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That smell was too dangerous because as she watched him in that peace that was so rare, she wanted to get nearer to it. To envelop herself in that smell and allow her own heart to feel that peace. To know that if only for a moment, standing on thathill, there was nothing around them that would require a sword. That neither of them had to remember war awaited. Garrik’s scent and that meadow and the stars glistening in the sky was … everything she needed.

And that wasterrifying.

Alora’s eyes flickered to his shoulders. They had dropped low. His hand rested on his hip near a sheathed sword, the other kneaded long and hard circles into the back of his neck. Entirely enthralled by the beauty of the hills rolling before him.

Then Garrik turned to fully face her, extending his hand. “Come. Let’s have that drink.”

Apparently, that ‘drink’ was nothing more than his usual glass of bourbon, perhaps a little less expensive, the glass a little less crystal, and it slid across a shadowed table near the back of a bawdy tavern. One reminiscent of her recent past—and their first meeting.

They sat out of the path of wandering eyes. Scantily dressed barmaids, who were searching for a lap and generous pockets,they were also keen to avoid. Garrik swirled the bottom curve of his glass on the sticky wooden tabletop, fingertips lightly tapping on his knee. The dark cloak covering his hair sunk over his brows, clouding his face in even more shadow.

It was wise to have dawned them their cloaks before entering inside. As far as she imagined, no one in Elysian looked quite like him. The fabled savage warrior, the only gray-haired royal… Even without the obsidian crown, he would be difficult to dismiss—and her armor just the same.

Out there, and perhaps anywhere else, Garrik was breathtakingly handsome. More beautiful than most royals and their bloodlines. Usually, he walked with sophisticated posture and embellished grace. With measured steps, exquisitely precise, like a practiced dance that observers couldn’t help but stare with silenced tongues because the sheer sight of him was nothing more than something out-worldly. But here, in this town. In a tavern so lowly that no one but a commoner would visit … anyone would recognize the difference even with that darkened cloak over his shoulders.

Perhaps that’s why, as he walked around the tables of faeries and High Fae, his steps faltered slightly. By calculated purpose. The master of illusion held his chin low, and those incredible shoulders slouched forward as those enchanting silver eyes lacked their luster. The gleam entirely extinguished as if a day in fields or hammering iron into blades demanded price on his body.

A flawless disguise.

As he sat there, reclined back in the chair, scanning across the patrons whose voices were filled with pleasured groans and drunken chatter, he appeared no less dangerous and alluring as he did on the night of the High Queen’s Candlelighting.

But something was … different about him in the low light. Something dangerous.

The flickering from a candle on their table danced shadows across what perfect planes she could see of his face. And even though that illusion was nothing more than a male drained and exhausted at a table, she could seehim. Could see the tension rising in his shoulders, the taut line of his lips, the way he positioned himself on the chair, back always to the wall, as if anticipating the unpredictable.

Always watching. Always ready.

She broke the silence with a goading smile. “If you wanted to take me on a date, all you needed to do was ask.”

Garrik scoffed, stopping his glass halfway to his lips, then smirked. “Doubtful.” The cloak shifted somewhat as he tilted his gaze to her. “You would not have accepted my invitation.”

A small grin tugged up her face. “You’re right.”

He brought the glass to his lips. She tracked the movement as if it were the only thing shifting in the room. Knowing he scanned the crowd, was prepared for even the smallest of threats, Alora relaxed enough to focus her attentions on something more important. Him.

“Where are we?” she asked.

“Planning to settle here, clever girl?” His brow arched. The glass tapped against the table, and his gaze flickered behind her, spearing the door before finding her again. “I do not recommend it. Besides an inn and a few supply stores, this place is a shit-hole.” Garrik’s gaze fell to her boot, hovering there. “Give it to me.”

Alora narrowed her eyes at him, furrowing her eyebrows. “What?”

The cloak shifted again, enough that silver reflected her confusion as they bore into her. When those eyes didn’t move, Alora reluctantly lifted her boot to the edge of her seat, sunk her hand inside, and pulled out a crumbled piece of folded parchment.

Garrik outstretched his palm, gesturing her to place it in his hand before he flattened it on the table and planted a finger on the terrain, saying nothing more than, “Maraz.”

Alora’s mouth slightly gaped.

Garrik smirked.

“How long did you know?” Her eyes flickered from him to the map, knowing the very treason surrounding it. Of what could happen now that she had been discovered with it.

“Since the very moment you took it from my tent.” He silently chuckled.

She pushed the cool back of her hand against her warming cheeks. “Why didn’t you say anything?” He could have at any moment revealed her treason. At any moment demanded it back.

“You might need it someday. Wouldn’t want you getting lost.” Then he slowly traced his finger west to a small, nearby lake, tapping twice with his middle finger. There wasn’t anything but guidance in his voice. “Camp is here.” Then, from there, a silver ring glistened in the candlelight as those strong fingers trailed to a mountain range no more than a few days north. “Alynthia is here in these mountains … Galdheir to the south.” The veins in his forearm constricted. “The border at Kadamar is here, but never go there.Never.”

His words echoed with every brush of his finger.‘You might need it someday.’