Page 19

“Thank the dragons,” Wren breathed.

She pulled the door back and stooped to move through it, Britta her silent shadow. Her skin pebbled as her bare feet met the cold slippery cobbles of the street, well more of an alley. They’d made it out, but they weren’t safe.

Hand in hand, she and her sister ghosted down the darkened alleys. The hair at the nape of her neck stood on end. It was too quiet. The town seemed like it was empty. Wren tipped her head back to eye the storm. The dark cloud boiled in the sky and the wind howled, turning the world into an odd shade of gray and blue. Since her wedding, it felt like an eternity or mere seconds had passed. How much time had really gone by since they escaped?

Had it been an hour since she’d said her vows? Three?

In fact, the whole ordeal seemed like a dream.

Or a nightmare.

They rounded a corner of the nearest home and the wind and rain blasted her. She clenched her teeth and tried to see through the rain. The typically stormy weather of Lorne was something she was used to, and she welcomed it. It would give her and Britta the cover they needed to flee through the streets, and hopefully wash away their trail.

The faint rumble of a far-off explosion set her on edge.

They couldn’t stay in the town. The Verlantians would search the area immediately. Britta wasn’t safe there.

“I’m c-cold,” Britta chattered.

“I know, my love,” Wren said, kneeling to hug her sister. “Soon we’ll be nice and warm and safe. Just a little longer. Can you do that for me?”

Britta nodded, her little body shivering.

You need to get her warm.

Her sister was the only true heir to the throne, and so she had to be protected above all else. It would do no good if they escaped only for Britta to catch her death in the elements. Wren wiped the rain out of her eyes and pulled away.

Even if Britta hadn’t been heir to the throne, Wren would have considered her sister’s life more important than her own, anyway. She was a wee babe, after all. A child. An innocent.

Where can you take her?

An idea hit Wren: Rowen’s grandparents.

They were shepherds, just like Alec had been all those years ago. They loved Britta. They would protect her. They would save her. She would not be found living up in the hills with them, hidden from knowledge and sight.

Britta was too small and weak to wade through the moors that separated the edge of the town from the hills, so Wren once more took her in her arms, though her muscles were sore and tired and protested heavily against the previously inconsequential weight of her little sister. She was so tired.

“I can walk,” Britta insisted, seemingly sensing her sister’s struggle. “I can, so—”

“You will fall into a bog, and I shall never see you again,” Wren countered, holding her sister closer, and that was that. “I refuse to give you up to the toads,” she said lightly.

They crossed the moors in silence, Wren wishing she had a heavy cloak with which to protect herself and Britta from the rain. Her sister began to cry and eventually fell asleep, her warm breath puffing against Wren’s neck in a steady rhythm. Poor thing had gone through too much tonight. Her sister would not truly comprehend everything that had happened today for quite some time.

Stars, Wren couldn’t even process most of it, but it was clear Britta at least understood that something horrible and unchangeable had occurred. Her parents were gone—whatevergonemeant to a six-year-old—and they weren’t coming back.

Wren began crying, too.

Though she couldn’t feel the tears drip down her cheeks, they were there all the same.

She flinched every time a dull explosion rumbled through the air. It was wrong to run from a fight, she felt that in her bones, but family was more important. Their kingdom was more important. If Britta was lost, the isles would forever be in the clasp of the elves.

A mournful cry of a dragon caused her tears to come faster.

It was the sound of death and heartache.

How many had they lost?

Too many.