“You’rethe one who sent your daughter to your enemy’s bed. Whatever she’s endured, it’s by your hand.”
Veins bulge in his neck, his face contorting into a fearsome grimace. I brace for his blow, hands clenched into fists, then—
The sky rumbles. The ominously familiar sound raises the hair on the back of my neck.
This isn’t a natural storm.
It’s—
Fucking Skies, it’s—
It’shim.
A powerful bolt of lightning strikes the ground behind the platform, its heat singeing the back of my neck.
Eyes wide, I stare at the king of Tundrayn.
He’s a stormwielder.
Chapter Fifty-Two
He’sastormwielder,buthow?
Wielding ability passes down through bloodlines and—
Lightning strike me.
Turmah. She must’ve been carrying Faerynz’s child when she was forced to return to Tundrayn.
A startled gasp cuts through the darkness. Tormik whirls, shoulders tightening.
His daughter stares at him, pale as death.
Skies, had she not known? That her father…
My blood runs cold—all those storms in Tundrayn, the ones that had her cowering, crying, fuckingfainting—they were allhim.
“Mayah…” Tormik starts.
She barrels out of the tent like a storm, legs unsteady as she approaches her father.
A broken sob claws from her throat, one that splinters something deep inside me that I thought had already shattered into oblivion.
“It was you,” she whispers. Her arms wrap around her middle, her expression cracked with betrayal.
“Mayah,” Tormik repeats, his voice cold and stern. “You’re confused.”
Her face reddens with anger, eyes flashing.
“The lightning. Isawit. It wasyou.”
Tormik descends the steps and places his hands on her shoulders, but she pushes him away.
“All those nights I spent cowering in my bed,” she whispers. Her voice breaks. “Those storms. They wereyou. You’re a stormwielder.”
“Calm down,” he hisses. “You’re drawing attention.”
He’s right. Bleary-eyed warriors peer out from darkened tents. But my attention is on Mayah, on the utter heartbreak etched across her face.
