Page 112 of The Reaping Rose

I nod, sending a ribbon of flame into the guard’s mind and finding the echoes of us. With careful precision, I burn those memories straight from his thoughts as if we were never here. As if we aren’t here at all, standing directly in front of him.

Greer doesn’t meet my gaze, knowing I’m using my magic. Knowing I need to if we’re going to go unnoticed. It’s clear she has her reasons for not liking what I wield. She’s not the first to feel that way, but what I do is necessary.

We travel through the camp, being seen but also not. No one here is strong enough to fight through my flames. Not like in the Ley Court when I had to avoid certain groups because their mental barriers were strong enough to keep me out.

We manage to make it through the camp without being noticed. There are five tents. Ten guards. A blacksmith works at one station, busier than the rest. This camp isn’t intended for battle. They’re gathering a rare turquoise metal that turns silver when heated. I’ve never seen it before, so it might only be found in Echme.

Father told stories about this place. He said the lightning is laced with something other here. A kiss of the gods. He said that while Fae can’t survive the strikes, the sand turns to something greater underneath where it’s been struck. Something unbreakable.

Glancing at Greer, I wonder if Father might have been wrong that no one can survive these storms. The lightning carved her, sharp as any metal, strong as any gods-blessed stone. She might as well be the lightning itself.

I’m still watching Greer as I turn over the necklace my mother gifted me, toying with it between my fingers. I follow her through the camp until she freezes in place.

A large flat boulder sits before us with a Fae bound in vines to the rock. His arms are stretched overhead, while his legs are tied down. Bloody cuts mar his exposed skin. Heavy gulps of breath choke out as he hangs on the brink of death. On the ground beside him is a blade with familiar symbols carved into it. A blade like those I haven’t seen in well over a century. A blade I couldn’t forget if I tried, given how, when it slices, it carves out more than just flesh and blood. It drains magic.

The Fae groans, having lost too much blood to fight.

Even immortality has its limits, especially now with the realms dying.

The Fae’s eyes meet mine, and I test the edges of his thoughts. His memories are fragments already fading. Weak and frayed. I stand before him, not bothering to claim what’s left as he clings to a vision of someone else that is far more comforting than what he sees here. His eyes might be on us, but he isn’t paying attention to me and Greer. He’s somewhere in his mind, waiting for the end.

Greer steps forward, sheathing her sword and pulling out a dagger.

Only then do I cloud the Fae’s vision. I strip her away. I don’t force him to watch as she brings the blade to his throat and slices it cleanly through. She shows him mercy when the guards here have shown none, sparing him this pain.

Rage brews in her eyes as she stands to face me. She’s clinging to my fire, and it burns hot in her eyes now. Orange flames of fury flicker. Her grip tightens on her dagger, dancing the edge of restraint like I am, when the click of a tongue comes from behind us.

I thought I’d hidden us from all the Fae in the camp, but what approaches now is a shadow that escaped my light.

Greer’s back stiffens, and we both turn to see Malachi’s adviser, Cyan, stepping out of a tent. A cloud of darkness weaves along the ground. Callum’s father stands in a pool of shadow. Ropes of midnight nothingness twist against my flames.

Cyan’s head tilts, watching us. “Welcome back, Maliren. We’ve been waiting for you.”

Chapter 38

Wilder

Rior’s arrow strikes the target dead center as I walk into the training square. Wood splices all the way through. Splinters shooting into the air.

He reaches back for another arrow, not turning toward me but no doubt hearing my approach. “Aurora’s in a terrible mood this morning. Why do I suspect that has something to do with you?”

Letting the arrow fly, it finds the notch of the other, splitting it in half.

“Show-off.” I chuckle, stripping off my daggers and setting them aside.

Rior glances back, hitching an eyebrow. Not saying a word and letting the judgment in his gaze do all the work in pushing me to respond to his comment.

I unsheathe my sword, spinning it in my hand. “Aurora will be fine. She’s hanging onto something that doesn’t exist.”

“Just because it doesn’t exist to you doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist to her.” Rior shoots another arrow, and it lands through the others.

He avoids looking at me, but I don’t miss the irritation spiking in his tone, knowing it has nothing to do with me and Aurora and is more about Celeste.

She’s his brother’s mate, but Rior met her first. They fell in love quickly, and he believed she was his. He described the bond between them as something beyond affection. A chord that struck his soul. It wasn’t until he introduced her to his brother that he learned the mating bond lied to him. That she was Roane’s mate, not his.

Mating bonds are written in the threads of fate. Like magic, those ties are bound by blood. It’s rare, but there are cases in which similar magic or family blood causes a mistaken mating bond.

I didn’t believe it was possible until I watched it happen to one of my oldest friends.