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“I think I’ll keep the location a surprise. But you’ll get to see Rythos’s people.”

Behind us, Asinia sat on an overturned log next to Telean, discussing some kind of seamstress technique with fabric. Marth’s deep laugh sounded from the river to our right. Likely, he was regaling Cavis and Galon with an entirely untrue exploit.

“Rythos’s people?” Prisca’s eyes lit up with interest. And I clamped down on the urge to pound his face into the dust.

I knew Prisca didn’t think of Rythos that way. But did she have to look so delighted at the mere mention of his name?”

“Lorian?”

Was that amusement in her voice? Yes, her amber eyes were laughing at me.

“Rythos was a spoiled second son with no purpose when I met him,” I informed her.

“Mm-hmm,” she grinned at me. “Do tell.”

“Your fondness for him is going to get him hurt one day.”

The grin left her face, and she gave me a narrow-eyed stare. Unfortunately, the wind ruffled her curls, and she looked adorable rather than threatening.

“I think of Rythos as a brother,” she said.

“Don’t you have more than enough brothers by now?” I muttered.

She sighed. “So, Rythos was a spoiled second son,” she prompted.

“Did I hear my name?” Rythos called, and Prisca grinned at me.

“You did,” she called back. “I was asking Lorian about your people.”

Rythos tied his horse to a tree branch and nodded at her. “My people are known as the Arslan. They’re solemn—primarily scholars and engineers, known for their incredible minds and magical inventions.”

Prisca was studying him. “Why did you leave?”

“My parents urged me to give my life some meaning. Some way that would help my people or the fae in general. I’d imagined I might find a way to bring down the barrier to discover if we could trade with other continents. My brother was centuries older than me, and he was unenthusiastic about getting to know his loud, charming younger brother.” Rythos winked, but it wasn’t difficult to hear the tension in his voice.

“And then I arrived,” I said, and Rythos cast me a grateful look. “Rythos’s father was unimpressed. He didn’t see how we could possibly find a way to steal back our magic, unite the fae lands, and win the war.”

“Lorian was cold and arrogant,” Rythos said dryly, making Prisca laugh. “But he truly believed in something, and he was willing to do whatever it took to free his people. I decided to join him. My father told me that if I was going to leave, not to bother returning. I saw that as a sign that I would only ever be accepted if I was who my father wanted me to be, and I left anyway. I was young, selfish, and rebelling against my father because I had nothing better to do. But when I began traveling with the Bloodthirsty Prince—”

“Don’t call him that,” Prisca snapped.

Surprise flashed in Rythos’s eyes. My heart strained, my throat locked up, and for a long moment, I couldn’t speak. I reached for Prisca’s hand and pressed a kiss to her wrist.

She didn’t need to defend me to Rythos. But the fact that she would…

Rythos met my eyes. Then he gave Prisca a fond look that almost got him stabbed. “When I began traveling withLorian,” he continued, “and saw what was happening to the fae and hybrids away from Arslan lands, what started as a second-son’s rebellion became something…more.”

It had become his reason for breathing. And now, Rythos would return to the people who had disowned him. And he would steal from them—likely removing any chance of a reconciliation.

Prisca’s expression tightened. “Should I talk to your father?” she asked. “How do I convince him to help us?”

“What do you usually do in these situations?” Rythos asked.

She chewed on her lower lip. “Well, I’m very new to this, but usually, I find a weak spot and poke at it. Eventually, the other person grows so enraged, they say something they didn’t mean to.”

Rythos laughed. “That tactic could use some work. Thankfully, I’m not planning to let you loose in my father’s court just yet.”

“Then what are you planning to do?”