Page 4 of A Frozen Pyre (Villains #2)

Two

Tyr smiled to himself as he woke, the taste of sunshine still on his tongue.

He’d learned at a young age how to stay between things even while sleeping—an ability that had come in handy on more than one occasion.

His smile faltered at the sight of Ophir’s fingers still interlaced with Dwyn’s.

He knew that Ophir cared for Dwyn, and that in theory, she was safer beside Dwyn than anywhere in the world.

He was sure that Dwyn had feelings for Ophir, too, but not in the way that a human or fae cared for one they loved.

It was the sort of care a goblin might have for their gold, or a viper might have for its lair.

He also knew that he would trade almost anything to be able to slit the witch’s throat where she slept and put an end to her wretched life.

But if Dwyn hadn’t found a way to break the bond that prevented them from ending one another, then it couldn’t be done.

He hated lying to Ophir, even more so when it came in the form of lying to protect Dwyn’s agenda.

He wasn’t staying invisible because Dwyn couldn’t tell a convincing lie.

He had to stay out of sight because Dwyn had told a series of lies so sinister, so manipulative, that they’d never get out from beneath her cobwebs of deceit if they couldn’t gain the upper hand.

For a little while, that meant she had to believe she’d successfully done away with him.

The frown stayed on his face as he slipped out from underneath the sheets and assessed the room. Though they’d arrived in the light of day, the siren had spent too much time shrewdly inspecting the women’s newfound quarters for him to truly investigate the space without risking detection.

He brushed strands of hair away from Ophir’s face with unseen fingers, sighing as he looked down at her.

How was he supposed to help her?

He’d expected to aid in her quest for vengeance against those responsible for Caris’s murder, but after Berinth’s death, Ophir had gone uncharacteristically silent regarding her original mission. No talk of finding and destroying killers. No schemes for bringing the responsible parties to justice.

At first, he’d wondered if Ophir only remained quiet in Dwyn’s presence, but Ophir hadn’t spoken about it when the siren slept, either.

His frown deepened as he stared at the princess.

She was perhaps the most powerful person on the continent.

Maybe she’d ceased speaking of such things because she didn’t need his help.

Perhaps all she needed to solve things on her own was the complete picture.

But how could Ophir possibly be safe from the siren once Dwyn knew that she was no longer in control?

He wouldn’t gamble Ophir’s safety against Dwyn’s impulsive, greedy rage, especially if the only toll was his own suffering conscience.

He’d scarcely slipped into the hall when a sound drew his attention.

Perhaps the servants were already stirring. It would be useful to monitor how they readied the castle for the day. He’d gain a better understanding of its inner workings, its layout, and the culture of the people within.

Tyr hurried down the hall, keeping his footsteps light.

Just because they couldn’t see him didn’t mean they couldn’t hear him.

He slipped around the corner and nearly ran into a straight-backed woman, legs apart and arms at her sides as if confronting an enemy.

His heart spiked with his near-brush mistake.

If it weren’t for years of careful training, he would have given himself away on sheer surprise.

Instead, he swallowed the emotion and examined his unexpected find.

The woman stood several arm’s lengths away from a closed wooden door.

Her hair was so tightly braided on each side, he’d nearly thought it had been shaved.

The rest of her dark hair ran down her back, ending somewhere between her shoulder blades.

She didn’t possess the telltale wings so common among northern fae, but everything from her ears to her gold-brown skin suggested that she had to be from Raascot.

Either that, or there were entirely new kingdoms beyond the continent to be discovered, which was a thought too exhausting for him to entertain.

She twitched, looking over her shoulder ever so slightly, most definitely in reaction to the gentle noise of Tyr stopping himself from impact.

He held his breath as he waited for her to shake off her paranoia, as they always did.

He counted on fae and humans alike to ignore their gut.

They chose to only believe what they could see with their eyes, and one day, their presumptions would be their undoing.

Of course, this morning was not for undoing.

He’d never expected to visit Gwydir. He’d also never expected to bed a princess, join a blood gang, or witness a dragon slaughter masses, but life had a funny way of changing one’s plans. He released his expectations and prepared to do what he did best: gather information.

The woman was waiting, but why?

Tyr kept perfectly still, as the pewter skies barely offered enough light through the arched corridors for him to see her.

Her shoulders slumped as she relaxed her posture at long last. The woman leaned against a wall but did nothing more.

He didn’t know enough of Raascot’s culture to know how one normally dressed, but from her leathers and the snug fit of her clothes, he assumed she must need the freedom of movement typically required by those who served as centurions or military.

She released the last of her tension, resting her head against the stone.

It was a strangely intimate sight, unintentionally peering into a stranger’s private moment of exhaustion in the pre-dawn hour.

The moment a new set of footsteps sounded in the distance, she snapped from the wall and tightened her shoulders. A winged man strode around the corner, dipping his head from the distance down the hall to greet her.

“Onain,” he said, raising a friendly hand in greeting.

“Evander,” she responded, posture rigid.

It took him a few more steps to reach her. His hand went directly to the doorknob. It turned easily in his hand. He looked over his shoulder as he said, “You could have gone in. It wasn’t locked.”

“It wasn’t my place, sir,” she replied.

“I’m not military,” he responded. “You’re an equal here. Come in.”

“With skin as hard as diamond, you would have been unbeatable in the military. Your powers were wasted,” she said.

The man chuckled. “If you say it, then I know it’s so. Surely, being impenetrable will benefit my king in closer corridors.”

“If you say so,” Onain replied.

Tyr hugged the empty space at her back as the door closed behind them.

Once again, she flinched, her gut doubtlessly sensing something unusual.

Women were particularly adept at feeling eyes on them or bodies near them.

He’d once thought this might pose a problem, before he’d learned a more important truth: Women had been conditioned to ignore any such instinct that couldn’t be confirmed with firm, physical evidence.

So, despite the way her chin jutted toward him, Tyr knew that if he remained still, she’d shake off the feeling once more.

She turned toward the empty room. One large table, decorated with a map and pieces that may have belonged to a chess set, dotted the surface.

Tyr realized he was in Gwydir’s war room.

It was quite the find for someone who’d only intended to tail maids and servants for his first morning in the castle, but he’d be foolish to question the goddess for her gift.

“Sit, sit.” Evander gestured as he slid into a tall-backed chair that had been specifically carved to accommodate wings.

Her expression remained impassive. “I’m more comfortable standing, if that’s okay.”

He sighed as he looked up at her. Purplish bruises smudged beneath his eyes, which Tyr rarely saw in the fae. He wore signs of stress and age, irrespective of his blood. He asked, “Do people tell you that you’re difficult?”

“Often, sir.”

Evander touched the map. He dragged it from Aubade, to Tarkhany, to Gwydir. “Princess Ophir is under our roof. Have you been briefed?”

She dipped her chin. “I was told that she arrived. I’ve also been told you’d be filling me in, sir.”

Tyr fought not to suck in an audible breath.

This was a strike too fortunate. A debriefing on Ophir’s arrival was a far sight better than following the laundrymaid as she tucked clean linens into spare rooms around the castle.

These must be the king’s advisors, if they were here at the crack of dawn to discuss official messaging.

He moved as close to the table as he dared.

“Her presence is not the problem,” Evander began.

“Raascot’s known there would be a union between Gwydir and Aubade for decades.

Of course, she was never the intended, but an advantageous marriage is still an advantageous marriage.

The issue is that the princess stumbled in from the forest, soaked to the bone, accompanied by a girl from Sulgrave and unable to tell us how she’d gotten here.

Then, after receiving Eero’s message regarding Tarkhany—”

Onain’s lips turned down. “I’ve heard, but I’m not sure I understand.”

“None of us do,” he agreed. “Queen Zita is calling for a summit. I’m sure her raven will arrive any day, but given Ceneth’s direct quill to Eero—”