“You shouldn’t have made Sulon bow like that,” she hisses as soon as her booted feet touch the ground. “The men will resent me for it. You’re not doing me any favors.”
She looks so fucking adorable, brows drawn tight, teeth bared in a snarl, that it’s difficult to keep a straight face.
“I lost my temper. I’m sorry.” My lips twitch.
Her mouth parts in surprise before she snaps her jaw shut with an audible clack. The fury in her icy gaze doesn’t melt, but she nods stiffly. I glance at the men—one of the nonwielders starts a fire, while the earthwielders quickly grow food.
“I need to sit with the men,” I murmur, turning back to her. “I’ve been gone for so long, it’s important to rebuild rapport. Do you feel comfortable sitting with us?”
Her eyes cut to the men, then back to me. “I’ll come. But I won’t tolerate disrespect,” she warns.
“I’d be disappointed if you did.”
We walk to where the soldiers sit in a circle. Druzak roasts freshly grown stalks of corn over the fire.
There are two open spots on opposite sides of the fire—I wait for the men to rearrange themselves, but they don’t. I grit my teeth. If I ordered them to move so Mayah could sit beside me, she’d likely be pissed and throw something at me.
So, in an epic show of self-restraint, I say nothing.
I squeeze in beside Druzak, and Mayah sits across from me. The men have the sense to give her a wide berth, pressing against each other to give her more space.
Mayah stares at the corn, her eyes flickering with an emotion I can’t decipher. She seems to enjoy it, though, when she peels back the husk and bites into the charred kernels.
I ask each of the soldiers about their families and their health. Thankfully, they keep their responses clean. Normally, we’d hear about their dalliances.
“Any trouble with the Rebellion?” I reach for another stalk of corn.
“No, sire. They’ve been quiet since the attack on your party,” Druzak says. He laughs, adding, “Probably nursing their wounds after facing your wrath.”
The other men laugh in agreement, some of them slapping me on the back. My gaze cuts to Mayah—she wants to roll her eyes, I know it. I quirk a smile at her, and her gaze drops to her lap.
“What about the palace?” I add, still looking at Mayah.
“Er, just a rumor, sire,” Druzak continues. “But the Volcans might be sending an emissary. There’s been whispers about a battalion being sent to the coast to accompany them.”
The Volcans?
Mayah meets my gaze, concern shadowing her pretty eyes, and I find myself wondering the same thing that likely plagues her: what has my father been up to?
And what does it mean for Mayah?
Chapter Twenty
Thecapitalcityrisesbefore us. I’ve never been particularly enthused returning home between battle campaigns, though I’ve never felt this despondent either. A crushing wave of loss courses through me, choking me with its intensity.
This is the end of our journey.
Green and brown banner flags flap above us as our steed trots along the cobblestone streets. The familiar scent of cheap ale and mushroom stew drifts through the air as we pass my favorite tavern—it’s been an age since I’ve visited Faraway and his wife. I nearly point it out to her, then snap my mouth shut. Faramir will never allow me to take Mayah out of the palace alone.
Allow. The word curdles my stomach.
The sounds of chatter grow louder as we turn onto the main road. Mayah’s kept a respectful distance between her chest and my back on the second leg of our trek, but even still, I sense her body tensing.
As we ride through, the visible switch from adoration to hatred in the eyes of my subjects, the faltering of their cheers, sendsrage scorching through my veins. Mayah leans closer into me, arms tightening around my waist, though I’m not sure she even realizes it.
Farther down the road, a middle-aged man elbows his way toward the front of the crowd. There’s a fucking tomato in his hand.
My knuckles whiten on the reins while the sky darkens overhead.
