Page 2 of What Whispers in the Dark (Promises of the Marked)

G arrik straightened his spine and narrowed on Alora’s gemstoned eyes, which were glistening in the sunlight.

She snapped her head away, looking at anything but him.

He bit back a smirk, his movements slow and measured as he covered the intervening space between them, radiating self-assurance.

“I will return soon,” Garrik said, but from her jaw tightening, she was not pleased about it, and he did not miss the hesitated balling of her fists.

How she stiffened. Admittedly, he would have too if his captor boasted of their return.

Regardless, he urged, “Remember, you are safe here.”

Her mouth tightened like she did not believe him.

That was acceptable— for now.

How could he expect anything less when a bastard rescued her from her city, reformed with destruction and flames?

Held captive by the one history famed as entirely savage and dark and infernal—and was ingrained in every being’s heart from the shadow-veiled shores of Krysenka, up the Blackstone Mountains of Kadamar, and beyond the ice wall of Dellisaerin.

Even he would not be so easily persuaded.

For now, this was a battle for another day.

In time, she would learn, like everyone else who passed through his shield and adorned his insignia.

If not by example, then by that damned Blazebloom she had charged him with locating.

A bargain was a bargain—one he did not know how he allowed himself to make.

A moment of insanity perhaps, or because he knew better than to offer her anything less than impossible to gain her trust. If he had offered anything else, she would have refused him, refused to remain safely in camp, and left for a world designed to deliver her a cruel fate.

There was no choice after that.

It was what she wanted—and he would give it like he had given every piece of himself for all the rest. He would collect it. It was as simple as?—

Ghost stomped the dirt, side-eying him with a curt snort.

Alright. Maybe not so simple.

But Alora would entrust him with her life; she must . He would not permit doubt and suspicion for long. Her safety—her life and all those he swore to protect — depended on it.

When Alora said nothing, Garrik absentmindedly patted Ghost’s mane. Grateful that nearly two decades ago she … claimed him as her rider, despite what he was.

Garrik collected the reins. Not that he needed to. Ghost never required control like most simple-minded beasts, but she granted the display of hierarchy until the day she would not.

He scratched her neck and steadied his boots in the stirrups when she pulled her nose forward, jerking the reins.

Someone is impatient.

Ghost’s answering stomp twitched amusement at the corner of his mouth. She was right to be restless.

Garrik swept his gaze over Alora, knowing he should have departed hours ago.

Brennus was waiting. And despite Garrik’s High Prince title, it meant nothing in the High King’s camp with Brennus as Elysian’s heir should Magnelis fall.

Delaying the High General was as grave as a deserting soldier and punished all the same.

Alora’s attempts at concealing her attentive gaze failed as Garrik pinned her with a knowing glare. Not dark, but harsh enough to cause her breath to hitch—something Garrik took immense pleasure in witnessing. He trailed his silver focus down her clothing to the boots on her feet.

To the treasonous map concealed inside.

Alora blushed, but the female did not balk.

Garrik internally chuckled. Clever thing…

He would permit her to play this scheme, knowing the exact moment she had thieved it from his tent.

Careful warning laced the air. “Do not do anything foolish.”He meant it. Not while he was absent. If she wished to be hunted, he would chase her. But if the stars could grant him one wish, it would be that she wait for when he resided in camp.

Silver eyes swiped to ones as light blue as a cloudless sky.

Aiden . A half-human of great lung capacity, an active imagination, and many talents, but convincing his wavering mind to focus was not one of them unless aided. However, Garrik knew his brother like his own sword. He knew Aiden would excel as Alora’s shadow for the day.

Aiden twisted his boot in the dirt, idly scraping his thumb on a button near the pocket of his pants like a faeling with too much energy, unknowing of how to release it.

Stay with her.

There. From the snap of his eyes, there was Aiden’s attention. It lifted from his folded, buckled boots, glistening in the sunlight, to Garrik, who waited for those unfocused eyes to clear. A touch of mischief cloaked Aiden’s features as he subtly inclined his head.

Ghost turned with pressure from Garrik’s knee.

The sound of beating hooves followed as he, Thalon, and Jade rushed along the path between their tents. His Swordsmaster and assassin rode close beside as they ascended the steep incline leading to his sentries standing guard outside the tree line.

Garrik felt his power beckoning him long before he neared his permanent barrier of protection, a cunning warning and illusion to the world.

Power surged inside his veins, like calling to like, recognizing itself like the shard of a shattered mirror settling into place.

That piece of him given, he always felt missing, with every shield he created.

This one—one of the hundreds alive and surging—wrapped around him.

Garrik breathed the force in, feeling a ribbon of strength return as it welcomed its master.

Against his selfish desires, he passed through and felt his power mourn his presence the moment he emerged on the other side.

Given their faces, Garrik knew the moment Thalon and Jade passed, too.

His magic thundered through anyone who crossed it.

Left them with agony behind their eyes and unsettled vision, unsteady in their stride and unable to remain standing.

But he had perfected the aftereffects to where only a mild irritation coursed through his Dragons’ bodies once deemed nonthreatening.

It was the reason Alora nearly fell from his horse last night. One reason why he wrapped his arms around her. Spoke into her panicked mind until she stabilized. And it would continue doing so until she allied with him.

Behind, the near-distant splash of water echoed from the lake, and winged fae cast their shadows on the ground from the sky. Metal clanged from the arena as camp bustled with a symphony of sounds from his Dragons readying today’s duties and whatever training their generals deemed imperative.

In the few years as their sovereign in command, Garrik admitted that this was …

timelessly appealing. He never departed camp without that quick glance over his shoulder.

Never forsook the opportunity to indulge in the sounds of mirth and purpose from faeries who owed him nothing.

This security, this protection, a thing he could only dream of when his body lay in bloody puddles clinging to the last breath of life.

The thing he suffered for all those decades.

Of a home most of them never had. Of the hope so heavy in the air that it became hard to breathe .

A world without Magnelis. The words meaning … so much more than simply the absence of a cruel male. A world with a future. With peace.

Shadows gathered around his hands, noticing they tightened into fists.

Forming bleeding crescents in his frigid palm.

And knowing without hesitation he would bleed for them all again and again, Garrik angled his head to his sentries who had stood at attention the moment he crested the hill, and commanded, “No one enters until my return,” before filtering through the tree line, prepared for the horrors of Brennus’s camp.

The ride was a pleasure he should not indulge in.

But even with guilt weighing down his leathers, he could not stop himself from finding comfort in it. Morning moisture cloaked the forest. Fog lifted, leaving leaves covered in a thin layer of dew, which also clung to Ghost’s fetlocks. An earthy aroma remained, smelling of recent rain.

Garrik tilted his head as sunlight beamed in broken rays between the labyrinth of leaves overhead. A calm before the pending storm that was Brennus’s encampment.

They should have dawned directly there. He knew that, but refused to care. Provoking Brennus was one of the few pleasantries remaining in his life. And he would be in the High General’s warpath no matter if he arrived the moment he was summoned or two days later.

Why bother rushing?

So, Garrik slowed them to a languid walk, meeting the beginning of a meadow.

Thick grass swaying in a lilac breeze greeted them, while golden and snow-white flowers peeked through the blades.

In the coral and crimson-painted sky, a symphony of birds carried melodies as full clouds caused the hills to bask in warm light.

“These meetings are always … fruitful.” Casual sarcasm leeched from Thalon, threatening to melt the steel of their blades. He tightened his jaw and flexed his shoulders as if his kind’s gift was manifested upon them. “Perhaps we can persuade Brennus to move east.”

East. Toward uninhabited lands where death would not reign. Where Ravens could not leave villages in ruin and bloodshed, rip younglings from mothers, wives from husbands. Mates from mates.

Drawing his focus from the holy fury stirring in Thalon’s eyes, Garrik closed his and suffered a deep sigh.

“Brennus cares not for voices beyond his own unless Magnelis is mastering his strings… No amount of conversation will sway him into agreement on anything I offer.” His eyes opened and stared into the distance, where smoke billowed to the sky.

Telldaira.

A fitting example.