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“More than they already will.” Dawsyn nods, and watches the barb strike, watches Adrik’s eyes harden. “How generous.”

“You are welcome to stay in Glacia, Miss Sabar. We are indebted to you, after all.”

Dawsyn smiles, though she is sure it does not fool him. “Kind of you. I wondered if you might agree to host my friends as well. Baltisse,” Dawsyn says, turning to gesture to the mage, who has her eyes pinned to Adrik’s, “is a mage. She is vastly interested in the Pool of Iskra.”

And just like that, the pathway opens. Dawsyn watches as Adrik’s eyes widen in disbelief, turning toward Baltisse. She sees the male’s expression become closed and careful. She watches his body shift infinitesimally to conceal the pool behind him, as though he would shield it.

“Of course,” he says tightly. “Though, I’ll insist you stay in the village. There is much work to be done in the palace.”

“Thank you,” Baltisse says. “I would ask, however, that you allow me to view the pool from time to time. I’m very curious of its power.”

“I’m afraid it is unsafe,” Adrik says, his words casual, but his gaze sharp. “You should all keep your distance from the pool while in Glacia,” he says to all of them. “Ryon, will you find this lot some lodgings? And you might explain to them the importance of refraining from that infernal pool.”

“We wouldn’t want anyone getting too close,” Baltisse says, her eyes growing eerily still.

“No,” Adrik agrees, and then, looking uncharacteristically off balance, he nods and turns away.

But Dawsyn is more intent on the mage, and she watches the fire in her eyes darken to ash. Her glare turns to Dawsyn.

And Dawsyn sees… death.

Her blood turns cold.

“Can you find us some privacy?” Baltisse asks of Tasheem.

In silence, their strange clan leaves the throne room, following Tasheem around a corner, down a vast corridor. The fall of their boots echoes off the walls and gives sound to their tension. Their steps are hurried, anxious. Each of their number seems to move with the understanding of necessary haste, even before a word has been uttered.

But the mage vibrates, practically quaking with whatever information travelled the path from Adrik’s mind to hers, and her wrath leaks to the rest, washing them in dread.

In this moment before disaster strikes, while her skin pricks with the first signs of fear, Dawsyn’s eyes drift to Ryon, and it hurts her anew. The familiarity. The brilliance of his stare brings acute pain and comfort both, and she is too filled with quiet terror to wonder why this is the face she seeks when control lapses.

As their heels clack down the hall, she feels Ryon appraise her, his worry apparent. While the others hurry ahead, he lets the tips of his fingers graze over hers.

And she feels warmer.

CHAPTERTWENTY-EIGHT

Tasheem leads them into a room with walls that soar endlessly upward and hold shelf after shelf of what appear to be… bones.

“I loathe this room,” says Tasheem, wrinkling her nose with distaste. “But at least we won’t be interrupted.”

Ryon’s face has become strained. His wrist flicks restlessly, as though he would draw a weapon.

“What is this place?” Dawsyn murmurs, mouth gaping.

“The remains of any who sought to defy the King,” Ryon answers acidly.

Dawsyn’s eyebrows hitch. The bones are displayed from floor to ceiling, the collection staggering. “So many?”

Ryon grimaces. “Eventually he proclaimed it impractical to mount the bones of every enemy and so opted to toss them into the Chasm instead.”

Dawsyn notices that his eyes do not quite meet the shelves and their trophies. “Vasteel wanted your wings to be cut from your back before we were pushed into the Chasm,” Dawsyn says.

“Did he?” Ryon asks, distracted.

“Would they have ended up here?”

He shrugs. “Maybe.”