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The youth wrestles with him, putting his whole pint-sized frame into it because, at some point, Envy had taken a vicious leap into the courtyard.

“Hey.” He jerks away from the little imp. “Hands off.”

“They’re expecting you,” the imp warns, frantic. “They must’ve known you’d come.”

Indeed. The guards anticipate a rescue, either from Envy or their band. If he tasks in there like a hot mess, it will end in ruin. Sorrow will pay even worse than she already has.

Envy stares at her, the vision smothering him. His heart needs to calm the fuck down, his fury needs a timeout, and his terror needs a sedative. He needs to be quick, concentrated, focused. Although it’s clear those sentinels weren’t the ones who’d laid a hand on her, they’ll have to be incapacitated, and it’s not going to tickle.

Fixating on the archers as they skulk through the vicinity, Envy snarls under his breath. “You might want to turn away.”

“You might want to treat me like a deity, not a human,” the moppet huffs.

Accurate point. Carrying a small set of clover archery, he’s already been taught the reality of combat. Nevertheless, Envy urges him farther into the hedges, then prowls along the border and emerges behind the first archer.

Each step hardens his jaw. Each step propels him faster, until all he sees is red. Two fluids jab to the back of the skull brings the first male and female down.

Envy twirls one of his glass arrows like a baton. Brandished by hand, the projectiles can pierce. The third guard calls out, then shuts up as the venomous lash of Envy’s weapon splits his mouth, widening the gap and leaking blood. Finally, a kick across the face wipes him out.

By the time the final archer registers the disturbance and rushes Envy, the archer’s eye socket meets the glass arrow’s tip. With a maddened growl, Envy jams the weapon in. Crimson sprays from the guard’s orb, and he howls before Envy backhands him into a concussion.

They were following orders, doing their job. It’s not their fault, and Envy would feel sick with himself, but all he can think is one thing.

Sorrow.

He barrels across the divide and grasps the sides of her face, lifting it gently, red coating his fingers and transferring to her cheeks. “Sorrow.”

She moans, lost in dreams. Desperate, he assesses the chains. The star-dusted manacles glisten with enchantment, impervious to brute strength.

Envy swears, choking the links and gritting his teeth while he shakes, pulls, and wrenches. Nothing works. Other than a key, the only thing that will break through the manacles is a dose of Asterra Flora. This wouldn’t be an issue if Malice and Wonder were here, since they’d brought some of that barrier-breaking liquid with them.

Without that, there’s no chance.

The youth jogs into the garden, concerned. “She’s waking up.”

“Envy,” Sorrow mumbles, her crusted lids fluttering, blearily catching sight of something behind them.

The child gasps. Envy vaults around, his bow nocked.

Standing before them is a lanky male with a cleft chin and a gray braid dangling over his shoulder, his expression heavy as he peers at Sorrow, who blinks with unshed tears. Her Guide, Echo. Recognition plows into Envy as Sorrow’s mentor withdraws an arrow from his robe, the weapon forged of pearl.

An arrow that belongs to a member of the Fate Court—the female known for her gossamer, butterfly gowns.

Of course. Manacles can be unlocked by the tip of an arrow, so long as that arrow belongs to the one who forged the restraints. Envy and his friends had done this to Malice, back when he was their prisoner instead of their ally, before he became Wonder’s soul mate.

How did Echo acquire this arrow? He must have gone to great lengths and greater risk to smuggle the weapon from its owner’s chamber.

A treasonous infringement.

Nonetheless, Envy is hard-pressed to lower his weapon, maintaining aim as the mentor approaches and wiggles the arrow’s tip into the bolt. “The fact remains,” Echo begins, his shaky words held together by a thread, “we may no longer agree. But that doesn’t mean we stop caring.”

He kisses Sorrow’s trembling cheek. She gives a chalky, half-conscious sob.

The lock shudders open. On a wounded cry, she falls forward. Envy drops his weapons and catches her, cradling her limp form to his chest. They must have tormented her to the limit, because she passes out again, the scathing cuts along her arms clotting.

“Take care of her,” Echo pleads.

“Always,” Envy promises.