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“They’re not secrets if they’re in the past and there’s nothing to be gained from them.” A big frown distorts Herinor’s features, stretching the thin scars scattered over his face. He measures me for a long moment, fingers interlacing, pulling apart, playing with the hem of his black sleeve. In his light green eyes, doubt and worry fight a battle until he can’t sit still anymore. “Talk to Silas. He’s older than any of us.”

He leaps to his feet so abruptly I barely catch the trickle of blood from the corner of his mouth, but I do catch it.

“Herinor—”

I call after him a few more times as he bolts for the door like he’s running from Eroth himself, but he doesn’treappear once he crosses the threshold. And I remain with the screaming emptiness where my mating bond lived inside me only ten days ago.

Ayna

Clio isn’t halfas understanding as I remember her. When I ask if she’s seen Silas the next morning, she rolls her eyes, demanding whether I’ve gotten over myself and stopped wallowing in self-pity. Then, she points toward the training grounds before she stomps away. It’s a bit childish in my opinion, but who am I to judge? I’ve spent ten days behind closed doors, not speaking to anyone in a way that could be considered sociable.

Stuffing my hands into the pockets of my linen pants, I make my way to the training grounds, determined to get Herinor’s words out of my head by confronting Silas about his age. Not that I know what I’m asking for, but the wayHerinor bled gives me curse-whiplash, and I really don’t want the grumpy warrior to suffer. It’s enough that I’m suffering.

And Myron. But I don’t think that because his name alone is enough to make me want to cry.

In the arena, Silas is wielding his sword against an imaginary opponent, the calm of a cleric on his features and the steadiness of a tree in his legs.

“So, you made it out of solitary confinement,” he mocks by way of greeting.

I sit on the lowest of three wooden logs stacked in the corner next to the rack of training swords, careful not to catch my toes on one of the gashes that must be etched there from testing the blades of sharp weapons. At my back, the stone benches rise high enough to block out the low-standing morning sun and, a few feet to my right, a gap wide enough for five men to walk shoulder to shoulder that serves as a side entrance. “Not really. But your friend mentioned I should talk to you.”

Silas turns his head without stopping his flow. “Myron?”

His name tears through me like the hatchet on Silas’s belt. “The friend I mean you’ve known for much longer than the King of Crows.”

Silas chuckles. “There’s only one bastard alive whom I call friend and who’s lived longer than the King.” He drops the tip of the sword to the dusty ground, bracing his hands on the pommel. Sweat drips down his temples and neck, making his hair stick to his skin. His chest is slick with perspiration where his shirt clefts open over his pectorals.

“You shouldn’t be looking at me like that, my queen.” He inclines his head. “Myron won’t like it.”

Caught, I shove my hand through my hair, fingers getting stuck in my braid, and awkwardly glance at the ground before his feet. “Like what?”

Silas chuckles. “Like you’re ready to peel my shirt away.”

“I’m not… I wasn’t…”

He laughs as I blush bright pink.

“It’s all right, Ayna. You’re undergoing the stages of un-mating trauma.”

There it is. Like a slap in the face, the words ring and ring and ring in my ears. “Un-mating trauma,” I repeat. It sounds right but feels wrong.

“Erina tried to un-mate you, that fucker.” He brings his sword over his shoulder, resting the flat of the blade right above his collarbone as if he’s carrying a sack of grains.

“What do you mean,tried?”Don’t let the hope flare. Don’t let it.“He burned a fucking hole into my flesh. There’s nothing left of the mate mark.” And it won’t fucking heal. I don’t need to add that last part. Everyone who wields healing magic in Recienne’s palace knows I’m walking around with a giant hole in my shoulder, and there’s nothing anyone can do about it.

“He did a thorough job, I have to admit.” Silas raises a brow. “I don’t know who told him about un-mating, but I’m happy to decapitate them the next time I see them.”

The murderous humor in Silas’s words is both comfort and shock. “Un-mated. Is that what we are?” My hand wanders to the edge of my bandages, aching to feel Myron’s markon me. Aching for the tingling sensation that comes when I turn my focus on it. Then I remember it’s no longer there.

“To a degree, yes you are.”

My world tumbles.

“And in a way, no.”

His dark eyes pierce into mine when I try to comprehend which of the two is true. With a quick leap, he’s sitting beside me, ramming his sword into the log right beside my left foot. I cringe and nearly fall off the stack, but Silas stabilizes me with a casual hand. “No need to jump off the ledge, Queen of Crows. Even if you feel like you can’t tell left from right at the moment, it takes more than an angry human king to sever a sacred bond such as the one between Myron and you.”

The breath I take might be the first full one since the Flames shoved the torch into my flesh.