“I do not fear your foretelling, Oracle.” A slow grin grows on Brunkil’s face as he sweeps his coat off the ground and around his shoulders, tugging the fur closed while he rises upright.
I also return to my feet, keeping both Brunkil and Fable in my sights, ready for any sudden moves.
So, it seems, are both Nara and Lilis. Nara inches back toward Thyra while Lilis crouches low, her body language telling me she’s ready to punch upward if she needs to. Although in Lilis’s case, I’m certain she won’t care if Thyra is collateral damage in any such attack.
Power crackles across my hands, a warning, but Brunkil raises his hands and backs away. “Make use of the Oracle while you can, King of Frost,” he says. “She will not be with you for long.”
He may be retreating, but the smart thing would be to shatter him while I can.
I haven’t stayed alive by being merciful, and I’m certain he’s ready for my attack. It wouldn’t be underhanded.
An attack he deserves.
Just as ice builds across my palms and I prepare to strike, the white crow soars back to Brunkil. I’m not sure where the bird went or even what direction it came from before it settles once more onto his right shoulder.
With a soft caw, it brings the cry of voices long lost, the echo of sorrow long past.
My hesitation is all Brunkil needs to break into a run, his voice floating back to me across the frosty air. “Feathered fur. Fucking shrieks. Go east. Go west. But which is best?”
Within moments, he and Fable and the white crow have disappeared into the snowy landscape.
Across the way, Thyra’s shoulders slump.
Nara reaches her first, seeming to know what Thyra needs by dropping to the snow beside her and supporting her weight.
I take a step toward them, every instinct in my body telling me to return to Thyra’s side, but nearby, Lilis rises to her feet, a sneer on her lips.
The last time Lilis encountered Thyra, Lilis’s orders had been to capture and subdue Thyra, a task at which she failed. She won’t have forgotten that defeat. She will find ways to hurt Thyra because of it.
My need to return to Thyra and ask about her Oracle vision must now wait.
Deliberately remaining where I am, I pause for the second it takes Lilis to make a move in Thyra’s direction, and then I whisper, “Lilis. Come here.”
My command is snatched away by the breeze, but Lilis has trained herself to listen for my voice above all other sounds.
She stiffens mid-step, her footfall landing as her focus snaps to me.
Her gaze flickers to the gruesome scene behind me, and then, as I suspected she might, she hesitates.
Her pause speaks volumes.
Behind me lie six dead Frost Fae.
All men. All fearsome warriors.
But none of them weremywarriors. None of them were soldiers in my army over which Lilisholds command.
When Brunkil pointed out the gruesome carnage, telling me he wanted my head removed from my body, he couldn’t have realized the impact of drawing my attention to the faces of these six men. All were badly torn apart to the extent I might not have otherwise registered their identities.
Across the distance between us, Lilis pales, the draining of color from her cheeks turning her complexion from porcelain to gray.
I give her a cold smile, triggering her heart to pound harder.
The longer she delays, the worse it will be for her, and she knows it.
She can’t hide the truth from me.
A truth that could mean Thyra is in even greater danger than I thought she would be.
