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I twist with all my might, breaking my tormentor’s iron grip. Strength and fury pulse through my veins, dark and corrosive and determined to survive, even if the world cracks for it. I rear back, head-butting the male. Throwing him off me. Air and freedom brush my skin, and I twist about, ready to kill.

  I am not ready, however, to find Coal on the ground two paces away, his nose dripping blood to the sand. I’ve . . . thrown Coal. Not just shaken him off, but forced him up and into the air. My magic—Coal’s magic—courses through me as I stalk toward the warrior.

  The male brings up his hands, already finding his footing, ready to take whatever I throw at him. There is no smile on his face though. No spark of triumph, which I’m sure I’d feel if I wasn’t so damn furious.

  Yes, it worked. Except that the magic burning inside me is still fueled by the nightmares shredding Coal’s soul.

  “This was your damn plan?” I shout.

  “You needed to echo my magic.” Coal’s words are labored, as if speaking each one is a battle. “Your staying alive is not negotiable. Not a matter of convenience.”

  I punch him.

  He shifts right and my blow meets nothing but air, his three centuries of combat training making themselves known. Swiping the practice blades off the ground, he tosses one to me. “If you’re still worried about me, mortal,” he pants, “then I’ve not worked you hard enough. As for what I do in my head—”

  “Torture,” I say bluntly, throwing the damn practice blade across the ring. “I believe the word you are looking for is torture. And there is no bloody world in which breaking you apart is an acceptable way of granting me access to your magic.” Without waiting for Coal’s answer, I dust myself off and leave the sparring ring.

  When I glance back, Coal is on his knees, his lean, muscular body shaking like a newborn kitten’s.

  6

  River

  River stared at the door closing behind Leralynn and Coal, counted to sixty, then stalked out into the fresh air. Hooking around to the back of the dormitories, where a wall of lush greenery hid a neck-breaking drop down the mountainside, River found the thin trail that led to the edge of the overlook. Hidden songbirds trilled in every direction and the scents of fresh sap and moist earth filled the air. The dense foliage whipped at River’s skin as he walked. He knew he should be more careful, blading his body or at the very least bringing up his hands to ward off the predatory branches, but he couldn’t make himself care.

  River had done the right thing. Was doing the right thing. However wrong it felt.

  It was pitiful, really. He was over five hundred years old, the prince of Slait, the commander of one of Lunos’s most powerful quints. And yet when it came to Leralynn, he might as well be a colt. River’s hand tightened into a fist. He couldn’t free his mind of the female, her fire-filled chocolate eyes as she stormed out of the suite still sending shockwaves of desire through him. Her long lashes, her dusting of rebellious freckles, the curves of her hips and breasts—they were a force of nature. Of magic. Of whatever it was that drove River’s self-control to the very cusp. And beneath it all was a spirit that echoed his own. Even when they argued.

  Especially when they argued.

  It had never been thus with Daz, River realized. Sweet, gentle Daz had never challenged him, not until she walked out of his life. And even then, there was no confrontation, no battle of spirits. She simply . . . left. And River could fight it no more than he could fight the wind.

  Leralynn was different. Infuriatingly, wonderfully, frustratingly different. Daz had needed River to protect her from the world. Leralynn needed him to protect her from her own too-brave self. Stars, the female’s track record still chilled River’s blood. Yes, of course she would trick the whole quint into a connection. Of course she’d agree to the council’s terms without a moment’s thought. Of course she’d go along with Malikai’s idea to spring a second trial. Because why wouldn’t a twenty-year-old mortal female name herself a one-person defense force for four elite fae warriors?

  If Leralynn caught a whiff of Klarissa’s latest scheme to “protect Lunos from Jawrar,” there was no telling what the mortal would pull down on the elder’s head. And if she heard the notion of River diving into politics or dethroning King Griorgi? Stars. The girl had turned frigid upon discovering River to be a prince . . . What would she think about a plot to seize the bloody throne, even if it wasn’t River’s idea or desire? More importantly, what would Griorgi do to Leralynn if he heard Klarissa’s rumblings?

  Klarissa. The damn female turned manipulation into an art form. River might have been a naive colt when he first fell for Klarissa’s wit, but the elder had known exactly the stakes of the tune she made him dance to. And when River learned the depths of the monster sitting on Slait’s throne—when River’s mother paid the price for his insubordination, right in front of his own eyes—Klarissa had been so utterly unsurprised that River wondered if she hadn’t calculated it all out before starting the game. She couldn’t have known exactly what Griorgi would do, but she knew the king would show his true stripes to River eventually.

  Now Klarissa had new plans, except this time, River would ensure that the people he cared for were nowhere near the elder’s chessboard.

  Pushing past the final curtain of branches, River stepped onto the small, clear lip of the cliff’s edge. The wind whipped his short hair, stinging his eyes as he stared out over the vast carpet of treetops, the sparkling reflections of sunlight playing over the river below. A peregrine falcon rode an updraft far out over the valley, hunting for prey with eyes nearly as sharp as River’s.

  The neutral lands. Breathtakingly beautiful when observed from the Citadel’s great height. Deadly when traveled on foot.

  Something smacked the back of River’s head, bouncing off his skull to the ground. A pinecone. Cocking his foot, River kicked the small woodsy offering right off the cliff.

  A second cone hit him a heartbeat later. A third.

  River turned, his jaw tightening at the sight of Autumn swinging down from a low-riding tree branch, three more pinecones industriously tucked into her waistband.

  “Coward,” she said, landing lightly on the ground, her chin pointing into the air.

  Shifting his weight, River spread his shoulders and glared at his sister in a way that made most warriors blanch.

  Autumn snorted. “So you don’t deny it?”

  “Deny what?”

  Toeing off her slippers, Autumn sat on the cliff’s edge, her feet dangling over the abyss. “What I said. About you being a coward.”

  “It took me a few hundred years, but I’ve officially reached the conclusion that ignoring you is more efficient than arguing. So no, I don’t deny anything you say. Could you go bother someone else now? I have a meeting to prepare for.”

  “Is there a reason you wished to piss off Lera, or were you just bored? Because in case you failed to notice, that didn’t go very well.” Autumn twisted back to capture River’s gaze with her pity-filled one. “Stars, River. You’ve fallen so hard, you no longer know where your foot and your mouth even are, haven’t you?”

  River’s face heated, a growl that only Autumn could so efficiently draw from him rising through his chest. The little female had no business—

  He cut the thought short. If Autumn waited until it was her business to do something, she would not be Autumn. Except River didn’t think he could have two such females in his life. “She . . . she won’t obey me.”

  “I can hardly imagine anything worse,” Autumn said. “How do you even manage to live in the same suite as her, knowing that?”

  “This isn’t a jest.” River pinched the bridge of his nose. “The girl nearly died a week ago. Twice. Normal beings would take the time to shake a bit, to recoil from what happened, perhaps delay trying to stride into their would-be murderer’s office. Leralynn, on the other hand, seems to be declaring a bloody war on death.” It made River simultaneously want to throttle the female and bury himself inside her.
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  Lowering himself beside Autumn, River plucked one of the pinecones from her waistband and tossed it into the world’s vastness. “She is going to get herself killed, Autumn.” He’d meant his voice to sound objective, but the damned words tumbled from him in a whisper. The need to protect Leralynn, to wrap her in his arms and shield her from danger, racked River’s body so strongly that he wondered how his spine didn’t snap from the strain. Just the thought of her lilac scent made his head swim. “She has more courage than experience, more magic than control. If I can’t keep her safe . . .” River shook his head, resting his forearms on his knees. “I have to get her away from here. Away from Klarissa.”

  “Before Klarissa tells her that only help from Slait can keep Jawrar’s Night Guard from invading Blaze?” Autumn supplied in that ruthless way she had of slicing to the bone. “And that unless you seize Slait’s throne, such help will never come?”

  “The council can send fully ordained quints to bulk up Blaze’s border. Klarissa wants Slait’s army; she doesn’t need it.”

  Autumn toyed with the tips of her braids. “There are only so many quints. The Citadel was never meant to protect the courts, just the neutral lands between.” She held up a hand, warding off River’s retort. “The point isn’t how or whether the council should interfere in defending Blaze. The point is that you’d rather face Emperor Jawrar himself than go anywhere near Slait’s throne, and Leralynn deserves to know that. And the reason why.”

  A pinecone that River hadn’t realized he’d picked up now broke in his hand. Autumn knew all the tiniest imperfections of his soul, and she aimed for each weakness with an archer’s precision. It made him want to shove her off the bloody cliff. “And she will,” he said. “When the time is right, not when bloody Klarissa decides to play us like dancing string puppets.” He shook his head. “Klarissa doesn’t care about protecting Karnish as much as she cares about lighting a fire under me to go against King Griorgi. As she has always wanted. Tugging heartstrings to drum up motivation is a damn old trick, and I’m not letting her play it on Leralynn.” He paused, finding Autumn’s eyes, his mouth suddenly dry with the need to hear his little sister’s approval. “Now do you see why I need Leralynn to pass the trials and get the hell out of here?”

  “Don’t take my head off,” Autumn said finally. “But would putting you on Slait’s throne be such a bad thing?”

  Ice and fire rushed through River’s blood, bringing him to his feet. He opened his mouth to tell his sister exactly what she could do with that notion, but it wasn’t even worth the breath it would take. “Yes, it would,” he said coldly, turning on his heels back toward the dormitories. “And Autumn, Leralynn’s life depends on obeying my orders, not on liking me. Interfere, and it will be the last time you and I speak.”

  7

  Lera

  “Are you limping, Lilac Girl?” Tye inquires, watching me suspiciously as I navigate my plate from the meat and fruit platters toward the table that the males commandeered for the midday meal. After this morning’s argument with River, and Coal’s idiotic training notion, I’d have refused to share a meal with them altogether except that Kora and her quint are leaving for their third trial after this and the gathering is a bit of a sendoff.

  Not that I have a prayer of being good company with the image of Coal’s shaking body haunting my every breath, the wrongness of our connection this morning like a layer of vile grease smearing my soul. There has to be a better way. Certainly, there’s no further to go in the other direction.

  “Lass?” Tye prompts.

  I set my plate of watermelon and grilled lamb on the table, pretending to hold the dish with both hands. In reality, my right arm throbs from Coal’s opening volley and can’t hold a pen, much less a plate. As for limping . . . I frown at my leg. I might be. With all the other parts of my body screaming their displeasure, it’s hard to tell what I’m favoring when. My stomach turns at the sight of food. “I’m just hungry.”

  “Oh, aye,” Tye says slowly. “That explains it. Of course.”

  The dining hall is its usual echoing din, the voices of hungry warriors bouncing off the peaked ceiling two stories above. As always, the occasional head swivels toward me for a quick look, curious about the tiny mortal training alongside the most formidable quint ever to come out of this place. I’ve grown reasonably good at ignoring it. Thankfully, Malikai and his quint are now keeping their distance, content to glare silently from the far side of the hall.

  I glance toward Coal and find the warrior coldly unwilling to meet my eyes, so I choose a seat beside Shade instead. The shifter, in his fae form for the occasion—over Autumn’s loud objections—gives me a too-worried look.

  I quickly turn to Kora, conjuring a smile. “So, how are you feeling?”

  The tall female smiles a bit shyly, so at odds with her usual commanding aura. “Rather excited, to be honest. The runes will allow up to three days to complete the trial, but the council elders told me they expect us back in one, which is encouraging.”

  Autumn’s jaw tightens. “Promise me you’ll go for safety over glory, Kora.”

  Kora’s cheeks flush a light pink, her long fingers brushing Autumn’s in the first open display of affection I’ve seen between them. “We will share the evening meal tomorrow. How about I promise you that?”

  While Kora wears her quint’s usual green tunic, her short brown hair neat and no-nonsense, Autumn looks like she’s dressed up for the occasion—or dressed up for Kora. In a silvery green skirt that nips in at her waist and swishes around her legs like water and a matching bandeau top that highlights every inch of her delicate curves, she looks even more like a mischievous wood imp than usual. Her long blond braids are swept back in a high ponytail, showing off the stunning silver hoops shimmering at her ears.

  Seeing Autumn’s gaze fatally caught on Kora’s hand, I take up the reins of the conversation. “Tell me more about the third trial,” I say, making my voice light. Festive. “I know the quint is separated and must reunite and find its way back. Is there more to it?”

  “I imagine Prince River would be better to ask than I,” Kora says, clearly unaware of just how little I want to ask Prince River about the latrines, much less the trials.

  “That is the essence of it,” River says smoothly, his voice betraying nothing of our morning argument. Perhaps it was a nonevent to him. My chest tightens. Coal, Tye, and Shade accept the quint’s hierarchy without question, and River appears to expect the same of me. Just another subordinate for a male used to having a whole court bend a knee. River turns slightly, encompassing both Kora and me with his words while the rest of Kora’s quint leans in to listen.

  I shift my gaze to him, quietly hoping the male will drop a juicy piece of lamb right onto his crisply tailored navy-blue tunic.

  “The Field Trial simulates capture and escape,” River says. “An elder will blindfold you and take you through the Gloom to your ‘capture’ location, triggering a rune to make you sleep before he leaves. You will be out for under a minute but it will feel longer when you wake. You will be disoriented. As if you’d truly been captured. Your priority will be to find each other, orient yourselves, and return to the Citadel—likely by finding folds in the Gloom to speed your travel. I recommend that, before the trial, you decide whether your meeting point will be in the Light or the Gloom. And while you don’t know the landscape of your trial, you could name a relative meeting spot. The base of the tallest tree in sight, for example. Alternatively, if you have a shifter with an appropriate form, you could agree for everyone to stay put while the animal rounds up the group.”

  “Celia shifts to a hawk,” Kora says, nodding to a dark-haired warrior whose long nose makes me think of a bird’s beak. “We plan to gather where the hawk can find us. The Gloom first, and then, if after twelve hours anyone is still alone, we will move into the Light. It will change the distances but create a new avenue of approach.”

  River nods approvingly and moves on to a discussion
of marker placement and strategy that I tune out. The third trial is a ways off for us—anything beyond next week’s test is—and for the moment, I’ve more than enough to occupy my mind.

  Including Shade’s hand, which I realize has been stroking my hair for some time now.

  “Hello, cub,” the male purrs, his high cheekbones and full lips only inches from me when I turn to face him. “And here I thought I might need to bite you before you’d grant me attention.”

  “By the smell of ye, Shade,” Tye drawls, “you’ve had plenty of the lass’s attention.”

  My cheeks flame but Shade’s beautiful face only settles into a contented smile as he draws me closer to him. “By the smell of you, you haven’t.”

  I push Shade away, wondering if embarrassment could, in fact, be fatal. “Could you two stop smelling me? And each other? And, just, stop smelling.”

  A corner of Shade’s mouth twitches. “How will we know anything about you if we do that?”

  “You could ask.”

  “Oh, aye,” Tye says, rolling his eyes. “Because that worked out well when I asked after your limp a wee bit ago.”

  Shade’s gaze narrows on me, the predatory intent so potent that my heart skips a beat, then quickens in warning. Before I can take defensive measures, he snakes an arm beneath my knees and—ignoring my gasp—lifts me onto his lap.

  A low, velvet chuckle brushes the back of my neck as Shade settles me possessively against him. The heat of his large body wraps around me like a blanket, his arms encircling my shoulders and rubbing with heartbreaking gentleness along my bruised and sore flesh. Not healing magic, but a power of a different sort seeps through me, filling me with the male’s warmth. “How did training go, cub?”

  My hand tightens on my fork and I strategically bite into a cube of watermelon, buying a few seconds to conjure an answer. Or better yet, to shove Coal into explaining exactly how flaying himself open was the new prize training strategy.