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Had she missed his guards stirring at the door?

“Apologies, sire. Riders were spotted in the forest… A Raven’s crest.”

Which only meant one thing. The High King’s soldiers had arrived. And they were there to shackle her, carting her off to Castle Galdheir.

A sharp pain rippled through her heart.They’ve come for me. I have to get out of here.

The High Prince scanned her face. As if he could decipher what she was thinking, he spoke with a reassuring sternness. “They are not here for you. Believe me when I say this, you are safe here.” He waited, allowing his words to settle. “I intend to release you. I need to know if you can be reasonable. Tell me, should I let you go?”

“Get off!” She squirmed, attempting to pull her arms down, but his grip was unwavering.

“As much as Ienjoyhaving you on your back beneath me, I do not have all day. Will you try anything?”

Bastard.She’d cut his balls off if given the opportunity. But if she wanted any chance of escaping—of survival—she needed to appear willing to cooperate. With a deep sigh, her hostility faded—on the outside, at least.

Alora scoffed. The tension in her muscles relaxed, and she dropped her head into the pillow. “No. Now get off.”

Garrik released her crossed forearms and cautiously lifted himself from her. He hovered for a moment, surely watching for another attempt at hostility. But what he didn’t know was that she was determined to not fall into another position of vulnerability.

In the absence of any retaliation, he slipped his legs off her and planted himself on the pelt beside the cot.

A tap hit the canvas. “Sire? Your orders?”

Alora soothed down her forearms to her bruised wrists, the piece of her that remained untouched by the High Prince, and swung her exhausted legs off the cot before sitting up.

“Send riders. The Ravens can wait until my business is concluded.” Garrik held his focus on her as he spoke, carrying the same stern look on his face.

Adjusting his tunic at his abdomen and rolling up a sleeve, the silver of his eyes still never left her. “Jade, bring my guest new clothes.”

Guest.She could’ve laughed.

Jade called from outside, annoyance surging in her tone, “Yes, sire.”

It was then Alora noticed the golden glow against the canvas.

Dawn was rising, offering its burst of warmth in shards of sunlight. Lined shadows were cast across the tent and illuminated the space around them. She could almost feel the heat of the sun emanating from the canvas, wishing that the very same heat was coursing through her veins and her magic returned.

He leaned over in front of her, reached toward a metal water basin on the bedside table, and pulled a dripping cloth from inside. The High Prince offered it to her, but she flinched, refusing it instead.

“Relax. I will not hurt you.”

“I’ve heard those words before,” the words spat viciously from her mouth, and he ignored her.

“Clean yourself up.” This time, he dropped the cloth on the cot and prowled away. Righting the chair that had toppled over in the fight, he moved to the table on the far right of the tent, poured two crystal glasses of wine, and walked back to her, extending a glass.

The gesture had her flinching once more. She hadn’t noticed sooner, likely out of the shock and adrenaline. Not only were his hands drenched and face specked in dried blood but the knuckles were split open to festering wounds. Blood splatters trailed up his entire arm until the crimson disappeared beneath rolled sleeves.

Garrik placed the glass on the side table and opened his mouth to speak, but it was her shaking voice that disturbed the silence. “Who—who’s blood is that?”

“Not mine.”

As if that was any bit of a relief.

He sat in his chair. Legs spread wide, sunken back, his bloody arms draped over the armrests. Condensation formed at his fingertips on the glass between them. Garrik twisted his wrist, forming a powerful fist.

“A pathetic piece of waste unworthy of the air breathed to mention them by name.”

“Are they … dead?”