Page 29

Chapter

Twenty-Eight

Loren’s breath caught as Araya’s eyelids fluttered. Her breathing quickened, and Loren could hear her heart start to pound as realization and panic flashed across her face. She shifted, struggling to stand—fighting to stay awake. His chest tightened, but he shoved away the guilt. This was for her—even if she never understood. He had to keep her safe.

But he couldn’t stop himself from taking a step toward her as the conversation around him faded, the celebration of his return snuffed out in an instant.

“Easy,” he murmured, his hands settling gently on her shoulders. “Don’t fight it.”

She blinked up at him, her silver eyes glazed and unfocused. For a heartbeat, he thought she might speak, but then she swayed and her eyes closed, surrendering. He caught her before she collapsed, guiding her head gently onto her folded arms.

With her cheek pillowed on her arms, she looked heartbreakingly young. The anger that had hardened her features since he compelled her was gone, washed away like ink in the rain. Her lips parted slightly, her face slack with the kind of peace he had never seen her wear awake.

Loren reached out before he could stop himself, brushing a loose strand of hair from her face. Its softness lingered against his fingers. For a moment, he let himself pretend—pretend she had never been a pawn in Shaw’s game. Never looked at him with silver eyes blazing with rage. But he knew that as soon as she woke, the fury and hate would come roaring back—stronger than ever.

“Really, Nyra?” Thorne said tightly. “Since when do we drug people who come to us for help?”

“She didn’t come to us for help—Loren forced her to. Drugging her was his suggestion,” Nyra responded coolly, arms crossed as she faced Thorne. “And I decided it was a good idea after Araya told me she’s bonded to Jaxon Shaw .”

Loren’s head snapped toward her, locking onto her steely blue glare. Why would Araya have volunteered that ?

“She said it herself,” Nyra continued, not flinching from his stare. “None of us are safe as long as she’s here because Shaw isn’t going to just let her go . He will rip this city apart looking for her. Our work here, everything we do—it’s in danger because of who she is. And he knew and didn’t say a word.” The accusation hung in the air between them.

“Nyra—” Finn’s steady voice cut through the mounting tension with the practiced weight of someone used to playing the mediator. But even he couldn’t fully mask the strain threading through his words. “He couldn’t leave her there?—”

“He absolutely could have,” Nyra snapped, her composure cracking. “It’s a question of saving one female versus saving hundreds. If Shaw keeps turning over rocks looking for her, he’ll eventually find us —and then we won’t save anyone.”

“What would you suggest, then?” Loren growled.

Nyra paused mid-stride, the room falling into a tense silence as everyone turned toward her. Her blue eyes, usually as calm and clear as a winter sky, were now sharp and glinting with an edge of cold resolve. She met Loren’s gaze, holding it. “Jaxon has to find her body.”

Loren’s world tilted, narrowing to a pinpoint as the bond howled in his chest, every instinct demanding that Loren tear Nyra apart for what she’d dared suggest. “She is innocent?—”

“She’s not innocent, Loren,” Nyra argued. “Shaw changed all the rules for her. What other fae female is working at the Arcanum, wearing an Eye around her neck, and apparently visiting high-profile prisoners alone? I’m grateful for whatever role she played getting you out, but she doesn’t want to be here. You need to think. If we let her live she’s going to run right back to him and tell him everything.”

"You’re talking about murder," Loren hissed.

"I’m talking about survival," Nyra snapped, her voice rising with frustration. “Do you think I want to be the one who has to make this choice? If Shaw finds her, he finds us. I know it sounds cruel, but she won’t suffer. She’ll just never wake up?—”

Loren’s vision blurred, his thoughts spiraling. “You want me to stand by and let you murder her while she’s defenseless?” He took another step forward, the room tensing as the shadows rippled outward from him. “While she sleeps?”

Nyra’s composure wavered, her shoulders tensing as Loren’s shadows surrounded her. “I don’t want to,” she said. “But I will if it means saving hundreds, maybe thousands, of lives. She wouldn’t suffer, Loren. It would be quick—merciful.”

Merciful?

Loren barked a harsh, bitter laugh, the sound too loud in the dense silence. The shadows lashed outward, crawling up the walls and creeping across the floor in trembling, twisting veins of darkness. Nyra stiffened, taking a half-step back as one snaked toward her boot.

“Is that what you tell yourself to sleep at night?" Loren demanded. "That you’re being merciful?"

"Loren—" Finn took a cautious step forward, his voice carefully measured and his eyes on the shadows. “Let’s all calm down and talk about this?—”

“She’s not just Jaxon Shaw’s bond.” Loren’s voice cracked, his fury barely masking the raw terror tearing through him. The thought of losing her—whether to Nyra’s cold logic or Jaxon Shaw’s cruelty—he couldn’t accept it.

“She’s mine,” he snarled.

His confession cracked through the room like a thunderclap. The shadows burst outward, pulsing in rhythm with the bond pulsing between them. He’d spent so long arguing that she’d be better off without him, that he had no right to claim her—but he had.

And now…Goddess help him. He would kill anyone who tried to take her from him.

Across from him, Nyra stumbled back a step, her eyes wide as she stared at the shadows. “Loren, I didn’t know?—”

"Would it have changed anything if you had?" Loren snarled. “Shaw will be looking for me too. Should I be worried about you slitting my throat when I fall asleep?”

Nyra shook her head, tears shining in her eyes as the shadows crept toward her. They spilled across the floor, brushing against her boots and twisting into long tendrils that reared like snakes, poised to strike.

And then?—

Araya stirred. Her breath hitched, so quietly it was barely even a sound—but Loren’s gaze snapped down to her, his world narrowing to the unconscious female he’d bound his soul to. The shadows recoiled, their focus snapping back to him as he dropped to his knees beside her to run his hand over her back in long, soothing strokes.

I’m here, he whispered into her mind, a promise only their bond could hear. I won’t let them hurt you.

“We need to move them both tonight,” Finn said, his voice firm but quiet. “Before the Arcanum starts looking for them. Make it happen, Nyra.”

Nyra choked on a sound that wasn’t quite a sob, her hand still pressed hard to her mouth. But she nodded sharply before she turned and fled—like she could outrun the weight of what she’d nearly done.

Loren watched her go, unable to summon even a flicker of the rage he’d felt just moments ago. He sank onto the bench beside Araya, wanting nothing more than to lay his head down on his arms and fall asleep on the table beside her.

“Nyra manifested as a weather worker,” Finn said after a beat, watching Loren carefully—a leader assessing a threat. “One of the best we’ve ever seen. She’s personally saved hundreds of fae from the New Dominion.”

Loren’s lip curled, but he was too wrung out to do more than show his teeth in something too exhausted to be called a snarl. Not even saving hundreds excused the slaughter of innocents.

“She has no idea, does she?” Thorne asked quietly.

Loren shook his head, unable to bring himself to look at his oldest friend.

“That’s not uncommon for young females who grew up in the New Dominion.” Thorne sighed, rubbing his jaw. “The Arcanum has suppressed knowledge about the mate bond, perverting it with their so-called bond agreements. But it’s not hopeless, Loren—you can still tell her.”

“No—” Loren stared down at her, giving in to the temptation to brush a loose piece of hair back behind her mangled ear. “I just want her to be safe. Help me get her somewhere safe—please.”

“She can’t go to Lumaria,” Thorne said, glancing at Finn. “Not until she accepts that she can’t go back—if she took any information about it back to the Arcanum?—”

“What about Ithralis?” Finn suggested. “It’s abandoned, but secure. We can contact Eloria once we cross the Veil?—”

“Eloria?” Loren’s voice came out hoarse, the name hitting him like a lightning strike. “My sister, Eloria? She’s alive?”

Finn leaned back, a grin breaking across his face. “You mean your sister the Queen Regent?” He laughed. “She’s alive, well, and more terrifying than ever.”

Loren’s heartbeat thundered in his ears, a little of the ice around his heart cracking. His sister was alive. She was out there—leading and fighting, holding their people together.

“When do we leave?”

Loren cradled Araya’s limp form as he stepped onto the rickety gangplank leading to the glorified fishing skiff Nyra had the audacity to call a boat. The wood groaned beneath his weight, threatening to pitch them both into the frigid black water below.

Loren carried her straight to the cabin. It was as cramped and unwelcoming as the rest of the boat—dank and musty, with the pervasive scent of salt and mildew clinging to the air. The thin wooden walls blocked the wind but did little to hold back the biting cold. The narrow cot bolted to the deck looked more like a slab of wood than a bed, but Loren laid Araya on it gently, making her as comfortable as he could.

“Someone she trusts should be here when she wakes,” Thorne said quietly from where he watched Loren tend to her.

Loren let out a bitter laugh. “Not me then.” He tucked her injured arm carefully against her chest, his fingers brushing hers as he pulled back, taking comfort in the faint pulse of life beneath her skin.

“Drugging her probably isn’t the way to her heart,” Thorne said wryly. “But you shouldn’t give up hope, Loren.”

Loren glanced at his oldest friend—the male who had been like a brother to him. Guilt and regret tangled in his chest, thorny vines coiling tight around his heart. “Do you think it was better or worse than tricking her into removing the iron collar around my neck and using her true name to compel her to come with me against her will? ”

“So not you, then,” Thorne agreed after a beat of silence. “I can sit with her if you want. I’m a Healer now.”

“Like your mother,” Loren said, smiling at the thought of the bright human woman who had welcomed the fae crown prince’s friendship with her son. “She must be proud.”

Thorne’s expression tightened, his smile fading as he looked past Loren. “She’s dead,” he said flatly, like he’d had to say the words a thousand times before. “Killed for sympathizing with the fae monarchy.”

The words hit Loren like a blow, the air in the cabin suddenly too thick to breathe. “I’m sorry,” he managed to say, his voice rough. “Your father?”

“Died with yours, on the battlefield trying to avenge her,” Thorne said, clearing his throat. He looked away, not meeting Loren’s gaze, and when he spoke again his voice was stiff. “I have things handled here. Nyra will need an extra set of hands getting underway. You should help her.”

Loren nodded, recognizing the request for what it was. Thorne needed space—not just to tend to Araya, but to wrestle with his own ghosts. As soon as he stepped onto the deck, the wind hit him like a blade, slicing through the heavy cloak Serafina had given him. He made his way over to the helm, where Nyra adjusted the sails.

“How can I help?” he asked.

Nyra glanced over her shoulder at him, her sharp gaze flicking down to his hands before returning to her work. “Take that line,” she said, nodding toward a coil of rope near the rail. “Tie it off before we lose the mainsail.”

Loren caught the rope, his fingers numbing slightly from the cold as he worked to secure it. The tension between them hung heavy in the air, unspoken but undeniable. He could feel Nyra watching him out of the corner of her eye, but she said nothing until he finished.

“Good,” she muttered, testing the tension on the rope. Satisfied, she stepped back toward the helm, her hands resting lightly on the wheel. “We’ll be faster with the wind at our backs,” she added, mostly to herself. “We can skirt close to the shadows and find a gap?—”

Loren’s gaze drifted as Nyra spoke, her voice fading into the background. His sharp eyes caught a flicker of movement against the darkness of the shoreline—a flash of light. “Nyra,” he said, cutting her off.

“Dammit—” Nyra’s head whipped around, her sharp gaze locking onto what could only be a patrol boat. “Cut those ropes and find something to hold onto.”

She tossed him a knife, not waiting to see if he was following her instructions as she dashed for the helm, throwing her arms wide. Her power lit the air, every hair on Loren’s arms standing on end as the wind rose to a shriek. He sliced the first two ropes, lunging for the third as the patrol boat changed course, drawn by the sheer power Nyra was calling to heel.

He’d only cut halfway through the last rope when she released it.

The wind sliced across the deck, filling the sails with a deafening crack . Loren grabbed for the rail, almost plummeting into the icy water as the last rope tore free on its own. It whipped past his face, left behind as the skiff lunged across the waves like an arrow, leaving nothing but churned water in its wake.

“They’re following us?—”

“Of course they are,” Nyra snapped, her eyes never straying from the darkness ahead of them. “Hold on to something—this is going to get rough.”

Instead of hugging the safety of the shoreline, the skiff barreled straight toward the looming wall of shadows. At the last moment, Nyra turned the wheel, bringing them parallel to the writhing mass—so close Loren could have reached out and brushed his fingers through the inky blackness.

The patrol boat didn’t fall back. Worse, they must have had a weather worker of their own—because they were gaining.

“They never come this close to the shadows!” Nyra shouted, her words whipped away by her conjured wind .

But today they did—because an important prisoner had escaped, along with a bond belonging to one of the most powerful families in the New Dominion.

His heart pounded as the patrol boat closed in, cutting through the waves with brutal efficiency. He could see the shimmer of runes etched into the hull of their boat and the gleam of corrupted magic on their weapons.

If they caught them, they would drag him back to his cell. And Araya—they would take her back to Jaxon.

No—just the thought sent a bolt of raw, hot fury through him. He wouldn’t allow that to happen.

Loren reached out—not with his hand, but with his mind, brushing it across the darkness the way one might stroke a coiled serpent. Come , he urged it, inviting it forward. Strike.

For a moment, the void hesitated. A presence stirred against his awareness as something cold and ancient tilted its head, considering him.

Now! Loren demanded.

The darkness inhaled, Nyra’s wind dying with a whimper. The patrol boat was so close that Loren could see the terror on the soldiers’ faces as their own wind vanished, the water around them turning as smooth as glass. One stumbled back, scrambling to nock an iron-tipped arrow—but he never managed to raise his bow.

The shadows struck with deadly precision, wood splintering as they slammed into the patrol boat with crushing force. Men shouted, scrambling to fight back—but the shadows had already breached the ship, slipping through cracks in the hull, weaving between armor and skin. The first soldier went down, his scream cut off as darkness wrapped around his throat and dragged him under. The second tried to run—a mistake—because the shadows came for him next, ripping him backward into the abyss .

Loren’s blood surged with the thrill of it—every scream, every kill feeding a power that felt far too right in his hands. In minutes, nothing was left of the patrol boat but wreckage. And then even that was gone, dragged beneath the surface by tendrils of inky blackness that reached out from the void.

“It’s over,” Nyra whispered, but her voice wavered and her grip on the wheel was too tight, her knuckles white. “Loren…you can call them off now.”

Loren’s brow furrowed, his fists clenching as he touched the shadows with his mind again. That’s enough, he ordered.

Something stirred in the dark—twisting, slithering along the edges of his mind, brushing his thoughts like cold, wet fingers. It peered back at him from the dark, mocking and unimpressed, its inky tendrils lingering on the water as it considered him.

He calls , a hundred voices hissed at once. He commands. He thinks we obey.

“I am the heir,” Loren snarled. “You answer to me.”

We did. Once, the voices acknowledged, a cackle of dark laughter rippling through their dark presence. And look what has become of us. We do not forget, shadow prince.

“Loren!”

Thorne’s sharp voice cut through the haze, dragging his gaze toward the cabin.

Araya stood in the doorway, clutching the frame for balance as the skiff rocked beneath her. Her silver eyes were wide, fixed on him with an expression that twisted something deep inside his chest. Her hands trembled where they gripped the doorframe, her lips parted as though she wanted to speak but couldn’t find the words.

“Araya—” Loren’s voice cracked, but she flinched, taking a step back as if he’d struck her.

Before he could say more, the air shifted.

Loren stiffened, his gaze snapping back to the shadows. The writhing mass stood unnervingly still, as if her presence had hypnotized them. Then, slowly, the tendrils began to move again—sliding across the water’s surface, tasting the air as they curled closer. The temperature dropped, his breath fogging in the air as the void’s dark intent coiled around him like a noose.

They’d made their decision.

“Nyra,” Loren hissed, his voice tight. “Get us moving.”

Nyra turned to him, her face draining of color as the air tightened, thickened. She sucked in a sharp breath, staring at the approach darkness. “Loren…” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “What did you do?”

“Turn the boat!” Loren roared. “Move! Now! Get us out of here! They’re coming for us !”