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“Mmhm,” she coughed and watched the High Prince’s attention stir. His chin rose from the maps but remained with his back turned. “Does this please His Highness?” The sarcasm flowed precisely as she had hoped, taunting him with a curtsy expected in the presence of royalty.

Garrik tore his glance from the canvas and gazed over his shoulder. Grinning, the powerful muscles in his back and shoulders flexed. He released his hands from the table and closed the distance between them in five steps. “And if I told you that it did?” he asked. She didn’t mistake the gleam in his eye. “That I find that particular color, on you, to be … especially appealing.”

She held her ground as he stepped within a breath of her. “Then I’d say in your damned dreams.”

Garrik darkly chuckled and returned that devilish grin.

Alora intended to threaten his proximity when a loud crash of iron and stone caused her heart to leap.

The muffled sounds of voices carried into the tent as they both turned to the entrance.

“For fuck’s sake, Aiden. Must I constantly be surrounded by morons?” a gravelly female voice hissed.

“I’ll have you know—” A sharp yelp and splash of liquid cut him off before he continued, “You. Have not had your dose of souls yet this morning, have you? Woke up on the wrong side of the cot?”

“I did not hear a word you just said. I was distracted by this pathetic—obnoxious—little noise that turned out to be your voice.”

Another clash of iron was drowned out by Garrik’s unamused, irritated voice. “I thought to invite you to breakfast, but I am beginning to think you should stay here until I attend to”—he glanced at the door—“a pest problem.”

The bickering outside continued as he sighed. “Come out whenever you are ready. We will talk more after. I must warn you, do not wait long. Some in my Shadow Order have an appetite. Likely to be nothing but scraps should you delay.” He grabbed his swords in one hand and exited the tent.

From the outside, Alora could hear Garrik’s deep voice speaking to the guards, “You may retire for the morning. Go eat and take rest. I will call should I require you further.”

Food. Right. She hadn’t eaten since …

When was the last time?

Alora scanned his space. Rather odd of a noble to have such simple accommodations. No gold statues, ornate rugs or curtains, no crown. The only piece of finery in there was the leathered chest on the floor, and even that didn’t seem to fit the assumed belongings of royalty.

Quietly gliding across the room, Alora’s curiosity peaked upon noticing the parchments on the table. Upon the maps routed with every trade route and passable dirt or stone path in the kingdom. To her disappointment, there was no mark, no inclination of where or which direction from Telldaira the camp sat. They could be anywhere north.

Though it was still quite foolish of the High Prince to leave out the very thing that she required to find herself as far away from him and his legion. Alora rifled through the parchment, finding not one but two maps of identical landscapes and terrain. Hopefully, he wouldn’t miss one because, as Alora hesitated and decided, the map hidden at the bottom of the pile was rolled and shoved into her boot.

It could be foolish. Not only because the High King decreed that anyone found harboring a map would be sentenced to death for his own selfish reasoning. He’d deemed it necessary to keep Marked Ones from finding refuge within the realm. But by the time Garrik noticed one missing, she would be long gone.

Alora then looked to the table itself, bending down onto a knee and searching underneath. A map served only the purpose of a route and destination. But if she had any hope of succeeding, weapons would greater her chances. There had to be a weapon somewhere. One he’d forgotten, one easily obtainable, close and concealed. Perhaps even her weapon; the obsidian jeweled dagger that had vanished in a cloud of smoke and shadow in the forest. She ran her fingers under the table, under each chair. Shuffling her feet to the High Prince’s chair, she searched there too.

Nothing.

His scaled armor waited, perfectly displayed on a form in the corner. She ran her hands through it, carefully pulling the battle-black leather pieces aside.

Nothing.There is nothing here.

It would’ve been easy to succumb to defeat. To accept that she was stars-knows-where in the kingdom. She could dwell on the fact that she was surrounded by soldiers who could possibly be nothing more than footmen for the High King. That the High Prince was lying and the moment she stepped from his tent, those Ravens waiting would bind her.

But she’d come too far in her suffering to surrender so easily.

And that’s when she saw it.

Gleaming silver on the cot. On the black cloak she had worn all night … the iron clasp. And as if the stars were on her side, on it would be a rounded flying dragon with sharp, pointed wings and a spiked tail.

Alora snatched the cloak from the furs, ripped the metal from the fabric, and stuffed it inside her corset.

A ridiculous laugh roared from outside, making her flinch.

Her stomach protested its hunger. Though she may not have wanted to risk it, she knew if she didn’t eat soon, any escape attempt would be useless.

With a deep breath, Alora stiffened at the tent door, her eyes pressed tight and a silent prayer on her lips, opened it, and walked into the warm golden light of dawn.