“Xander,” he whispered in a low tone, as if saying the name cost him something.
“And he’s your—” I started, pinching the torn skin of the shifter’s brow together.
Gilen’s eyes snapped to mine. “He’s not a lover.” He swallowed hard, sighing. “He… he was my beta.”
“Oh,” I said softly. “That’s—”
“It’s not something you’ll ever understand.”
And with that, he turned and ran into the forest.
Well, alright then.
I had barely knotted the last stitch when the valley erupted. Shots cracked through the air between the mountains. Sharp snapping sounds echoed against the rocks along the base, followed by mournful cries rising with them. The deaths of humans, shifters, and High Fae all blending into one mournful chorus that would haunt me until my dying breath. The ground trembled beneath the weight of clashing forces, the scent of smoke drifting in on a rising wind.
I pressed a clean wrap to Xander’s middle, binding a different wound tight. “Stay with me,” I whispered, though he was still unconscious.
Great, now I’m talking to people who can’t even hear me.
A horn sounded to the south, and my breath stilled.
From where our healers’ station opened to the battlefield, I noticed that Minaeve’s human force had broken formation. They weren’t pressing toward the shifter flank. Instead, they were turning, charging straight toward the river that cut like a hidden wound between the mountains.
“The High Fae ships,” I whispered, hope beaming bright against the sound of battle.
Fae sailors flew the banner of Skylar and Daxton, bows raised and decks lined with new High Fae eager to join this fight. The human forces surged toward them in a brutal wave, and at the very front of that wave, astride a familiar black warhorse, was my father.
A pulse of something hot and fierce shot through me.
I tightened the last knot in Xander’s bandage with trembling fingers, then shoved my tools back into my half-empty satchel. Around me, healers shouted warnings, supplies clattered, and someone screamed for help. But everything fell into a blur, washed out beneath the pounding in my ears.
“Fidela!” I called.
My mare’s head snapped up from where she’d been tethered. She whinnied sharply, sensing my urgency. Before I could think better of it, I hauled myself onto her back, taking the reins. My heart hammered as loud as the cannons firing from the river.
“Go, Fidela!” I said, kicking her side, before I could change my mind.
We tore into the fray, dodging fleeing shifters and streaks of High Fae blades battling against mages, their magic lighting the space in blinding color. Dirt and ash flipped from the worn grass and stung my cheeks. But still, I rode faster, pushing through chaos that I had no business entering.
But my father was there.
I didn’t have a clue what I was going to do, but something deep inside me said I had to try to bring him back.
Fidela’s hooves thundered beneath me as we crossed the last stretch of blood-soaked grass. All around us, soldiers clashed, magic shrieked across the sky, and the valley rang with cries of pain and fury. But I barely saw any of it.
My father, King Taran, rode at the front of the human forces. His expression was carved from stone—hard and merciless. Not the man who once taught me to ride. Not the man who, despite his grief, raised me to become his heir and lead with my heart.
“Father!” I shouted.
His head jerked toward me. His horse skidded to a halt, hooves churning mud and chunks of grass. For a moment, I thought he recognized me. Then I saw it… A dark shimmer slid across his eyes, like something beneath the surface was trying to claw its way out, or perhaps hold him in.
“Minaeve…” I whispered. “What has she done to you?”
“Réalta.” His voice was all wrong, like he was someone else. “You should not be here.”
“Father, please,” I begged, easing Fidela closer even as the mare snorted nervously, ears pinned back. “Fight her. I know you’re still in there. Look at me! Please!”
His gaze twitched, and for a moment, here in the thick of battle, I thought I had him. But then his grip tightened around the hilt of his sword, and a tremor of dark magic pulsed through the air, raising the hairs on my arms.
