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Between the crackling of fire and scrapes of spoons on wood, heavy, rushed footsteps trailed their way. Emerging from the path beside Garrik’s tent, six soldiers clad in Dragon’s battle leathers marched from the darkness. But the sight of the force wasn’t what shoved an iron rod deep into Alora’s spine.

It was that of the High Prince whom they trailed.

Adorned in his armor, Garrik’s face was taut as the visage of Elysian’s deadliest warrior spurred toward the fire. A storm raged in his bones and death stalked his presence.

It terrified her.

Because that very real fact was like an ocean crushing her under its waves. She was now one of his Dragons. A soldier under his command.‘Mine,’he’d said.

And she was a Dragon who had disobeyed his orders.

Bile burned her throat with each of his steps.

This was it. The time had come to punish her for escaping. And not only that, but her rebellion had resulted in one of his soldiers—his revered Shadow Order—injured gravely. There was no escaping this.

Her eyes met his as the distance between them closed, expecting him to stop. To wrench her to her feet. To?—

Alora braced herself, digging her nails into the fallen log beneath her until the splinters bit her flesh.

Only, the High Prince and his soldiers didn’t stop and shackle her in chains. She wasn’t carried in Smokeshadows to a dungeon. They didn’t consider her at all. Their footsteps continued on, past the firesite, and marched down the clearing of tents until they were engulfed by the darkness once more.

Alora’s focus was glued to the shadows, feeling her taut muscles relax as confusion engulfed her unsettled nerves.What’s happening?

Heavy stomps of horses faded in the distance as silhouettes of the soldiers climbed the hill, guided by moonlight. Alora half-expected the High Prince to accompany them when he appeared inside the glow of the fire once more. Casting shadows across his handsome face. His battle-black armor lit up from the light with each determined step.

Garrik didn’t turn to them as he passed. He continued walking until he reached his tent entrance, then, forcefully pulling the flaps aside, slipped inside.

Alora glanced at the fabric swaying in the wind. Candles lit the inside and cast shadows onto the canvas. The High Prince’s towering shadow paced the tent, and her eyes tracked the movement. Wondering where he had gone and what his soldiers were commanded to do.

Eldacar noticed her stare and sighed. “It will be a long night for him, I’m sure.” Then he was silent. Nothing but the crackling fire disturbed the air around them. But his soft expression made way for a face twisted and wholly troubled. “Our healer is away, tending to Aiden. Thalon is in danger, being inside the Raven’s camp as a Mystic. Garrik won’t sleep until they’re back. Not like he’d find any sleep even if all was well—” He stopped himself. As if he’d said too much, dropping his eyes to the ground.

“The High Prince has trouble sleeping?” Alora raised an eyebrow, turning back to watch the High Prince’s silhouette near the table she stole a map from.

Eldacar considered carefully his next words, his mouth twisting in hesitation. “It’s likely been … weeks since he last rested.”

It’s been five hundred years since those cursed with magic rested. Who cares if a spoiled royal loses some sleep?

Alora continued watching his shadow pace against the flickering of candlelight. If he were anyone else, perhaps she’d find it in her heart to care. But watching as he sat in his chair, as shadows stirred around his chiseled form like the very smoke drifting into the sky before her, Alora couldn’t summon an ounce of compassion.

Let him suffer sleep.It was none of her concern.

Rising to her feet, Alora clutched the book in her hand. “Goodnight, Eldacar. Thank you … for everything,” she said and turned to her tent, leaving Eldacar alone by the fire.

Garrik sat rigid in the candlelight, holding a glass of strong, amber liquid between his fingers, condensation forming around the tips. It was the perfect remedy for his tortured mind and aching back. Each stretch of an arm or elongation of his back became a reminder of the impact in the clearing.

He had endured many battles. Suffered countless wounds. Still, he would prefer the slice of a blade over the cracking of bones.

Cuts healed faster.

His elbow dug into the armrest as he pushed his thumb into his cheek. Two ringed fingers rubbed his aching forehead. If it were not for camp, he would release a roar so devastating, the entire valley would level. Enough to demolish a starsdamned mountain. But not now. Not here.

He closed his eyes, plucked the fabric of his tunic away from his abdomen, and exhaled a long, liquored breath.

Thalon, he called—pleaded—commanded to the stronghold deep within his mind, and sealed by magic.

Instantly, the weightlessness of clouds caressed his skin, releasing pressure from his bones. Much like floating on a calm lake or fading carelessly from consciousness, his awareness of the tent and everything around floated away, entering a state that no normal faerie, High Fae, or even Mystic could go. Not to the extent that he could.

Mind magic.