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Echoing until her words echoed, too.‘I’m not promising to stay until Dellisaerin.’

‘You do not disappear. I wish to know the moment you decide to leave, and I will not interfere unless it is unsafe.’

And she knew … with every trace of his finger, every scan of the routes … she knew.

He wasn’t simply showing her their kingdom. Each one of the unmarked towns he pointed out was a possible place of refuge.Maybe that was why he steadily brushed his fingers across the parchment, holding them there, explaining roads not visible and towns unmarked. Knowing as well as she did that she would never stay until the northern border. And instead of allowing her to make brash decisions, he was helping her. Making sure she knew safety and ease in her flight from him.

Alora followed everywhere Garrik’s fingers drifted with her eyes. The scratch of his skin sounded like a quill drawing on parchment, sending small, needless shivers down her spine. She moved her finger, trailing from Maraz, following his guide, over the swamplands of Lirazkendra, over mountains and flatlands.

Until his finger stopped. And she was too mesmerized by the movement to realize they had landed on the northern border of Dellisaerin.

Their fingers touched, hovering over the ice wall marked there. Something like freezing lightning shot through her finger as it made contact with his skin.

Alora gasped in a sharp breath, flinching away from the shock.

Garrik’s eyes flickered to hers. He felt it and flinched, too.

They were quiet for a few breaths, the only sounds being patrons and barmaids around them. A silent question on both their tongues that neither were able to speak.

Then Garrik blinked. Instantly returning to that stone-cold face of an Elysian warrior as he drew the contents of his glass to his lips and downed it whole, slamming the dirty glass onto the table, making her flinch again.

With a sharp flick of his wrist, he gestured to the barmaid attending the counter and, without any warning, whipped his piercing gaze to the door.

A chestnut-haired barmaidplaced a glass of bourbon in front of Garrik with fast, yet timid, shaking hands as Alora fought for anything to take her mind off that touch.

It was nothing. Nothing but the storm that finally crested over the town. Static energy from the sky, perfect timing, nothing more.

Alora curled her lip at the taste of her ale, missing the burn of whiskey, when something she considered close to water washed across her tongue instead. The ale here was worse than Telldaira.

At least it was a distraction. Garrik seemed to be just as interested in his drink, too.

That disgust lingered. Her eyes traveled back to the barmaid weaving around tables, adorned in a flowing dress of cheap fabrics. Most of the males in the room watched her. Even those who held their arms around another who whispered in their ears and tickled their legs. The way she moved. It was as if she had practiced footwork like those on a dance floor. Precise and calculated, light and airy.

Someone like her would be the center of attention at gatherings—she would know. Kaine held too many for her to count. And at each one, she was adorned in obscene amounts of layers of frilly fluff and mounds of finery that could’ve fed an entire town. It was … disgusting.

Garrik chuckled a breath from his nose. “What is that look for, clever girl?” he inquired, lifting his glass to his lips.

She hadn’t realized that her stare had turned critical, watching the female, succumbing to a memory. “I hate ball-gowns.” Alora took a large gulp of ale, twisting her mouth at the horrible taste.

“Noted. No ball-gown leathers. I shall alert our armorer.”

Alora scoffed and rolled her eyes. “Kaine would host these stars-awful parties, and I’d trip over my skirts all night trying to impress his guests. I hated those parties. Well, except for—” She nibbled on the inside of her cheek.

“Except for?” Garrik arched a brow, leaning forward on his forearms.

With a heavy sigh, she continued, “The music … I loved the music. I loved dancing to it, but he’d never dance with me. I was to be a trophy. Poised and proper. To be seen as … as a wall … flower … and not…” her words trailed off.

Then Alora’s senses perked to a faint stirring of lovely notes drifting from somewhere in the bar. Perhaps outside.

A pressure built inside her head, feeling a burn tickle inside her nose as her eyes lined with liquid.

It was a melody.

One that kissed her like a northern wind. Carrying the gentle caress of something so familiar, something loving and peaceful and safe. Wrapping around her like a long-lost parent’s embrace. Like the touch of winter and ice and the night sky against her blazing flesh. Softly tracing her skin; a healing brush against a broken heart.

She listened to it, her vision narrowed, seeing the notes as if she were sitting at ivory keys again—wanting to play them.

For a moment, the familiar melody trickled through her veins, like a call home. She hadn’t realized what she was doing until her fingers forgot her tankard and hovered above the edge of the table.