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“Still you.” Jade stood with crossed arms and winked, reminiscent of Aiden’s and just as taunting.

Thalon twisted back to her before murmuring something, and they both sprinted over the edge onto the staircase, disappearing below.

The sound of rushed footsteps crunched the drying grass of the meadow behind them before an urgent voice called out, “Your Highness!” Deimon, an amber-eyed faerie with night-dark feathered wings called, “A raven flew in this morning,” and held out his tanned hand, presenting rolled parchment, sealed by a fading fox insignia Alora didn’t recognize.

Garrik’s expression fell to a neutral, princely disposition before he opened it.

Shouts of frustration and pleased snickers resounded from the depths, covering the silence of the High Prince and the cold expression now hardening his face. And perhaps she was mistaken, but for a moment, she glanced at a sheen of sweat forming on Garrik’s brow before he rolled it up and transferred it inside his armor.

“Deimon, this is Isleen.” Garrik gestured to the faerie whose lavender eyes were widened, staring into the pit Jade and Thalon sprinted down.

Upon hearing her name, she turned and offered a sharp nod, flickering her attention between Garrik and Deimon.

He continued, “She is to join the Wingborne and report to Alora once settled.”

Wary eyes flickered to Alora.

Alora recognized that look because she herself had carried it her first weeks in camp. So, she stepped forward and quieted her voice to something soothing. “Deimon is one of the best here. You’re in trustworthy hands.” She gestured to the coliseum, still bound by punishment, and explained, “Once Jade is finished below, I’ll come help you settle in. Shouldn’t be long.”

Her smile seemed to do it. Isleen nodded and turned away, exchanging quick greetings before wandering toward camp. Leaving them alone.

Terribly alone.

On the edge of a damning pit, shoulder to shoulder with the High Prince and his alluring scent of metal and leather dancing on the northern breeze.

She didn’t know how long had passed. Didn’t know much else other than the slow quickening of her heart when she heard Garrik’s breathing become slightly uneven.

“Is everything okay in Galdheir?”

“Want to go down with me?”

Their voices combined.

Garrik ran his hand down the back of his neck as Alora cleared her throat, adjusting her balance. She rarely saw him so undone.

Rolling her lips between her teeth, she’d forgotten what she asked, peering into the darkness now bursting with explosions of glowing magic. One scan of the hundreds of spiraling steps and felt her blood iced over?—

“We can dawn down. I am too tired to walk,” Garrik imparted as Smokeshadows began tendriling from his shoulders, and she turned to meet his glowing silver irises, forgetting the lightning in her veins the moment they speared into hers. Forgetting everything but him.

Crossing her arms, Alora pursed her lips and glared through critical, slitted eyes. “I thought you didn’t train with anyone?”

He smirked and stepped closer, his back to the pit’s edge mere feet away.

Alora dared to remain, stiffening her back to raise her chin to him.

Garrik closed the distance. “No, but I would not mind chasing you,” he teased, stepping so close she couldn’t help but survey the movement of his chest and curse the thrum of her now boiling blood.

This time, Alora drew closer, brushing her hand to his chest in a slow, daunting trace upward.

Garrik stiffened, appearing to falter in breaths under a tremble from her touch. Then his hand twitched, and a tendril of Smokeshadows whirled around her hand, responding to her but quickly misting away.

The shadowy touch was like velvet. Like the gentle caress of Garrik’s hands.

Thrilling.

Dangerous.

Alora stepped, forcing Garrik to step backward. His gaze was as piercing as a sharpened blade.