Page 24 of Sworn to the Shadow Throne

I wanted to ask how they’d caged her so I could break us both out. But the question never made it past my lips as her soft voice, humming a lullaby, followed me into the dark.

My last coherent thought wasn’t of escape or vengeance but of her—and the quiet certainty that knowing her would cost me something I’d never known I could give.

Chapter 9

Lunette

I could’ve given him some time to orient himself before healing him again. But the truth was, I’d pressed harder than necessary on his wound because the safest thing for me was to have him unconscious. I told myself it was the only sensible thing to do, even as guilt gnawed at me.

Yes, my stranger was obviously in agony, but pain had never stopped a person from being cruel. If anything, it usually made them meaner. I’d needed the reassurance that the giant with a battle wound and the unnerving ability to jolt my magic with a single touch wouldn’t be waking up fully before I had time to plan.

Fear was a stupid, persistent thing—like mildew and men with swords. It always snuck up on you in the quiet moments, whispering questions like, What have you done, Lunette? Who did you drag into your home?

I hadn’t expected him to wake up today. My gaze was drawn to the heap of his discarded gear. I hadn’t yet found the time to inspect the pile of his bloodstained, battle-dirtied clothing and armor. I had no idea who—or what—he might be. The priority since his arrival had been saving his life, but now that the stranger was lucid, I was itching to know more about him.

I quietly edged closer to the pile. The tunic was dark green and reeked of old blood, but the fabric was of fine make. The padding for his armor was made of a fiber finer than wool—the likes of which I’d never seen. Enchanted?

And his armor… My breath caught in my throat. He was not a mere soldier in the royal caravan. Every inch of the plate was covered in a detailed, engraved pattern that looked like it had been decorated by the steady hand of a master calligrapher. The passguards on the pauldrons were in the form of a great wolf’s grasping claws, and the greaves featured snarling direwolves, eternally prepared to strike out at his opponent.

My patient had to be one of the higher nobility.

Benevolent gods.

This was looking more and more like something I shouldn’t have involved myself with. And yet, there he was—still breathing. Which meant I wasn’t done yet.

I shook myself to stop staring at the evidence of a life so different from my own. I crouched beside the old storage chest, rubbing my arms to chase away the lingering tremors of magical exhaustion.

I usually only opened this time capsule once a year, but the stranger’s arrival was forcing me to dig through old wounds. Buried beneath spare blankets were the remnants of my parents’ lives. I found three things I’d been searching for: the last of my father’s whiskey stock, one of his old tunics, and a pair of trousers.

The whiskey bottle was dusty from years of sitting in storage, but the cork looked intact. I set it aside on the table along with a few clean towels. I wouldn’t be drinking it. At least, not yet. If this stranger continued to shock me like a lightning storm, I might have a small glass to calm my nerves. But for now, his wound was still filthy, and the smell of infection told me I needed something strong to clean it—the whiskey would have to do.

The clothes he’d arrived in were covered in blood and dirt. And I’d need to get him out of his trousers completely at some point so I could clean those too. I lifted my father’s old tunic toward the thin line of daylight slipping through the shutters. Yes. It was long enough, broad enough to fit. The trousers would be too short, but that couldn’t be helped.

He certainly wouldn’t fit into anything of mine without ripping the seams.

I needed to stay busy—anything to avoid thinking about the man sprawled unconscious on my floor. About the rich and powerful trouble probably trailing behind him. Anything to avoid thinking about the way his eyes had softened when they’d met mine, even half-delirious.

Or the shadows I swore I’d seen around him. Had I been half out of my mind?

None of that was helpful to think about with so much to do.

I needed to make a broth. And clean the floors. And eat. All with a pounding headache from using too much magic for too many days in a row.

Apparently, the correct response to making horrible, life-altering decisions was soup. I already felt steadier when I returned from the root cellar with the makings for a hearty broth. I got to work. Still, my thoughts kept circling back to that bolt of something—lightning, magic, Fate, whatever it was—that had shot through me as violently as any spell. I kept waiting to feel normal again, but my heart still wasn’t beating right whenever I was around him.

I didn’t like mysteries that lived under my skin.

He was most certainly a mage. Maybe the shadows I’d seen were part of some illusion he hadn’t meant to cast. I couldn’t be certain until I asked him.

There were a few magic-sensitive people in Selmont, but my family had always been the only ones with true power. I’d met several mages in passing when I was a child but hadn’t spent more than a handful of minutes around one unrelated to me in more than a decade. My family’s existence had always been a secret, along with all the other Fae-descended families hiding in the borderlands. For safety, we didn’t even know where each other lived.

I looked over at the armor again. Gods, I was in so far over my head. The knot of dread in my stomach was growing larger with every breath.

I sat at the table and took up an old shirt I hadn’t yet finished mending, the rhythmic pull of the needle through the cloth a comforting sound. It quieted my mind as I listened to the soup simmering on the hearth and tried to ignore Muffin scratching at the door.

Little terror.

His reaction to my patient had been so overblown, I wouldn’t risk letting him in again for a while.