Soul of Ice (Chronicles of Dawn)

Chapter Twenty-Two

Leirie’s hands clenched the edge of the tub, constricting as she recalled the frantic beats of the mortal soldiers’ hearts in the garrison today. The way their blood coursed with every swing of their swords or strike they deflected.

It would be so easy to take too, she thought to herself, though she’d hardly call any of her thoughts her own these days. It felt like someone else was slowly taking over—slowly draining her of who she used to be. She wanted to pass the blame onto her transition, but that wasn’t it. Not entirely. In truth, it was the shadow in her blood. The darkened parts of herself she’d kept tucked away most of her life—the transition was simply the one to finally shed light on it all.

I can teach you how to control it, my little butterfly.

Her mother’s words. She’d been so certain she would be here when Leirie was ready. A power like her mother’s—like hers —prayers to the divines would have no sway. They would turn their heads to her, because unlike her affinity for water, this one was wrong . It was unnatural. So she hid it away, much like her mother had to, afraid that if others realized what they could do, the Court of the Sun would strip everything from their family. Blood cravings that came with the curse would be the least of their concerns.

Because they’re jealous of your power , she surmised, her features firming. Maybe Fynn was right about the mortals. It wasn’t fear that fueled their disdain; it was envy . A bitter grudge they passed on to each generation.

“No,” she said to the vacant glow of her bathing chamber, rising from the lukewarm water to snatch up the nearest towel.

They feared for their futures and their children. The fae weren’t many, but they were immortal. They had the promise of everlasting existence, and that’s where a fae’s power truly lay—not in their affinities, speed, or strength, but in time.

Having barely slipped into a silken nightgown, slow knocks sounded at the door to Leirie’s suite. Not having expected any visitors tonight, she frowned, reluctantly making her way over.

Her fingers curled around the handle, cracking the door just enough to peer out. Breath caught in her lungs as she found a set of weary, obsidian eyes.

“Fynn?” she whispered harshly, mostly from the shock of seeing a fae that wasn’t a soldier in this part of the keep. “How did you get into the west wing?” Fae without authorization from the king weren’t permitted in the west wing.

“Very carefully,” Fynn whispered humorously through the narrow slit of the doorway, turning briefly to glance over his shoulder. Likely making sure he couldn’t be seen or heard. “May I come in?”

As if he expected her to say no, he hoisted a sealed green bottle of what appeared to be wine within her line of sight. “I brought an offering.” He dangled the container of sloshing red liquid.

Leirie couldn’t help but smile back at the mischief in his tone. Really, she should say no. That would be the proper thing to do, considering the hour and how she stood in nothing but a nightgown. But of all the things she had done in the past few days, enjoying another’s company in the comfort of her own room seemed the smallest of her sins.

She stepped back enough for the door to open, letting him slip inside, wondering aloud as he made his way over to the table she used for dining in her room. “What are you doing here? Not that I’m not glad you stopped by, I just didn’t expect to see you in the west wing. And so late too.” Leirie took a breath in, and then out, hoping any amount of air would simmer the heat in her blood, but only managed to take in the smell of him in the process.

“I know it’s late, I’m sorry. I only just now finished up with everything and wanted to check on you. I haven’t seen you all day.”

He wanted to check on her…

Don’t read into it, Leirie , she ordered herself, shutting down the skip in her heart.

“So, where have you been all day?” It was far from the impassiveness she’d hoped to masquerade her meddling with. And in what world did a prince owe her any explanation for how he spent his time?

Fynn set the bottle beside her barely touched meal—something about the dish tasted a little off tonight, and she couldn’t force any more of it down.

“Where haven’t I been would be a better question. Running errands for my father, meeting with some Thesian nobles…” His words trailed off when his stare drifted up from the table, sliding along her attire.

That wicked heat returned, and she slung her arms across her chest, now feeling less than clothed beneath his gaze. Grabbing the closest piece of fabric she could find, Leirie draped a woolen blanket over her shoulders, tugging the material tight. From where she stood, the fire lit up his face enough to see that he had a flush to his cheeks.

A knowing grin materialized and dispersed before his face eventually pulled away, taking in the span of the drawing room, where her things were in the process of being packed up for Cillica.

“But I’m not here to talk about myself. I heard you spent the day with Runa. How did that go?” His voice was mostly teasing, but there was a bit of tension to the inquiry. Like he was wondering if his sister had behaved herself.

Leirie pondered the many sides of the Calaechian princess she’d seen in their time together today. “Runa is…”

“Mouthy?” Fynn attempted to finish her sentence.

She chuckled at the accusation—a valid one, definitely. “I was going to say fun. And very, very direct.”

“A trait she inherited from our mother, I’m afraid. It’ll likely be the death of her one day.”

“Well, I think she’s great. You both are,” she added quietly, awkwardly swaying on the balls of her feet to counteract the strange tingles of her skin.

His cheeriness seemed to melt away. “I wouldn’t be so sure of that. I’ve been rather selfish lately.”

“Seems like you had a pretty long day, but you still took the time to come and check on me. I think that’s the opposite of selfish.” She imagined it was because of her transition. On their walk in the gardens, Fynn confessed his struggles throughout his own transition, listing a few suggestions for overcoming parts of the curse.

Distractedly twirling the bottle by its cork, Fynn chewed on his bottom lip. “This is the part where I tell you I came to ask for something.”

She hesitated initially, the sudden shift in his demeanor putting an end to the swell in her chest. “What is it?” she insisted, her demand coming out a little too stiffly.

The bottle stilled its light scrapes against the wooden surface. “There’s this girl, and for the life of me, I can’t seem to get her out of my head.”

Her stomach dropped with the mention of another. Suri—it had to be.

“I can’t say for certain if she feels the same way, but…” Fynn shook his head, almost nervously raking his fingers through his copper waves. “I know we hardly know each other. It’s a feeling , though, you know?” His eyes met hers then, and even though she wanted to look away, she couldn’t. Those dark irises were a prison and a sanctuary all in one.

Why had she done exactly what she forbid herself from doing? Knowing from the very beginning he was interested in Surina. But still, she’d hoped, despite the obvious. This was why he’d been so kind to her.

No, that wasn’t true. He was kind to her because that’s who he was, she just wanted it to mean more.

Fynn stepped out from the table separating them, his brows pinching together as he appeared to notice her shifting mood. “Leirie?”

“I’ll talk to Suri for you, if you want.”

“Suri?” he queried, head cocking to the side like she’d spoken in some other language.

All she could do was loose a shaky breath, her eyes closing briefly before saying, “Surina.”

He chuckled, halting just an arm’s length away, and the sweet, woodsy scent of him filled the air. “I assumed you meant Surina, I just don’t see what she has to do with this.”

“Because she’s a princess, and she’s next in line for one of the thrones of Thesia.”

“She is both of those things, yes, but I’m not talking about her.” Fynn lifted a fair hand to brush a curl from her cheekbone, the touch sending a tidal wave of splendid goosebumps across her body—she would never get used to the strange warmth of his skin. “I’m talking about you , Leirie.”

“Me?” The question was a breath on her lips.

“You.” His eyes diverted from the curl, resting on her gaze. “I came here tonight to ask you to stay. I’ll be here until the Solstice, at least. I could guide you through the beginnings of your transition. Help you fight the impulses that come with it.”

Anything that came after his confession hardly registered, at least until all the blood rushing through her veins finally made its way back into her head. Offering to help her through the transition—his control really was a marvel for only having been a changed fae for a few months. Restraint like that was unheard of, though. Extraordinary, even. But he didn’t have the same curse to carry as she did. Her strength and speed would be nothing compared to the greed of her power when the hunger finally sparked.

“I don’t know…” She freed herself from his stare long enough to take a step back, but his hand slipped into hers, preventing any further retreat.

“At least consider it,” he whispered, and while she hadn’t admitted to sharing in his confessed feelings, she could tell he’d already come to that conclusion on his own.

As much as she was floating on air from hearing him ask her to stay, “I’ll consider it,” was all she could promise in the moment, but the glimmer in his eyes made her wonder if he took that as a yes.

“Then I’ll leave you to it.” Fynn pressed a kiss to the back of her hand, like he’d done many times over, only this time, his lips lingered. “Goodnight, Leirie.”

Breath didn’t come naturally as she labored to get enough air into her lungs to simply return, “Good night.”

Sweeping past her, he paused at the door, shoving a hand into a pocket and grabbing the handle with the other. “The wine —” he nodded at the corked bottle, “—it has just enough to take the edge off, when you need it.”

“The edge?”

Before he could form a reply, knocks pounded at the door, making her heart lurch.

“Expecting someone?” A wry grin played at the corner of his mouth, intrigue bringing his brows together.

Leirie shook her head, clutching the blanket tighter. She hadn’t even expected him tonight. Speaking of, it really wasn’t such a great idea for him to be the one to answer the door if—

Clearly not having the same regard for self-preservation, Fynn slung the door wide open, and a frantic princess stumbled into the drawing room, clothes strewn and rumpled around her frame.

She barely caught herself on the handle before her stare lifted to find Fynn. Surina’s head swung sideways to Leirie before ultimately landing back on the prince.

“Fynn? What are you doing here?” she blurted with widened eyes, tinged with red. Her throat sounded like nails scraping down tree bark—she’d been crying. And that smell…

Something beyond the usual sweet jasmine of her scent. Sweeter than anything Leirie’s new sense of smell had picked up on all day.

And with that intoxicating aroma was another—something invasive and claiming. She didn’t get much time to dwell on it before she spotted the sliver of opened flesh on her friend’s hand. The wound was already healing, but even the sight of scarlet made her pulse hasten.

“I was only stopping by to…” Fynn’s voice dragged her out of whatever stupor she’d fallen into.

Leirie had to force herself to look away, nails digging deep into the flesh of her own palms. “He was just making sure we were still on for the tour of the city tomorrow.”

“Right. Can’t wait.” Fynn grinned, offering a thanks in the form of a nod.

Surina’s stare flicked between the two of them. She didn’t believe any of it, Leirie guessed. They’d been friends for too long for either of them to hide anything from one another.

Apart from what you keep from her now , her thoughts corrected.

Shuffling a step backwards, Surina’s voice was hardly a whisper when she spoke. “I should go. Sorry to interrupt.”

“I was just leaving.” Fynn stepped to the side to open the door further. “Honest,” he added with a sure nod, extending an arm out to beckon her inside.

With that, Suri eased into the room, not quite meeting Fynn’s eyes as she slipped past him.

The uneasiness Leirie sensed between the two of them was a little strange. So unlike the first night she saw them together at dinner. Maybe Leirie had simply overestimated their fondness for one another.

“Is there something going on between you and Fynn?” Suri asked when the door shut behind her. She even gave it a few moments after his departure—likely to ensure he couldn’t listen in with his hearing.

Suri always hated the boundaries fae hearing crossed. She would hate you, too, if she knew what you were listening to now . The steady thrum of Surina’s blood pouring through her veins.

“No,” Leirie stated flatly. She wasn’t even sure why she felt the need to lie, and it was nauseating how easily it came out. To her best friend. “My position just requires me to spend a lot of time with him.”

Once again, Suri didn’t seem to buy it. “Just be careful around him, Leirie. He’s only been changed for a few months. You don’t know what he’s capable of.”

What you’ll be capable of , was all she heard.

“He’s not like the others.” And with Fynn’s help, maybe Leirie would have a chance at normalcy after her transition. Or something close to it.

“He’s still a Blackwell.”

A shocking chill slithered down Leirie’s spine. Whether it was from hearing the Blackwell name, or the fury that arose with the need to defend Fynn, she wasn’t planning on letting that accusation slide. “And what about the Nightwoods?” Leirie countered, her words a ruthless inquiry.

Surina flinched, mouth parting and closing before she curled her arms in around herself. “You heard,” she sighed.

“From the servants, when I should have heard it from you.” The words tasted bitter in her mouth, but it didn’t feel like she was in complete control.

Surina’s head snapped up then, and the grip she maintained around her arms tightened, a slight hiss brushing past her lips. “That’s why I’m here, Leirie. There’s a lot I have to tell you. I… It was a mistake. He was a mistake.”

Leirie’s nostrils flared when that sweetness from earlier thickened the air, and her heart struck hard against her chest when she finally recognized the other smell that mingled with her friend’s. One of frosted mint, just like that of the king’s. And it wasn’t just resting on her flesh or in every breath Suri took—it was in her blood .

He drank from her.

She didn’t know how she knew it, but the king had tasted her blood, and all she could think about was how maddening it was just to even smell it. But to taste it…

The muscles in her jaw strained, teeth snapping together with a click as she sealed them shut. “I think you need to leave, Suri,” she barely managed to grit out.

“Leirie,” Suri pleaded softly, the hurt gathering in the back of her throat. More tears welled around her eyes. “I wasn’t trying to keep it from you, I swear. Everything just happened so fast.”

Hardly able to hear a single word Surina said after her arms fell to her sides, Leirie saw that whatever was healing on her palm had opened up, the proof smeared onto the loose fabric of her blouse.

She needed to leave— now .

“ Just go, Suri.” The power she forced into her command fell from her lips, immediately fizzling out. The sensation of her magic left her body, but the command did nothing, sweeping past her friend like a breeze. It had never done that before.

A wind slid over Leirie’s flesh then, and gentle as it might have been, in its tendrils lay a warning—a silent reprimand it returned to the over-reach of her power.

“If you just let me explain, Leirie,” Surina offered, inching towards her, but Leirie opposed it, wobbling a step backwards.

“Where is this coming from?” Suri’s tone grew assertive, the sorrow from earlier morphing into a red-hot flush that consumed her ears and cheeks. “This can’t just be about Ezra, so what is it?”

There was something different about the way she said the king’s name this time, though she’d heard Surina say it a thousand times before. A mistake, Suri had called it—it didn’t sound like a mistake. Not to her ears.

Another wave of Suri’s blood washed over her, and her lashes fluttered with the smell, where only the pierce of her nails into her own flesh broke that lure. “I can’t do this tonight. Please, just go.”

“I don’t have anyone else to talk to,” Surina croaked.

That heated anger shattered the moment tears slid down Surina’s cheeks. Every drop begged Leirie to silence that pain, to pull her into her arms, but she needed Suri far, far away. At least until she was stable enough to tell her the truth.

“I don’t care, Suri! I’m tired of always being the one to clean up your messes. Deal with it yourself this time. Now get out !” Leirie could feel the heightened force of her magic leaving with the words. It was more than she’d ever put into a command—more than she’d ever wanted anything in her life, and while the magic dispersed into thin air, just as before, the pain in her friend’s features told her she didn’t need magic to push her away. She was doing it all on her own. Through the lies and secrecy.

Those storming, blue-gray eyes let the tears fall, her lips trembling as she rendered a slow nod. And so she left, though her scent lingered for seconds after, stretching into minutes and…

By the Mother, time didn’t even feel the same as Lierie fought every instinct to chase after her friend.

But what would she do if she caught up to her? Comfort her? Tear into her? She didn’t trust the curse—she didn’t trust herself.

With quivering steps, Leirie made it to the sofa, curling her legs up to her chest. She sat there, head pressed against her knees, until the smell of Suri was hardly a memory, but when she peered down at the table in front of her, she spotted a note attached to the bottle Fynn left behind.

There isn’t much, but it’ll help , he’d written.

Her brows furrowed, but the moment she popped the cork on the bottle, she understood.

Laced wine.

From what she could tell, he was right, there wasn’t much blood in it. Even still, it riled her pulse. She replaced the cork, shoving it back into place to seal the smell away, but her fingers maintained the tight grip around the neck of the bottle.

Once the cork was removed, the enchantment placed upon it, the one that ensured the blood remained fresh inside, would be broken.

It would be wrong to let a gift go to waste like that .

In a blink, she plucked the cork free again, her heart leaping as she stirred back and forth in her mind. She thought she had more time, but in the end, there would be no fighting it, not when the fate of this curse had been sealed a thousand years ago.

Fynn told her it would help, and she trusted him. So she took the first step, letting the curse take the rest.

◆◆◆

Following Surina’s trail of vanilla and jasmine, unable to control the icy haze that drifted along his fingertips, Ezra made his way down the western wing. His hands twitched at his sides, curling into strained fists.

He should have told her the full truth last night when he had the chance, and all of this could have been avoided. This was always meant to be his fate, though, and what little time he’d gotten with her was simply a blessing.

Stopping where Surina’s scent twisted down a separate hallway, leading to Lady Windspire’s room, he breathed deeply, savoring its sweet caress, and how it mingled with the scent left from his own. But there was another he picked up on. Masculine and woodsy.

That gods-damn prince.

However the Windspire girl spent her time was of no concern to him, but what was his concern was Surina’s safety.

Letting out a low whistle, he didn’t have to wait long before two silhouettes materialized behind him.

“Stay with the princess tonight. Ensure she makes it back to her room,” Ezra ordered of his soldiers as he glared in the direction of the Windspire girl’s suite. “Alone,” he added after a moment of consideration.

She could hate him all she liked, but there was no fucking way he was leaving her on her own, and since she didn’t want to see him right now, these two were his only option. Besides, there was another Fairlight he had every intention of meeting with tonight. Moira would have to wait, because this couldn’t. Not any longer.

He caught one last drag of her scent before taking off, daring to think of how she felt on his fingers. Every fiber of his being ached for more of her. Over a year now it had been Surina he pictured when he gripped himself, imagining all the blissful sounds she would make beneath his touch, tonight being only a taste of the ungodly things he wanted to do to her. For her. She felt the same, he could sense as much. With just a mention of her slickness, her desire sparked into pure, molten chaos.

She probably regretted every second of it now. Blaming it on the saliva in her blood, no doubt. But his saliva wouldn’t make her go that far—that want was there long before her blood ever graced his lips.

By the gods, her blood. Her blood, which called to him at all hours— sang to him even in sleep. Her heart was like a songbird, and he was the cat, waiting for the cage to open. Instinct drove him to it—a predatory need to mark her. Claim her. His own version of a sun scar, he supposed, and just like the beast in her nightmares, Ezra had proved to be yet another monster.

The warmth that rose in his blood with the images of them in his bed quickly cooled when he found himself before the Fairlight king’s study.

Sound never traveled beyond the wooden doors of the room, but with multiple Castmont soldiers positioned outside, he had an idea of who he’d be interrupting tonight.

The guards knew better than to halt his entry as he whipped a wind powerful enough to toss the doors wide open, a frosted cloud spilling into the chamber, ruffling any papers not weighed down on the massive oak table in the center.

Ezra cocked a brow at the general, who had drawn his sword in the midst of the confusion, already angled to defend his king and daughter, which he amended with widened eyes when he saw Ezra, shoving his sword back into place and offering an apologetic bow in its stead.

It was Cyril who opened his mouth first, as usual. “Ezra? What on earth are you doing?”

“I need to speak with you,” he voiced nonchalantly, strolling in to pluck a glass paperweight from the table they were huddled around. He summoned an invisible torrent of air, hovering the bauble in a spiral just above his palm. “Privately.”

Cyril’s gaze shot daggers into the side of his face. “We’re in the middle of something. Can it wait?”

A sneering laugh escaped as he brought the bauble back onto the hardened wood, the force shattering the glass into sharpened fragments, freezing over to form a spiked cluster of ice.

That seemed to get their attention, a silence filling the room like the rising chill.

Always the bad guy—which, he supposed he enjoyed, if it got him what he wanted.

“Very well,” Cyril grumbled, glancing between General Castmont and Dahlia—his mate.

He could smell the bond between the two, and it was all he could do to feign a bitter aloofness as they murmured their goodbyes. Mating bonds were powerful—so powerful that even Dahlia would risk scowling at Ezra, a warning not to trifle with her mate.

It was a laughable threat, and he likely would have actually laughed, if not for the pang of envy that arose in receiving such a gesture. That someone would risk whatever it took to keep their mate safe, even if it meant forfeiting their own life. Maybe it was the bond that forced such loyalty, but he didn’t care. Fate was fate, regardless of the circumstances.

Ezra studied the large spread of a map lining the table’s surface as he awaited the Castmonts’ departure. Montrove, a city that wasn’t large enough to be considered a duchy, but still a necessity to Thesia, was dotted with several red markers—documented accounts of attacks from the northern boundary. To the north was the cursed woodlands of the Wilds, and if the ore in the mines weren’t so invaluable to their kingdom, Ezra would have relinquished the territory long ago to the bastard creatures residing there. It cost too much to maintain security in the region, so much that they’d allowed Calaechian assistance, in exchange for the ore they aided in protecting.

“Well? If it was important enough to barge into my study in the middle of a brief, then get on with it.” Cyril’s untempered attitude snapped Ezra from his militarized brooding.

“It’s Surina,” Ezra returned, no mockery in his tone. Now it was about her, and not even their petty grievances mattered when it came down to it.

Cyril stiffened with the mention of his sister, staring Ezra down as if he was the root cause to all of Surina’s misfortune. “Where is she? Is she hurt?”

Twirling a finger through the air, Ezra awaited the unique gift Sienna had passed on to her spawn, which Cyril immediately picked up on. His face burned a nearly apple red as an orb of air consumed the entirety of the study, blocking them into a sound-sealed barrier.

“She’s fine,” Ezra continued once he was certain their voices wouldn’t escape.

His eyes narrowed with the obvious accusation, explaining in as much detail as his memories could recall of today, starting with her training, and how something seemed off. Now, he knew Cyril was the one behind that, riling the doubt in her already fragile trust. He kept that enmity aside, though, for now, and ended with the creature that manifested through her wild magic—something that shouldn’t be possible. If anyone was capable of doing the impossible, though, it was Surina.

Fuck, even now he was in awe of what she’d done. Even with the crushing fear of losing her, he couldn’t push that wonderment aside. She was remarkable in every way.

“By the Mother,” Cyril breathed, his eyes darting around the room, not seeming to find anything that could settle exactly what Ezra felt upon watching it all unfold. “We knew her magic would be difficult to predict, but this is far beyond what Moira imagined. Are you sure that’s what you saw?”

Ezra nodded. “It’s normal for fae approaching their transition to release potent bursts of magic when they lose control of their emotions.” As he spoke it, it sounded like an empty explanation for a miracle. She was born with the ability to manifest four affinities, as well as steal the tethered elements from another, and that, in itself, was something worth killing over, but to bring something to life ? Many would stop at nothing to possess that kind of power— or destroy it .

“There is nothing normal about her, Ezra, and you know it. I know it.” The Fairlight king shook his head. “ They knew it.”

For once, they could agree on something, but he didn’t like the way her own brother spoke of her as if she were some uncertainty. She was still Surina, regardless of this awakening power.

Cyril’s fingertips dragged over the map, pausing to the south of Thesia’s capital. “I thought we would have more time with her before the transition, but it’s evidently not safe for her here anymore. With the eyes of our courts, the Calaechians, and these murders, perhaps it’s best she be moved elsewhere. Somewhere more secure. Kian Castmont has agreed to open his home to her and maintain the utmost secrecy—”

“She isn’t leaving. I won’t allow it.” There was no gods-damn way he was trusting anyone beyond his own men anymore. The Castmonts knew very little of Surina’s abilities—apart from Galen, who’d sworn at the end of Ezra’s own blade that he’d die with the knowledge of what went beyond Surina’s affinities for water or air, as well as what truly happened the night of the accords.

Cyril wasn’t the slightest bit pleased with Ezra’s pushback, returning with, “What difference does it make if she leaves now or after her Awakening? She doesn’t belong here, Ezra. She never has.”

The difference was how wrong he was about being able to let her go. Before, he never let himself imagine the things that now consumed his every waking thought. How her hair shone in the sun or beneath the warmth of the chandeliers. The way she seemed to know just how to make him smile, or infuriate him to no end. And someone wanted to take that away from him? Take her away from him?

“She’s your sister. You would pull her from everything and everyone she’s ever known?”

“It’s because she’s my sister that I have to let her go. You need to let her go.” The deep hum of Cyril’s tone deepened, the closest thing to a growl that Ezra would allow. “You used to believe that just as much as I do. It’s the one thing I admired about you.”

“Don’t fucking patronize me, Cyril.” Ezra took a step towards the golden-haired king. “She should know the truth— all of the truth. Then she can decide for herself.”

“It doesn’t work like that.”

His fingers twitched at his sides. “No one knows how it fucking works! All we have to go on is the word of a gods-damned dragon!”

“We can trust Moira. You should know that, considering she’s the only reason you’re still alive,” Cyril said with the usual amount of disdain when bringing up the past.

Ezra snorted a laugh, though the memories of the accords were nowhere near humorous.

“Send her to Castmont Keep then, but she’ll go knowing the truth. All of the truth.” Ezra waited for the male’s temper to materialize with the barrier’s flickering winds. All he was met with was a curious chuckle though.

“My gods, you actually think she would choose you ?”

For the first time, Ezra was speechless, Cyril’s question like an arrow to the chest—which he’d endured on many occasions, though none being near as painful as this.

A snarky laugh flitted from the Fairlight king, his smile returning to the earlier scowl. “You tell her, and she’ll hate you for making her choose.”

“She’ll hate me more for not giving her the choice.”

Cyril ignored him, along with the drifting fog that Ezra purposely let show. “Does she know about our mother yet?”

The muscles in Ezra’s back ached with the restraint he so desperately clung to—each time the male opened his mouth, though, it was like a fucking countdown to him completely losing it. “I suppose I have you to thank for that?”

He simply shrugged. “It was only a matter of time before she saw you for what you really are anyway.”

Ezra’s voice was low, soft even, when he asked, “And what, pray tell, may that be?”

“You manipulate and corrupt. You’re no better than the rest of your court, or even your father. You’re…”

You are poison.

Surina’s words were like the end of a play—predictable, yet somehow managing to hit like the crash of a formidable wave. He knew exactly what he was, but to hear it from her lips…

An excruciating rupture of ice rushed past, colliding with the Fairlight king in a jarring burst, tossing him against the shelves lining the wall behind him. He smacked into the wall with a grunt, falling onto the floor after the impact.

With a snarl, Cyril raised a hand, sending his own gale from his fingertips.

Ezra used a sphere to deflect the hit as he took his time crossing the space between them, each crunch of ice beneath his footsteps bringing his heart to a near lethal speed. A twisted excitement flipped his stomach, and when he finally made it before two mossy-green eyes of pure loathing, he grinned.

Jerking the male up by the fabric of his doublet, he pulled him closer, until their unwavering glares were level. “The only reason I’ve tolerated you for this long is because of her, but don’t mistake my patience for weakness, Fairlight. Test me again and I’ll show you exactly how I got this crown.” There was no emptiness to that threat either. This was a shaking, festering venom of a promise that fell from his lips.

In that moment, Dahlia charged into the room, and Ezra swore that silent warning from earlier was about to come to fruition. Then, he saw the dread in those wide blue eyes.

“It’s Suri,” she gasped out, hardly able to muster a breath before saying, “In the apothecary—”

That was all Ezra needed to hear before his hold of the king ceased, and even immortal speed didn’t feel fast enough as he rushed into the night, a thousand possibilities coursing through his mind.