the path back down the mountain on the other side. Straight into a village.
Well, the bones of one.
Charred beams jutted from the realm like blackened ribs, smoke still clinging to the stones. The Bale had come through days ago, maybe weeks, but desolation didn’t age here, it lingered.
It plagued.
Verena jumped from his arms, crouching beside a collapsed wall, brushing ash from a child’s toy. A small, whittled dragon split down the middle.
“It was a home,” she murmured, looking up. “Once.”
Ronan stood behind her, arms crossed. “The Bale doesn’t leave homes, it seems. Only reminders.”
She peered back at him then. “These wereyourdragons. Faeyouwere supposed to keep safe. And you’re running when this could be your entire kingdom’s fate.”
Teeth gritting, his glare slid past her, tracing the horizon where the sea met the ash. “You think I run?”
“Don’t you?”
His jaw worked once, then he walked forward, through the ruins until he reached the shell of what had been a hearth. “I was never meant for a throne.” The wind stole some of it, but not the burden. “The bastard son of King Rhydan,” he scoffed. “My father tried to sire a legacy through honor, and when it failed, he forged me.”
He turned his palm over, lifting the cuff of his sleeve, and for the first time she saw it clearly, the sigil burned into his skin. The heir mark. It poured down his arm, wrapping the top of his hand like smoke splayed and never left.
“When he died, it wasn’t grief that took me, it was this.” His thumb brushed the mark. “It wasn’t just a symbol, but shackles. The chain that bound me not a crown, but a collar.”
Her fingers twitched, and she subtly curled them into her palm before she said, “You are not the only one who feels tied to obligation, Ronan. That doesn’t mean you get to ignore the responsibilities just because you don’t want it.”
His eyes shot to hers, brighter now, flecks of gold catching through the smoke. He watched where her fingers dwelled on her wrist, where he knew a scar now lay.
“Ignore? I’dburnfor them,” he said. “My kin deserve flight, freedom. A sky untouched by the rot of false heirs and broken kings. But I’m not fit to rule for them—”
“Because your freedom is the cost?” she asked, dropping her hand to her side.
“I’ll pay it,” he promised without hesitation. “I’ll cut off my own wings if I must. Plant myself on that throne and call it a life.”
