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“Vaelion Black’Thorn. Master of the Hunt.” Kelaros’s confidence returns as he speaks the name. “There is no better tracker in the Dark Sithe. If the court attempts to misdirect us, he will find the path. If the stag hunts us, Black’Thorn will hunt it back.”

That sounds like exactly the kind of bastard I want between me and the crystal monster.

Nyctarian considers Kelaros for a long moment. “No.”

Kelaros’s brows draw together. “Your Majesty?”

“Black’Thorn is unavailable.”

A tiny crack appears in Kelaros’s composure. “Recall him.”

Nyctarian’s shadows curl over his boots. “You have spent too much time away from court if you believe you can command my Master of the Hunt.”

Kelaros lowers his head. “I intended no offense.”

“Of course not.” Nyctarian studies the top of his head. “Had you been less rash to push my hand, we would have had time to prepare and gather those with skills enough to see this through. But your impatience has cost you.”

Nyctarian indicates the guards posted along the perimeter. “You will have guards of my choosing to lend you their swords.”

Kelaros takes in the guards, and for the first time since the Dark King began issuing orders, his composure slips.

Good.

If the snake doesn’t like them, I’ll take it as a point in our favor.

“We’ll also require weapons capable of penetrating the crystal constructs,” Kelaros says.

“My armory stands ready.”

“And time to prepare.”

“Moonrise tomorrow.”

“No.” The refusal leaves me before I consider who I’m contradicting.

Nyctarian turns slowly. “Excuse me?”

“Every hour we stand here discussing preparations is another hour Elionn spends trapped in crystal.” My palm aches in answer, the blood sigil a reminder he’s still there. “We go sooner.”

“The court nearly killed you once,” Nyctarian says. “I will not send my warriors through the rift unprepared because you are impatient.”

“I’m not impatient. I’m connected to the prince we’re trying to save.” The blood sigil throbs. “He’s running out of time.”

Nyctarian studies me before looking to Kelaros. “How long does he have?”

Kelaros’s hesitation is brief. “The court had already transformed much of him when we left. I cannot say when he will succumb to it.”

My teeth clench.

Nyctarian turns toward his guards. “You leave at moonrise.”

I open my mouth, but Theron’s hand squeezes the back of my neck in warning that pushing the Dark King further won’t get us through the rift any faster.

I swallow the argument.

Nyctarian dismisses us with a flick of his fingers, and the guards immediately break away to begin preparations.

Kelaros brushes past, bringing the metallic scent of his magic with him. “It seems we share a destiny, cousin.”