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H e might have guessed that the group would react the way they had to his plan, though Kael would have predicted the greater resistance would have come from Aisling.

That Raif had responded with such anger was surprising.

Kael’s Guard Captain had never shied away from challenging him—which was one of the reasons why Kael chose him for the role in the first place—but rarely had it been with such fury.

Kael could recall only one other instance in which Raif had dared raise his voice at his king.

It was the last time Kael had nearly been killed by his shadows.

He’d opened his eyes after nights and nights of half-conscious drifting, unsure whether he was alive or dead.

Unsure whether the Sangelas ritual had worked, if the Low One had accepted his benedictions and had strengthened him as he’d asked.

The pain had been just as blinding that night as it was each time it returned thereafter, no matter what potions or poultices or salves Elasha and the other apothecarists devised.

But Raif cared little for how Kael felt.

The moment he managed to open his eyes, the moment the soldier saw even the slightest flicker of awareness on his king’s face, he’d attacked.

Not even Werryn, during his most sanctimonious diatribes, had ever before torn into Kael the way Raif did that night.

He’d deserved it then likely as much as he did now, but that fact did nothing to lessen the rage he felt at being questioned.

His shadows twisted beneath his skin and clawed for release.

Perhaps they could sense what he was about to do.

Kael banished that thought to the coal-black corner of his mind where he’d buried all of the other cruel truths he’d learned too late: the Low One’s lies, Yalde’s manipulations, his own failures, Aisling’s pain.

Either willingly or unknowingly, he’d been blind to it all.

And now, they were all left to suffer the consequences.

“What could you give?” Rodney had asked Kael when they’d sat together.

He’d scoffed at the question—his best attempt at playing down the nervous energy that made his thoughts run together.

The dagger between them hummed audibly, as did the air and the stones and the thin roots overhead that tangled in Kael’s hair.

“You mean, what do I have left that Yalde hasn’t already taken from me?

Precious little, and I fear nothing I could give to you without losing what’s left of myself. ”

The púca had gazed down at the shining blade, tracing one long finger over its hilt, and said, “It still isn’t strong enough. I don’t know what will get it there.”

In the quiet of the chamber, choking on the stench of spent magic, Kael had realized what he could do—the only thing that might imbue the weapon with enough strength to slay the false god.

It might indeed have been all that was left of him, yet Aisling’s acceptance and unspoken love made him consider that maybe he could still come back from it regardless.

Kael would have happily let Raif go when he stormed off, had Aisling not urged him to follow with a hand on his back.

He melted at that gentle, wordless command and for a moment allowed himself to sink gratefully into her caress.

He could feel it—her calm—seeping into his coiled muscles and trickling down his spine like water over stones.

It soothed and steadied him, not only quelling the tempest but serving as a reminder of just what he had to protect.

No sacrifice was too great to save his light from this crushing darkness before Elowas snuffed her out entirely.

“Stop,” Kael demanded. They were back outside, the cold breeze that had nipped at him and Aisling now close to a raging gale.

Raif halted but didn’t turn. He stood at attention with his back to Kael, both fists clenched at his sides.

If they’d been back at court, Kael would have thrown him a training sword and they’d have had it out in the arena—both males preferred to exhaust their tempers in the ring before attempting a more diplomatic approach.

As it was, they had no blunted weapons, and Kael was at the very least keen enough to know that neither of them were in their right mind to wield anything sharper than words.

“I cannot support this,” Raif said tightly. “I will not.”

Kael stalked forward to close the distance and stopped directly in front of the soldier. Raif stood nearly nose-to-nose with Kael. His dark eyes burned as he met Kael’s icy glare with his own.

“Why not? Would I not still be your king without my magic? Would you not still be loyal to me; would you not still follow me?” His challenge fell harsher than a blow from any weapon, training or otherwise, and when it landed Raif’s glare faltered.

Kael wished it hadn’t; that glare had masked far more than he’d expected.

“Are you truly so foolish as to believe I follow you because of your shadows?” Raif spat.

He shook his head, his lips twisting into a bitter smile.

“Your magic may have earned you your crown, but you are king by the strength of your will and the weight of your choices. That is who I would follow. That is where my loyalty lies: not with the shadows, but with the male who has wielded them.”

“But you would not follow me now.”

That half-smile faded and Raif’s expression was hard once more. “I will not lay my king to rest again.”

Aisling wasn’t the only one he’d hurt with his choices.

Kael studied his closest friend, whom he’d forced to watch as he’d given far too much of himself for far too little: for distant dominions and needless conquests and power for the sake of power.

And even in the end when Kael had given his life for something greater, he’d left Raif behind to face the aftermath.

To watch his body burn without any guarantee that his sacrifice— their sacrifice—would mean anything at all.

He was selfish.

The fire of Kael’s fury banked quickly at the realization and he sighed, defeated. “I am sorry. I have asked too much of you over the years, and I know that being my captain has been a thankless job. As has being my friend.”

Raif stood quietly for a moment as if considering Kael’s offering. Then, still not quite relinquishing his characteristic severity, he said, “You are my king, and I pledged to follow you to whatever end. I will follow you now—but I will not stand by and watch you go to your death.”

“I am not asking you to,” Kael assured him evenly.

“Should I have even the slightest inclination that this will fail, I will put a stop to it.” Raif’s tone was still one of warning, but his jaw was no longer clenched and his eyes were no longer narrowed.

Kael nodded once. “I have no doubt that you will.”

“And then we will find another way.”

“We will find another way,” Kael agreed, holding out his hand.

Raif clasped Kael’s forearm in a firm, resolute grip, and he mirrored the gesture.

Their friendship had taken shape sparring in the arena and bent over war tables, but their brotherhood was forged in battle and bloodshed.

So for the time being, there were no more arguments left to be made.

Kael couldn’t recall the last time he’d offered so many apologies in such quick succession.

While he still did not particularly care for the practice, he could appreciate the effect they had—first on Aisling, and now on Raif.

He hardly deserved their forgiveness, but they gave it anyway. For that, at least, he was grateful.

Rodney and Aisling had moved closer to the fire and had lapsed into quiet discussion when the pair returned.

Raif settled back in amongst his weapons.

Kael hesitated, waiting for Aisling to signal that she wished to be close to him still.

That she hadn’t changed her mind in the brief time he’d been away from her.

She shifted, just slightly, silently inviting him to sit back down beside her.

He let one leg fall so his thigh pressed against hers, and something soft fluttered in his chest when she didn’t pull away.

“We cannot go to him.” Raif had caught on quickly to the conversation and weighed in despite the thread he held between his teeth while he re-fletched an arrow. “We cannot fight him where he has dominion.”

“This is his realm. He has dominion everywhere.” Rodney dipped a twig into the fire absently, though it didn’t catch. Despite their heat, those repetitive flames burned only the unchanging wood at their base.

Kael hummed; the púca had a point. Still, he had little interest in returning to face Yalde in the sylvan cathedral. “Be that as it may, it would be ill-advised. We must find a way to call him to us.”

“Not here,” Raif said sharply. “He cannot know of Antiata.”

“No, I would not think of it,” Kael assured him. The soldier nodded and returned his focus to the arrow in his lap.

“Fine then, let’s say we’ve found the perfect spot, we’ve given Yalde a call, and he’s just turned up.

How are we meant to keep him there long enough to run him through with our little knife?

” Rodney’s dry sarcasm was well-meaning, yet set Kael’s teeth on edge all the same—as did most things out of the púca’s mouth.

“What if we could do it like how we trapped Laure?” Aisling spoke up tentatively.

The braid he’d woven in her hair had come fully undone now and a loose strand rested on her cheek.

Kael raised a hand to brush it back. He tucked it behind her ear, letting his finger linger there for a beat.

It was difficult to keep the smirk from his lips when she shivered slightly and blushed at the contact.

“Unless you've been studying up Ash, I don't know of any Rhedelas configurations strong enough to trap a god. To call him, maybe. But not to keep him.” Rodney gave up on the twig and tossed it away, shifting focus to controlling his twitching tail instead.