“No Fae within Tartarus will be able to harm you until the appeal,” Wormwood pronounced. “When you will battle the Koenig and two fighters of his choosing using broadswords on the night of Vestan’s crescent moon. You may also select two individuals to fight alongside you. Your first choice?”
“Mireille Valette,” Cassandra declared and Mireille bowed with a satisfied grin.
“The apothecarist?” Wormwood’s eyebrows rose. “An interesting choice, but it is yours to make. Who will be your second choice?”
Cassandra surveyed the crowd. The Brethren avoided her stare, looking at their feet or toward the ceiling.
Cassandra’s eyes landed on Ronin, and he knew what she was going to say before she opened her mouth.
Wasthisthe role he was destined to play? The role that chronomancer in Kheimos had spoken of all those centuries ago? Through all his work with the Teles Chrysos, all the spying and the mind games, he hadn’t felt as strong a tug in his chest as he felt now. As if something—or someone—was urging him toward this path.
“Well?” Wormwood said, exasperated. “Get on with it. Who is your second selection?”
Cassandra’s fierce blue-gray eyes found his face, and his wolf yipped and pranced within him.
He’d barely finished nodding his acceptance before Cassandra sang out, “Ronin Matakos.”
His name echoed through the hall, through his bones, through his soul.
“Ronin Matakos will be my second fighter.”
At that, Mireille finally looked at him.
And smiled.
Mireille letRonin and Cassandra into the small apartment above her apothecary shop.
“Cozy,” Cassandra said around an exhausted laugh that matched Ronin’s spirit.
Mireille hadn’t said two words to Ronin since the trio had left the castle, directing all her questions toward Cassandra instead. Mireille had asked how Cassandra knew who she was, and the little traitor didn’t even glance back for permission before she outed him. Told Mireille that Ronin had spilled their entire history at the intake tower.
Mireille tossed an annoyed look over her shoulder, but he didn’t fucking care. It was his story to tell, too. He tried not to beinsulted that Cassandra didn’t even scold Mireille for taking his eye.
At one point, Cassandra stopped Mireille in the middle of the street and gathered her into a tight embrace. Tears lined her eyes as she thanked Mireille for saving her life.
Ronin had stood awkwardly behind them, scratching at the back of his neck, uncomfortable with the display of emotion.
Mireille had stiffened in the embrace. But as she wrapped her arms around Cassandra, carefully avoiding the wings, her gaze rose to Ronin.
And he swore he saw something like gratitude shining there.
For what, he didn’t know. For protecting Cass during her sentencing? For helping her through the mists? For agreeing to this half-mad scenario where Mireille and Ronin would fight alongside Cass in a battle with a centuries-old, mutilated Windrider who controlled an entire city of the Empire’s prisoners?
This was all so fucked.
But he didn’t turn away from Mireille as she squeezed Cass tighter. Merely dipped his head in silent recognition.
He had a bad feeling it was about to be two against one.
Creator fucking spare him.
He shook off those thoughts as he surveyed the small, open living space. A scuffed leather couch and armchair were arranged before a stone fireplace. Beyond the sitting area was a wooden dining table with three chairs and a primitive kitchen. No stove, no refrigerator, none of the magical appliances he was used to on the continent. Though he did spy a faucet above the large porcelain sink, thank the Goddess. It had been centuries since he’d lived without the convenience of running water—not since he was a young pup in Denevrae—and he’d gotten quite used to the luxury. Hopefully that meant there was a shower as well.
Mireille piped up, “It’s not much, but you’ll be safe here. Not to mention you’ve got the protection of that blood vow upon you, Cassandra.”
“You can call me Cass.” She offered Mireille a warm, weary smile. “All my friends do.”
That gorgeous blush that Ronin remembered well—toowell—stole across Mireille’s cheeks. She’d barely had any friends back in Kheimos and the clean, utilitarian space he now found himself in suggested that hadn’t changed during her imprisonment.
