I turned on instinct, my dagger slicing through flesh as I was met with hot, wine-dark blood speckling my face.
Gross. Wait—note to self: restock wine.
The man’s mouth gaped, his hands fumbling at his neck in disbelief.
I didn’t flinch when his knees buckled. Didn’t look away when blood poured down the gash and his eyes faded empty.
I only planted my boot against his chest, pressing him flat, feeling the last of him leave under my heel.
Heat fluttered hungry down my spine.
It was thrilling, watching cruelty drain itself. It fed us both.
My gaze snagged on the golden lion stitched over his chest, now drowned in red. The king could rot in hel for all I cared, but Luamis wasn’t to blame. Nor its true heir.
I almost pitied the lion.
I exhaled, calling out to Callum, “Is that all of them?”
The forest stretched deserted, clouds smothering the sliver of moon we were allowed. Callum emerged between shadows and trees, sword still raised, his steps nimble and hushed.
“Has to be.” The wind shifted his auburn hair in gentle waves as a matching fire ignited in his palm. “Ford and Rook went after the runners. Duke and Gus took the scripts they found back to camp.”
Great. I was covered in gore, but at least we got what we came for.
“Are we good?"
Callum stared into the dark, so focused that I didn’t need to ask. The gold in his eyes flared as he listened, wielding the gift that set him apart.
Sword in one hand, fire in the other, he nodded, moving toward me.
The all-black gear we wore veiled most of him, but his hair burned like a beacon in the night. The ivory-cut of his face caught the glow of the flame, showcasing the freckles painted all the way to the tips of his pointed ears, each gilded in the light.
I always figured he must take after his father, wherever the fates hid him now. There are none of our mother’s features settled into him. No silver hair or honey brown eyes. Not one inch of her sun-browned glow.
But his heart? The gentle nonsense? That’s all Gem.
I didn’t share any of it, though. None of it mine to inherit.
His mouth tipped up, dropping just as fast when he caught my expression.
“What?” He glanced at himself, the confusion clearing the instant he saw the reason for my scowl.
“You’d think after the eight hundred years you’ve lived—” I muttered, “You’d realize your hair is basically acome stab mesign after sundown.”
The fire winked out, obedient at my sneer.
He shoved damp strands back from his forehead, leaving streaks of crimson and dirt in their wake.
“Four hundred,” he corrected.
I rolled my eyes.
“Oh, come on,” he groaned. “It’s not like my hair would give me away any sooner than theactual firein my hand.”
Despite the resistance, a smile tugged at my mouth before I clicked my tongue, head shaking at his unusual carelessness.
“The amount of shit you give me for evenbreathingwithout that damned head wrap covering my face.”
