Soul of Ice (Chronicles of Dawn)

Chapter Thirty-Six

Leirie peered out from her windowsill, the cushioned ledge so packed full of her plants, she couldn’t really sit comfortably. Rain slapped against the glass panes, and she mindlessly trailed her fingers along it, using magic to alter the paths of the droplets destined to collide with the others.

“Perfect weather for a perfect day,” she grumbled, hiking up the fabric at her chest for the twentieth time.

Runa had let her borrow the dress, since Leirie didn’t own anything in black. The tight cinch of her corset was far too constrictive around her breasts, despite their similar frames—more so now that Leirie was skipping meals. A tad more curvaceous than her Calaechian friend, and much more conservative when it came to the cut of a gown, apparently, Leirie felt like she was pretending to be someone else.

Since she and Fynn were from two houses of separate kingdoms, Fynn thought wearing each other’s colors would help sway King Cyril’s decision.

Glancing over at the standing mirror across the room, she rolled her eyes at her reflection, wondering what the hell she’d gotten into. With the curse, the investigation, and now a hasty engagement, Leirie could hardly recognize herself anymore.

Neither could her father, it seemed, who hadn’t spoken to her in over a day. Just left her some weird letter, reminiscing on the time before her mother’s death.

A time when we were all happy, he’d written.

As she rose from her spot at the windowsill, stepping forward and suddenly standing before that mirror in a blink, she forced a smile—one that eventually turned into a real one.

Not everything was going terribly, she supposed. Not with Fynn, at least.

A number of vases filled the entirety of her sitting room, set on every surface. Leirie didn’t have an answer for Fynn when he asked what her favorite flower was, and he took that as a challenge.

Yesterday, she’d received twelve bouquets, each arrangement its own flower. Roses, tulips, dahlias, hyacinths. This morning she’d received much more exotic ones, like black calla lilies and some lovely, dark-blue orchids.

It was a sweet sentiment, and she still hadn’t thought of a way to repay him yet, but she would—for the flowers and the wine. He’d brought some by last night, to curb the cravings before they were to stand in front of the Court of the Sun.

With the aching head pains and the antsy twitch of her movements subsided, there wasn’t anything that could get in the way of today—other than the steadfast thirst for Fynn’s blood.

By the Mother, she’d cut his throat open, and he believed her afterwards when she told him it was to make their acting more believable in front of her father.

Her hands flew up to mask her face so she could hide from her own reflection. “You’re a freak of nature,” she muttered into her palms, not caring if she smudged the kohl around her eyes.

A buzzing whistle sounded from where she’d been sitting by the window.

“Not another one of you,” she groaned. How did all these crickets manage to find their way into the most impossible places? Leirie’s window didn’t even open, and her hall had no doorway leading to the outside.

Its soft tune grew harsher the longer it sang, so she snatched a crystal goblet from a tray, readying to catch the miserable thing. The closer she got to the window, though, the less it sounded like a cricket, and more like a field mouse…

Her heart skipped a few beats as she swept her fingers over the lengthy stalks of the plant, only for the biggest smile to spread her mouth when she spotted it.

Not a cricket or a mouse, but the woodland creature from Surina’s balcony.

“Hello again, little one,” she whispered down to it, and its tiny head drifted upward, swaying as it took in the sight of her.

“Where have you been? I looked everywhere for you.” She’d gone to Surina’s room every morning since.

The creature rolled over, pushing itself up from the ground to stand on two feet.

Everything it did was so damn cute , and she couldn’t stop her squeal of delight.

It stretched its wooden arms towards her, so she brought a finger down to meet it. The little sprite grabbed her fingertip with both of its hands, moving it around as if it were searching for something.

“What’s the matter?” she asked it softly.

Maybe it was hungry? Tiny as it was, it had an appetite of a grown male the way it had stuffed its mouth the other morning.

Carefully, Leirie pulled her hand back, chewing on her lip as she contemplated running to the kitchen to get some food. So far along in her transition, she only ever ate if her stomach demanded it, so she dismissed the servants who normally brought lunch to her chambers.

Snapping her fingers, Leirie remembered the tin of cookies she kept in her room for Runa when she came by to vent about Blaine.

Wait, could it even eat cookies?

With a shrug, she skipped over to the container across the room, nabbing a handful before sitting back down beside the pot.

“Let me know what you think.” Breaking off a few crumbs, she gently placed them beside the creature, sneaking a quick bite for herself out of curiosity.

Just as she thought—bland. It tasted vaguely sweet, but the all-around texture and flavor was chalky and plain. Most food was these days.

“You need a name.” Her voice was muffled, the dry cookie scraping down her throat. “All living things deserve a name, right?”

To no surprise, it shoved more than it could fit into its mouth without acknowledging her.

“How about Pudgy?” she grumbled, setting a full parcel down beside it.

It actually pivoted to look at her. Those were definitely narrowed eyes…

“Sorry. That was mean.” Heat washed her cheeks as she realized she’d just apologized to something that wasn’t any bigger than her hand.

Leaning back against the window, Leirie sorted through dozens of names in her head, snickering when she pictured the sprite scarfing down alfalfa like it was its last meal.

She rolled her head sideways. “How about Alfie?”

It whirred in between bites.

Fairly certain that was as close to an agreement as she would get, she concurred. “Alfie it is.”

Once Alfie was most of the way through his meal— his because it seemed kind of rude referring to him as an it —a knock sounded at her door.

“Right on time.” Leirie hopped from the windowsill, leaning forward to glance into the pot.

Amazing as Alfie was, her list of impossibilities had met its capacity for the day, and introducing a faerie that shouldn’t exist beyond the wards was more stress than her heart could take.

“I need you to wait here for a while. Can you do that?” Her brows lifted in question, but what was she expecting, really? For him to say he understood?

Assuming three full cookies would be enough to hold him over until her return, she darted for the door when another set of knocks sounded.

One last check in the mirror and she met the visitor with a gleaming smile. That smile wavered a little as she looked Fynn up and down.

A vibrant cobalt jacket with whorls of silver sewn into various sections drew her eyes in. The color did nothing for the stunning obsidian of his eyes or the copper of his hair. “Fynn. You look…”

“That bad, huh?” He swept past her, stopping in front of the mirror to assess himself, and the painfully stiff-looking, opulent attire that was holding him prisoner.

A laugh tickled her throat, but she held it down. “You look handsome.”

His lips pursed. “And you’re a terrible liar.”

The corner of her mouth kicked up. “Sorry, it’s just, I’ve never seen you in anything except black. Where did you get these clothes anyway?” They were expensive, that much she could tell.

“A shopkeeper in the city,” the prince grumbled, tearing the ruffled ascot from around his throat and setting it on fire in his palm. “She said this was the latest fashion in your court.”

Leirie chewed on the inside of her cheek to refrain from snickering. Fynn’s typical wear was oftentimes made from rich materials, too, but it was simple in style. She liked that about him. He had no taste for extravagance. She supposed someone with natural charm didn’t need gaudy clothes to hide behind.

“Well, we shouldn’t be in there for long. Not with your grandfather’s seal.” Catching the brief streak of concern in his reflection, Leirie paused. “You do have his seal, right?”

“I have something better than that,” Fynn assured her.

That admission hit a little harder than it should have.

They’d talked about the engagement yesterday, both agreeing that it would allow them the privacy needed to discuss the murders without raising suspicions, while also keeping Prince Lucius off of his back about exploring potential marriage candidates.

Vicious blood pumped through her body as she imagined him with another girl. There were feelings there, between her and Fynn, neither of them could deny it. But Leirie wasn’t cut out to be the wife of a Calaechian prince, if Runa was any indication of the kind of female she needed to be. Runa was strong and determined, whereas Leirie was just… soft. Fynn needed someone who knew who they were.

Maybe that was the real reason she’d hoped for his grandfather’s approval. It would mean the backing of not only Severn, but his kingdom too. If Fynn’s people and family wanted her, then maybe he would too.

One harrowing breath in, and she finally spoke. “If it isn’t your grandfather in the flesh, I don’t see how it could help.”

He dazzled her with a crooked grin in the mirror. “Just trust me. When have I ever led you astray?”

In partial defeat, she exhaled, shoving at his arm to make him turn and face her. Ignoring what his heart did when she touched him, Leirie unfastened the first few buttons of the high-necked jacket. In just a few silent minutes, she managed to make him look more like himself by simply untidying his appearance. “There, now you don’t look like you’re trying so hard, and it still—”

When she peered up, those dark eyes were completely transfixed on her, swallowing her whole like a bottomless pond.

“What?” Forcing her voice to sound firm, she felt anything but, her bones like gelatin beneath the gravity of him.

“You look gods-damn treacherous in black.” The warm hush tickled her cheeks.

Heat poured through her body in scorching streams, and when her eyes fell to his lush lips—lips that had her hooked after one taste—something thickened the air between them.

Breathe. Breathe. Breathe , she told herself.

She did, and what a mistake that was, when his scent infiltrated her lungs, exhilarating every blood-crazed nerve in her body.

“ Stop ,” she gasped at last, slipping out from his arm that had since curled around her waist.

“I’m sorry.” Fynn let her create space. “I completely misread that.”

“You didn’t— gods , you didn’t.” Leirie pinched the bridge of her nose, focusing on the sweet smell of the flowers instead of the life force flowing beneath his skin.

“If you’re having second thoughts about today, it’s not too late to back out. I kind of forced you into a corner the other night, and I’d understand if you aren’t ready to—”

“I like you!” she blurted, forcing herself to keep his stare. “I like you, and I can feel myself falling for you, and that terrifies me. You terrify me.”

The way he stared at her, she couldn’t tell if it was curiosity or uncertainty that lined the space between his brows. “You’re afraid of me?”

“Yes.”

“Why?” he returned flatly, jaw going rigid, as if in preparation for what she was going to say next.

“Because you’re dangerous, Fynn Blackwell.”

His darkening leer held her there.

“I’m not myself when I’m around you. I haven’t been since you arrived in Thesia.” She shook her head, a soft laugh brushing through her nostrils. “And I like who I’m becoming. Most parts of me anyways… but I haven’t been honest with you about the other parts.”

That hardened stare broke, and he just looked completely lost now.

“I lied before. I was avoiding you the past two weeks,” she admitted softly.

He chuckled. “Not exactly a secret anymore, Leirie.”

“It wasn’t because of the investigation or trying to protect you from it.” Getting the truth to come out was hard, but she had to do it. Fynn needed to know what he was getting into, pretend engagement or not. “I was protecting you from me .”

“I don’t understand.” He shook his head.

Wrapping her arms around herself, she took in a breath. “The curse has somehow twisted my hunger around on my own kind. Immortal blood shouldn’t have any appeal to me, but it does. It’s not even all immortals either. When I cut you the other night, it wasn’t to make us more believable like I said.” Fists balled at her side, she searched for them—the words that would turn him from her for good.

“You actually wanted my blood,” he finished before she could, voice cool and reserved. “Because you’re hungry.”

Leirie’s eyes slammed shut, needing to imagine the look of horror that must be accompanying the surfaced truth, because she couldn’t face it.

Silence fell on the room, or rather a lack of words, because the rustling of fabric and his boots made her open her eyes.

The jacket he wore earlier was now resting on an armchair, and the blouse underneath it was parted at the chest.

There really was a scar there. Red and pink lesions that had healed over time. It was an injustice, the way it marred his perfect skin.

Fynn was pushing a sleeve up above the elbow when he finally looked at her.

Leirie swallowed. “Are you going to say something?”

Stone-faced and voice grave, the prince plucked a silver letter opener from the table near him. “You’ve been starving for over a week and didn’t tell me.”

“What?” She retreated when he took a step towards her, hands splayed as if she could force him away with her mind, but only managed to back into a wall. “ No , Fynn, you need to get away from me.”

“That wine was only meant to hold you over until you were ready to feed.” Then, he brought the letter opener to his wrist. Scarlet bloomed from the path he cut into his skin.

Shoving from the wall to run, she was much slower than he was, and he simply eased a hand around the base of her neck, pressing her back in place.

Leaps and bounds beyond the speed and strength of a mortal, that didn’t seem to matter compared to a fully changed fae.

“Let go, Fynn,” she warned him, panic lacing her words as magic sparked in her veins in response to seeing his blood, posturing to take what she so desperately craved.

It wouldn’t even appease her hunger. Like chocolates or candies to a mortal, there was no nutritional value to a fae’s blood once one became immortal. Fae would feed from one another out of indulgence or desire, and that’s all. It didn’t sustain them. So why did every predatory instinct in her body say— scream —otherwise?

When the sound of his blood hitting the floor drowned out the relentless taps of rain against the window, it was all over, she just didn’t know it yet. Every struggle afterwards was in vain.

“I’m offering it, Leirie. Why are you being so stubborn?” The gentle glide of his thumb along her collarbone lulled her closer to a scorching surrender.

A mouthwatering, painful thirst seeped from her tongue in the form of words. “Because I don’t want an offering ! I want to rip your throat out!”

She would have slapped a hand over her mouth if both weren’t busy trying to pry him off, because whatever that was, came from deep, deep , down. The hideous side that was becoming incapable of control.

“My gods…” For a moment, he just gaped at her. Eventually, a wry smile curved at the ends of his mouth though. “You really are hungry.”

“Fynn, please.” Her pleading whimpers were a last-ditch effort to leave with a clear conscience.

“Better hurry,” he droned coolly, as if he were speaking to the hunger directly this time. The grip on her neck even loosened, just enough to give it hope. “It’s closing up.”

The poison erupted in her chest, seeping into her bloodstream when she saw the wound nearly sealed. “You’ll give me every drop of blood in your veins,” she snarled, slathering the command with a sickening amount of magic.

Chills washed her flesh, collecting over every pore, almost like the other night. This was worse. Her back arched with the spiteful sensation, forcing her to suck in air. Those whispers in her mind immediately fled.

Fynn’s eyes were shades darker than usual as he leaned so close, his lips almost touched her ear. “Greedy girl,” he tsked. “Trying to take more than I’m willing to give?”

It didn’t work. Her magic didn’t work on him.

“How? How did you—”

“Resist your magic?” His head cocked to the side, and he studied her with dancing irises. “Because we’re the same.”

The warm path his fingers laid across her collarbone almost combated the cold which dragged along her skin, prickling the hairs of her body. “What do you mean we’re the same?”

How could a gaze be soft as silk, yet somehow harder than any metal? She had to look away.

“Gifts that separate us from the rest? Inexplainable abilities that could never be tied to the elements?” A low hum rumbled his chest, and a strong finger directed her chin back up to those eyes she was hiding from. “Did you think you were alone? That you would never find someone who truly understood you?”

I know exactly what you’re capable of.

He’d said exactly that on the morning Surina left. Now it made sense. It wasn’t the passive nature of her magic that kept him coming back to her, like she was afraid of. It was a connection she didn’t even know they had—but he did.

“How long have you known?”

A royal grin peeked through his lips. “I figured it out the day you convinced your father to let us go to the gardens alone.”

That was weeks ago. And he knew she’d been lying this whole time? “So the other night in the apothecary when I used it on you…?”

Fynn shrugged. “I could feel it. It’s like a chill that rolls over me. It didn’t work though. I stopped because you asked me to.” That wild smile returned, and her knees felt less and less capable of keeping her upright. “That was the first time you used it on me,” he stated warmly, as if he was proud of the fact.

Her head swung down. “I’m so sorry. I should have never done that to you.”

“I was being a dick to your father, and you were right to use it.” Once the mention of her father simmered into silence, he carefully brushed a curl from her face. “You don’t have to hide who you are with me, Leirie. You should be proud.”

That statement caught her off guard. “ Proud —of stealing someone’s free will?”

“Fate decides everything about our lives already. Even our deaths. Where is the free will in that?” Raking his fingers through the copper of his hair, Fynn took in a calming breath. “Look at it how you want, but I won’t limit myself for those who would kill me if they knew what I could do.”

What exactly could he do? Was his power the same as hers? That would explain why she was sometimes cold around him—but wouldn’t that mean he’d tried to use his power on her too?

The clock in her room chimed with the morning hour, marking the start of court, where they should have already been.

That was the escape she’d been praying for. “We have to go.” Even though Leirie had a thousand questions, she wanted to remove herself from the cloud of his scent—and the shimmering drops of blood at her feet…

Barring her in with an arm, he stopped her from walking away from him. “You still need to eat before we go. I can’t have you ripping out my throat in the middle of court. That won’t exactly sway your king in our favor.”

“I don’t even have my fangs yet. Should I really be drinking blood directly from a person already?” Since Fynn promised to guide Leirie through her transition, he’d shown her the true anatomy of their kind. The side they hid from humanity.

A slight irritation flared in his eyes. “ Canines , Leirie. You’re not a snake. They’ll come in at the end of the transition. You’ll be completely off mortal food before that happens, so you’ll have to feed before then.”

“I thought feeding from someone meant—” she sighed between sentences, “—well, you know…”

His brows arched with question.

That would mean we were sleeping with each other , she mouthed, as if the Mother was sitting in the room with them.

The thin pinch of his lips morphed into a sardonic grin. “We’re about to ask for permission to marry in front of an entire court. What do you think they’re going to presume?”

She rolled her eyes. “Engaged doesn’t mean sleeping together.”

“Don’t tell me you haven’t thought about what I look like naked.” He lifted a finger in her direction as her lips parted to argue. “Before you answer, just know that I can tell if you’re lying.”

Goosebumps scraped down her back, and she wondered if that was his power collecting around her. “I… That’s not…” Babbling for a response probably didn’t help her case, so she decided silence was for the best. Couldn’t dig yourself any deeper if you just shut up, right? Or maybe silence was just a self-conviction.

He chided her with clicks of his tongue, fangs flicking out from the brilliant smile he returned her quiet fury.

This wasn’t the first time she’d seen his fangs, but it still made her pulse quicken.

Sinking his teeth into himself, he brought his wrist close to her mouth. “Drink,” he insisted of her. “I’ll stop you from taking too much.”

Maybe she was dazed after everything leading up to now, or maybe she really was just starving, but her hands seized his forearm without any further coaxing. The way the blood welled to the surface, bright and beckoning, it was impossible to fight. At least, that’s what she told herself.

She closed her eyes the moment it met her tongue. His blood was everything and more. Dark and serene, powerful and endless. It was the ocean in the night. Leirie floated on absolute oblivion, recognizing his blood for what it was—blessed damnation. Because after this moment, there would be no going back. Now, having tasted it, she knew it was all she would ever want. All she would ever need .

He sighed against her temple, tracing her jaw, all the way to the tip of her ear. “I can feel myself falling for you, too, little rabbit.”

◆◆◆

Two silver doors opened before them, and it didn’t seem to matter how many times Leirie had been here before this day, she realized immediately she didn’t belong anymore. Their looks of disdain ensured that.

Once familiar and friendly faces, they were now pinched with bitter scowls as their collective glares followed them down the columned aisle. She lifted her chin to them, tightening the grip she had on Fynn’s arm.

This was a part of the curse Fynn warned her about. A shift in her body, like some intrinsic realization ingrained in her fae blood that told her she was no longer like them. He was spot on, too, because now, as she looked around, she couldn’t believe she would have locked herself up for any of them.

“You’re doing really well,” he murmured close to her ear, reining in her wandering rage with a few gentle taps on the back of her hand.

Leirie frowned, struggling to keep her stare forward like they’d practiced. Nothing could have prepared her for this, though. “They hate me now.”

Fynn rubbed his palm over her fingers, warming the flesh with a bit of magic, as if to soften the blow of his next words. “They have always hated you, Leirie. You just weren’t a threat to them before.”

She gaped at him, straining to keep her voice quiet. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

“It should. You were going to sacrifice your freedom for them. Now you don’t have to feel guilty for not doing so.” Fynn flashed his canines at one of the nearby onlookers, who immediately took a cautious step back, accidentally bumping into Prince Lucius, who didn’t look all that forgiving.

Color leeched from the lord’s face, and he muttered a shaken apology before disappearing into the rest of the crowd.

Once they made it to the dais, Leirie’s pulse matched the torrential downpour that smacked against the glass dome of the throne room. They relinquished their hold of one another, to her dismay, and she numbly fell into a bow for her king.

It was strange, being on this side of court. Now the pleading subject, she wondered how anyone had the courage to gripe and complain about the state of Thesia with so many eyes on them. Especially King Cyril’s. A young king, by fae standards, but he’d outlived the generation of lords and ladies before the ones standing here today.

The king’s voice danced around the grand chamber, benevolent and strong. “Welcome to the Court of the Sun. Foreign guests are not usually permitted, but we have made an exception for today only.”

Lucius was as close to the dais as he could manage, the lords and ladies around him leaving an excessive amount of space between them.

They were afraid of him. Afraid of both princes.

“I feel most welcomed, Your Majesty.” Fynn’s smooth, princely guise took over, and when that happened, it was difficult for Leirie to know what he was thinking. “We will not take up much of your time. The reason we have come today is to ask for the honor of your blessing.”

Cyril shifted in his throne, his consort beside him appearing just as uncertain. “My blessing for what exactly?”

“For our union,” Fynn replied without hesitation. “In our short time together, Lady Windspire and I have grown very fond of one another. We bring our love before you today because we wish to marry.”

“ Marry ?” Cyril jerked his head to Leirie. “Shouldn’t your father be here for such an occasion?”

Apart from the deep green of his eyes, she could find Suri in just about every feature on his face. From the long, dark-blond lashes to the rose hue of their full lips, they were the same.

She dipped her head. “Fynn has already asked my father for his blessing, or else we wouldn’t be before you today, Your Majesty.”

He had technically asked, so it wasn’t a lie, she assured herself.

Perspiration collected on the back of her neck, and she swallowed to alleviate the rising nausea. “As for his absence today, I’m sure he is working tirelessly to bring the culprit to justice for Thesia.”

A wariness altered Cyril’s features, leveling out as he looked to Lucius, and then Fynn. “The matter still stands— Lady Windspire remains mortal. She cannot marry or even be promised to another until she has completed the change. The law is very clear. And I have yet to receive any correspondence from Severn regarding this… love match . Am I to assume you have his approval on hand?” One after the other, the king chipped away at every stone they stood upon, until all that remained was gravel.

Her gaze fell to the marble floor, knowing they hadn’t come with anything else to help. Unless she wanted to confess in front of a court full of wealthy and influential mortals that she’d been in transition these past few weeks. She would mark herself as the new murder suspect while simultaneously making Cyril look suspicious for hiding it. And they still wouldn’t have King Severn’s approval.

Leirie tilted her head, just enough to see the side of Fynn’s face, thinking he’d be considering surrender. His jaw only ticked the same way it did when someone told him something he didn’t like.

“I do not have it.”

“Then you can return when she has transitioned and you have your king’s blessing. To ensure her reputation remains intact, her ambassadorship will be rescinded. Lady Windspire, you will no longer be required to escort the Calaechian royal family during their stay.”

The only reason she was ever able to see Fynn was because of the proximity required through her position. And Cyril would take it away, just like that? Because they loved each other? A pretend love, but he didn’t know that.

“Please, I must ask you to reconsider,” she pleaded with her king, but it fell on deaf ears.

They weren’t deaf ears though. They were willingly unsympathetic. She could tell by how he looked at Fynn. It was the same way they all looked at him—looked at them . Because she’d chosen him as he’d chosen her. Fynn had given her his blood without even batting an eye. No one in this room would have done the same—no one in this room understood her the way Fynn did, and they’d known her all her life.

A sour ink spread her veins then, and it didn’t take long for her magic to awaken, stretching through her veins.

Fynn laced his fingers into hers just before she could open her mouth, squeezing her hand in silent warning. “I begged her to elope, Your Majesty, but she insisted we come here out of respect for you. In truth, we do not need your approval.”

Trailing whispers followed the prince’s bold comment. Even Lucius seemed caught off guard by the statement and did not appear pleased.

“Fynn,” she murmured, “what are you doing?”

“I told you to trust me,” he whispered back, not looking at her as he said it.

The slight didn’t faze Cyril, and he remained impassive and collected. “You may be above the law in Calaechia, but not here. My decision is final.”

Fynn wouldn’t back down. “We have received the authority by a law higher than your own. One that no king is entitled to refuse.”

Cyril leaned forward in his throne, eyes narrowing on the prince. “And which authority may that be?”

“Fate.”

A chorus clamored through the chamber, half appalled and the other half in disbelief.

Fate? That was his grand plan? How was that meant to sway a—

Her eyes went wide when the realization hit her so hard, she had to place a hand on her chest to alleviate the impact.

The king waved off the chattering crowds, until it died into silence. “You cannot possibly be saying that Leirie is—”

“I am. Through the will of the divines, we have been blessed with a bond that so few share.” Fynn peered down at her through a mask she had not seen before. It wasn’t a look that was telling her to go along with it—not this time. Every word he uttered was sincere. “Leirie is my mate.”

Between their clasped hands, she could feel Fynn’s heart pick up. Both of their pulses doubled in speed, and hers had surpassed the limit for any living creature, surely.

“Is this true?” Cyril questioned her, no longer playing the part of a king, but sounded more like an older brother.

“I…” She looked to the throne, and back at Fynn, whose gentle mask cracked a little in her hesitation, but he mended it with a kind smile to the king.

“You must forgive her. She doesn’t feel the bond as strongly as I do in her mortality, but it will strengthen, with time.”

“ If she wishes it to.” Cyril laid the warning on thick, his body going taut with a strange recognition, as if he were reading a book for the second time.

Dahlia stretched over the arm of her chair to rest a hand on his, and when he looked at her… it was like she was the only being in existence.

Was that the pull she felt from Fynn? The beginning of a strand that would twine their fates together? Or was he wrong, and this was just their gifts, gnawing at each other like two starved wolves?

A blaring horn sounded in the distance, constant and baritone.

Fynn’s hand immediately found hers, and he just about yanked her against his chest in response to the sudden panic in the room. “What does that mean?”

She shook her head. “I don’t know.” Whatever it was, it couldn’t be good. Not with the way the lords and ladies were responding to it.

One lord spoke above the masses. “There hasn’t been a call to arms for decades. Who do you think it is, Your Majesty?”

A call to arms, he’d said? As in war ?

“Court is adjourned,” Cyril commanded of them, rising from his throne to usher Dahlia down the stairs. They made it to the bottom, whisking past Leirie and Fynn to join General Castmont and several awaiting guards.

The doors to the throne room burst open, and an armor-clad male came barreling through.

As lord and commander of Castmont Keep, he was rarely seen outside of it, but Leirie recognized him immediately, as anyone would. Those glassy blue eyes were a trademark, and that shining blond hair, now drenched from the rain, might as well have been a coat of arms.

“Lord Castmont.” Cyril gaped, pausing halfway to the doors, his general and Dahlia on either side of him. “What are you doing here?”

“Your Majesty.” Upon making it to the king, Kian fell to hands and knees, pressing his head to the floor. “I bring grave news,” he said, voice shaking and raspy.

He looked and sounded like he’d been riding for days.

“It’s Surina, my king. I did everything I could.”

Air spun and sailed around the chamber, and the Castmont lord flinched when it swept over him. The rest of those who remained held on to their jewels, hats, and whatever finery adorned their person.

Cold claws raked over Leirie’s skin as she stood in gut-wrenching suspense. A familiar, sweet smell met her nostrils, and when she glanced down, she saw that her nails had pressed too hard into Fynn’s skin and had opened up the flesh on his wrist.

Fynn hadn’t even noticed though. He was too fixated on the lord in front of him.

“What has happened to my sister?” The king’s demand boomed, rattling the glass dome above their heads.

Kian slowly lifted his head from the marble—brilliant blue irises, now dull and broken with heart-shattering grief.

“She’s gone.”