“Things change,” Rian murmurs, glancing distracted in the direction of the abandoned tunnels that stretch beyond the dungeon. In a low voice, he confides, “I sent a dozen of our best sentinels to the border wall to look for breaches. It’s been four days. None of them have returned.”
Dark omens drift on the cold air coming from the direction of the abandoned tunnels. The Golden Sentinels are among the most skilled mercenary army of all the neighboring kingdoms. If a dozen of the best didn’t return, it means we’re all in big fucking trouble.
“So, we need answers,” Rian presses, his eyes jerking toward Maks. “Before King Rachillon makes his next move.”
My hands tighten into fists. I know what I have to do, but I don’t want to do it. I had to move fucking mountains to get out of this line of the Valvere business, and into something respectable. I swore to myself I wouldn’t kill again in the name of Valvere greed.
But someone has to keep Maks quiet.
Folke watches me with a knowing, piteous gaze as he eavesdrops on our conversation. He, more than anyone, knows how badly I fought to get out of exactly what Rian wants me to do now.
I feel like I’m damning myself to hell as I quietly whisper, “I’ll get you answers, but I want some of my own. Be straight with me. What do I need to know about King Rachillon? I know you know more than you’ve told me.”
A muscle pulses in Rian’s jaw as he leads me further down the hall, out of Folke’s earshot. In a quick whisper, he informs me, “All of Volkany is shut off, even from their neighbors to the north and east. Only portions of the western coast are open. My brother Lore encountered a Volkish sailing vessel in neutral waters. He took captives. They told the story of how King Rachillon rose to power out of nowhere thirty years ago. Some claimed he was a monk living on an isolated island in a giant lake. He gained followers when he claimed to be godkissed with the power to wake the sleeping gods. No one believed it at first, but then he awoke the fae’s mythical creatures—”
“So the goldenclaw I told you about,” I interrupt sharply. “You fucking knew it was real?”
He snorts dismissively. “You were out of the business, Wolf. You only wanted to hunt. That information was for the inner circle.”
My fists squeeze even tighter. My heart thunders. Peeking back down the hall, I see Folke kick Maks a few times until he coughs to show he’s still alive. As much as I want to throw a punch in Rian’s smug face for not telling me this, I have only myself to blame.
I asked to leave—he granted it.
“So Rachillon plans to wake the gods? Fucking hell.” All those stupid street preachers prophesizing the gods’ return will shit their pants when they realize they were right. They’re going to lose a lot more than their bowels, though, once they learn what’s truly coming for them under the gods’ capricious reign.
We all are. Everyone in Astagnon.
“Rachillon needs to find the ten resting places, starting with Immortal Vale’s,” Rian warns. “That’s all that’s stopping him. So, he’s sent raiders into Astagnon and neighboring kingdoms to abduct godkissed with talents that suit his cause. But that doesn’t tell us why he targeted Sabine. Her godkiss doesn’t have anything to do with tracking.”
Rian is right in one thing: It isn’t about her godkiss at all.
I take a deep, shuddering breath to try to let this information take seed in my brain. The fae gods have been asleep for a thousand years. There are no records that state why the gods went to sleep, despite the Red Church’s preaching that it must be a test for humanity. A thousand-year test? Yeah, fuck that. The gods never gave a shit about humanity except as slaves. People focus on the beauty and dramatics of the gods, glossing over all their bloodshed. Now, centuries later, we’ve forgotten our former struggles and, like idiots, pray for our subjugators’ return.
If Rachillon wakes the gods, an entirely new chapter will begin. And we here in Astagnon won’t only have to deal with their tyrannical aims; the gods’ awakening will throw the human world into chaos, too, and Volkany’s first order of business once they’re in league with the Immortals again will be to attack us. With feeble King Joruun on the throne, we’ll fall like a house of cards.
The Volkish prostitute’s childhood song returns to me. What was it? What do you do with sleeping gods? . . . Pray they don’t awaken.
I realize that the song was about Rachillon’s grand plan—which means he’s been working on this for decades.
I move my head side to side to crack my neck, working out the stiff kinks in my body. I’m in good shape, but it’s been a while since I’ve used my strength on any prey other than animals. Human bones are notoriously hard—it takes some muscle to shatter them.
“The prisoner needs to recover,” I say matter-of-factly, gesturing to Maks. The last thing I want to do is help that rapist bastard, but it’s a means to an end. “Lock him in a cell. Have someone clean him up and wrap the worst of his wounds. Give him food and water for a few days. We need him strong enough to last through questioning.”
Rian strokes his short beard as he nods. The gleam in his eyes is sharp, almost twinkling. Damn, but I think he’s delighted to have me back in the business of blood. And I get it. He and I were thick as thieves since we were boys, complicit in our sins, until I turned respectable and left him behind.
He rests a hand on my shoulder. “I must return to the party. Take some time off, Wolf, to prepare. Maximan can guard Sabine for a few days. Once you have answers—” He jerks his head toward the prisoner, “—we’ll talk again.”
I don’t like the idea of Maximan on Sabine’s guard duty, but right now, this is a lot more important to her safety than standing outside her door.
“Right.”
He hesitates before saying, “Tamarac.”
It means “clear as water” in the Immortal Tongue. In our younger years, it was our signal that we’d always be transparent with one another, as close as if we were brothers. A feeling of guilt stalks out of the shadows to dig a knife into my side. I’ve lied to him. Betrayed him. Coveted his bride. And now, he gives me our old word for unshakable trust.
Guilt burns my throat as I murmur, “Tamarac.”
Once Rian leaves, I return to where Folke stands, folding my arms as I stare daggers down at Maks. I’ll kill him eventually, and I’ll make it slow and painful, so he suffers for what he did.
In a quiet voice, Folke asks, “Does Rian know?”
“Does he know what?”
“What the fuck do you think? That you’re in love with the girl he’s throwing an engagement party for upstairs.”
I flinch again. My instinct is to throw a punch to shut up such a treasonous accusation, but Folke means well, so I tame my temper. Chewing the inside of my cheek, I eventually spit out, “I told you, I’m not capable of love.”
He huffs a derisive laugh. “Yeah, yeah. And I’m a prancing cloudfox.”
His words sting because they hit too close to the truth. I do care about Sabine, more than I thought possible. But I know in my bones that someone as broken as me can’t love anything. I was never taught how. I never saw what it looked like. And even if I could love Sabine, I’d only find a way to ruin that love just like everything else. So, no, I don’t love Sabine Darrow. I can’t. But I can dream about her. I can fantasize about her smiles and her sweet little chats with her sweet little animals. I can yearn for her affection. I can obsess over her, possess her, do everything in my power to shelter her.