Side by side, Gray and Mateo brought down witches quickly and efficiently, communicating signals and warnings to one another. Soon, no more witches stood against the two of them.

  Gray clasped Mateo’s hand. “Thank you,” he pushed out, breathing heavily.

  Mateo bobbed his head in acknowledgement, also trying to catch his breath. Over Gray’s shoulder, he glimpsed a witch with her sword raised, running at the lieutenant’s exposed back.

  “Watch out!” Mateo yelled, forcing him out of the way of the weapon. Instead, the witch’s sword tore across his chest, all the way from his right shoulder down to his hip. Crimson blood welled and Mateo stumbled back, crashing to the floor with an audible thud.

  The overwhelming clash of battle dimmed, along with Gray’s voice as he cried out Mateo’s name. It became increasingly difficult to bring air into his lungs as his heartbeat slowed its rhythm. He reached out for something to grasp, fingers tightening around Gray’s wrist. “You…” he gasped, tears welling in his eyes as he wheezed. “You have to take care of her.” Gray began to nod, but Mateo shook his head as much as he could manage. “Promise me, Gray.”

  “I promise,” he choked out.

  Satisfied that Ambria would be alright, Mateo tried to smile, vision blurring everything together. And as he took his last breath, nothing else mattered except his very last thought for the love of his life.

  ༺═──────────────═༻

  Gray fell to his knees before Mateo, shaking as he realized that there would be no way to stop this. Mateo smiled slightly up at him, nodding scarcely before his body shuddered with his final respiration and ultimately went still.

  Gray reached out a trembling hand to gently shut Mateo’s unseeing dulled blue eyes. He dropped his chin to his chest, eyelids falling closed. He saved my life, and it cost him his own.

  What would he tell poor Ambria? He knew she would be beyond devastated.

  He couldn’t help but feel as though this was his fault. If he hadn’t been standing there at that moment, Mateo wouldn’t have had to push him out of the way. If he hadn’t paused to thank Mateo, they wouldn’t have even been standing around in the first place. He could go on forever like this, thinking about the ifs. If he had just left to get to Alaric, Mateo would still be alive.

  Gray was startled back to reality, where the witch attackers were retreating and fleeing back through the shattered windows. He had to find Ric.

  He glanced grimly back down at Mateo. “I’m sorry,” he choked out, “and thank you. May you find the gates, Mateo.” With that, Gray had no choice but to pray and sprint to the crumbled altar, where Alaric’s body was slumped against a column, surrounded by blood.

  “Ric!” Gray slid to his knees before his prince, checking to make sure he was breathing. His chest rose and fell steadily if a bit shallowly, his eyes shut, unconscious. The blood oozed from the arrow puncturing his torso. He pressed his hands to the wound, applying pressure to stanch the bleeding. “Alaric, can you hear me? Wake up.” No response, not even a flicker of movement.

  He looked about for someone to help him carry Ric to the infirmary. Instead, he spotted his little sister with a bloody sword clutched in her hand. Why is she still here? As if she’d felt his eyes on her, Eloisa turned and cringed. “ELOISA,” he roared, anger coursing through him. Gray batted it down and shot her a look that said, We will talk about this later.

  “You there!” he called to a cluster of three guards, their purple-and-silver uniforms stained with blue and red blood. They turned in his direction. “Get over here and help me!”

  The three of them ran over, and together they awkwardly hoisted Alaric up into the air, carrying him out of the great hall and down to the infirmary ward.

  Gray banged open the door and wasn’t surprised to see that the large room was already bustling with patients and healers. “Make room for the Crown Prince!” he hollered. Immediately, courtiers and guards alike stepped aside for Gray and his comrades to deposit Alaric on a cot. “Healer!” Gray gestured wildly to a young woman across the room.

  She rushed over, opening her mouth to announce, “I need some help over here!” at the sight of the arrow protruding from the prince’s body. After inspecting the wound, the healer informed, “Lieutenant Zarin, I need you to keep your hands on the wound with steady pressure while I take it out. It isn’t deep and the arrow missed any vital organs, though once it’s out, there will be more blood and he’ll have to be stitched up as fast as possible.”

  Gray nodded his understanding, positioning his hands around the arrow while she carefully took hold of the shaft. Slowly but surely, the head of the arrow emerged from the gash, spurting blood as it went. When the healer managed to pull it all the way out, she quickly moved out of the way so another healer could step in with a needle and thread.

  With his blood-coated hands free of responsibility, Gray observed the room, watching as a dozen healers and their apprentices hurried to and fro, patching up all sorts of injuries.

  That’s when she appeared in front of him, a bandage on her cheek and her jaw set determinedly. “Where is Mateo?” she sought. “I know he was fighting alongside you. Do you know where he went after?”

  Her demanding nature reminded him of a time long ago, when Ambria, Alaric and Gray were the closest of friends. They were inseparable as children, taking advantage of every moment they had together in Farrador Castle.

  But then something changed—Ambria changed. And they drifted apart. With Ric stuck in the middle, constantly trying to get them all back together again, it was hard for Gray to just move on. He would be lying if he said he didn’t miss those simple days. Right now, he just wished he didn’t have to be the one to break Ambria’s heart.

  “I—You should sit, milady,” he suggested, gesturing to a chair, bloody palms facing skyward.

  “Don’t milady me, Gray.” She raised a shaking finger. “Where is my husband?” she cried.

  A lump lodged in his throat. Gray swallowed hard, his face falling. “I’m sorry, Ambria,” he confessed. “I couldn’t save him.” He choked on the words that he would never be able to take back, the words that would make Mateo’s death final. The words that would break her. “He’s gone.”

  She fractured, sagging to the floor. Her hands came up to cover her mouth as sobs racked her body. “No,” she gasped over and over. “No, no, no, no—”

  Gray moved and wrapped her up in his arms, his blood-covered state forgotten as he stroked her white-blonde tresses in comfort. “You’re going to be okay. Everything will be okay, Ambria.”

  “He said he would be right behind me. Why didn’t he stay behind me?” Her voice cracked on her desperate sobs. “I need him, Gray.”

  “I know. I know,” he hushed, doing his best to calm her, blood streaking the both of them.

  “Bring him back,” she wailed into his shoulder. “Please, bring him back to me.”

  Their hearts collectively broke as they clung to one another on those polished floors.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Opening his eyes, Alaric bolted upright. He blinked several times to adjust to the brightness, processing the cot beneath him gradually. Scanning the remnants of his surroundings, he recognized the white walls and porcelain floors of the castle infirmary, empty cots lining the perimeter. An eerie silence settled all through the vast, high-ceilinged room.

  “Hello?” he spoke out, shifting his legs off the narrow cot and placing them on the floor. His voice echoed in the absent space. He was surprised to find that he was still wearing the clothes from the disastrous wedding, pristine and good as new.

  All at once, those events came flooding back. He remembered the shattered windows and the shot of an arrow, the blood, and Kerensa.

  Kerensa, ripped from him by witches.

  But there was no hole in his tunic, no blood from a wound in his torso.

  He pressed a hand against his chest, feeling the weight of the Ravyn Shield resting there. Reaching into his shirt, he removed the pendant from underneath. It flared brilliantly in his palm, then dimmed.

  The only remnant that any of that had actually happened.

  Alaric dropped it back under his shirt. Never take this off. Don’t show it to anyone. Keep it safe. So that is what he would do.

  He glanced about again, looking for any sign of the healers or apprentices. Rising from the cot, he tried, “Is anyone there?” and padded to the center of the space. Not a glimmer of life.

  He suddenly had the feeling that something was horribly wrong.

  Without warning, the room flickered and was replaced by the landscape of a quaint village for an instant. It disappeared and Alaric stood once more in the middle of the Farrador Castle infirmary ward.

  What in the three hells is happening?

  The sound of a woman singing filled the room, and he found it oddly familiar. The infirmary fell away again, and Alaric was placed in the same village as before. This time, the image held firm.

  In front of him stood a small home, with tiny windows and pretty flowers growing outside. The woman’s melodic voice continued to float towards him from the open window. Alaric glimpsed her through the frame, white hair swaying as she bounced something she held in her arms. The young woman turned ever so slightly at that moment, allowing Alaric a view of the baby she cradled lovingly.

  Then the beautiful scene melted away, leaving him in darkness.

  ༺═──────────────═༻

  Alaric jolted awake, a layer of sweat coating his skin. He was in the infirmary again, but this time healers milled about, and several other cots had patients occupying them.

  He was stunned to see Captain Gaven Larcyn seated next to him. The older captain’s face was grim. “Thank the gods you’re awake, Your Highness,” he sighed, leaning forward in his chair to brace his arms on his knees.

  “What is it, Captain?” Quickly, he glanced at himself—just to be sure. His clothes had changed, and he now felt the stitches in his side. The cool bronze of the Ravyn Shield chilled the skin of his chest. Even still, a feeling of unease pooled in Alaric’s belly.

  “You’ve been unconscious for a few days since the witch attack,” Larcyn began sedately. “I don’t know if you remember clearly, but you were severely injured during the battle. Luckily, Lieutenant Zarin brought you here in time. The healers patched you up and you’ve been in the infirmary since.” He paused.

  Alaric asked unsteadily, “Is there a point you’re leading up to, Captain?”

  “It’s Wre—er, Kerensa, Your Highness. She was taken by the Ravyns.”

  Alaric had to close his eyes, the memory resurfacing vividly. Ric, let go. Why did he let go? He should have held on to her. But they took her. They took her from him. “We have to get her back,” he beseeched.

  “Search parties have been sent out, but His Majesty has considerably limited the number of units in light of the recent assault on Farrador Castle. I can assure you, Your Highness, that I am doing everything in my power to save your Lady.”

  Alaric believed him. Larcyn had always been an honorable man. “What of the rest of the fight?” he inquired. “Did we suffer any casualties?” Although he was concerned by Kerensa’s situation, Alaric was still the Crown Prince of Lithera. He had a kingdom to take care of.

  “It was brief, the witches fleeing after acquiring your wife. Limited casualties on our side. I’ll have a report written up and delivered to your box.” With a bow, the captain excused himself, leaving Alaric to his swirling thoughts.

  It struck him that Kerensa was his…wife. His wife. She’ll at least be in one piece when you see her again, the Ravyn named Circe had told him. But would he ever see her again?

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Wren was jostled back to consciousness, air whipping at her form. The Ravyn witches had knocked her out with the same red dust they had done Alaric with after pulling her through one of the broken window frames.

  Above her, the tops of trees sailed past. Through the thick canopy, it was almost impossible to see the blue sky. Watery sunlight filtered in through any available gaps in the branches.

  Wren would never forget the unmistakable foliage of Marawood.

  She tried to shift or get up, but it was as if her limbs were bound to her sides, unable to budge. As if they were magically bound. She could only move her eyes, not even able to open her mouth to utter a sound.

  The wind was ferocious, making her eyes water and causing gooseflesh to rise on her skin. Wren was hurtling headfirst in a direction she couldn’t see, an unknown force propelling her forward against her will. For what seemed like an eternity, she watched the branches up high fly by.

  Abruptly, she stopped and dropped to the ground, landing with an oof on her back. She found that her body had been released from its invisible bindings, and she rose carefully to her feet. Wren still wore her wedding gown, but now it was blood-soaked and torn, the skirt shredded to pieces. She had nothing to protect herself with, not even a pin in her drastically shortened hair. No longer did it hang around her waist, but it fell instead to the tops of her shoulders. The loss of the long hair she’d gone through most of her life with weighed heavy on her chest—why, she wasn’t sure.

  Wren surveyed her surroundings. Thick tree trunks created pockets of space for undergrowth to thrive, though she was surprised to find not a soul in sight. Had the Ravyn witches just decided to abandon her in Marawood? Was that their plan?

  No, they wanted something from her. But the Ravyn Shield was tucked safely around Alaric’s neck.

  Her mind wandered to Ric. Her husband. How unlikely it all seemed.

  She hoped his arrow wound had been treated in time. Wren didn’t have to guess to know that he would surely refuse to sit by idly while she was in potential danger. She sent up a quick prayer for the gods to prevent him from doing anything stupid.

  Suddenly, she heard a whoosh among the branches, and she was shoved forward a step. Wren landed on her hands and knees, but when she looked up it was like she’d been taken to a whole other place.

  The clear blue sky stretched up above, Rava streaming her light down upon the large glade sprawled before Wren, the dense trees from before evaporating. Clusters of tents and unlit fires crowded the expanse and blowing in the wind overlooking the encampment was a large white and blue flag. Figures moved about the camp, each with a determined demeanor. Everything was orderly and precise, Wren noticed, from the position of each group of tents down to the way the women glided in every direction.

  Not women. Witches.

  Wren’s arms were seized by two Ravyns who appeared at her sides as if from thin air. Without a word, they hauled her toward the witch camp.

  “What are you going to do to me?” Wren asked, a frightened quiver to her words. Neither witch deigned to respond.

  As she was led past, several Ravyn witches stopped in their tracks to gawk at Wren. A ripple of murmurs went through them, the words Aevym Saquis rolling off their tongues in hushed tones. Wren diverted her gaze to the ground, hating the unwelcome attention.

  It hadn’t always been like this. A long time ago, Wren Farley was just a regular girl, not a single thing different or special about her. Her parents loved her, her little sister adored her, and she had a best friend who grew to care for her very much. She lived in Forx and had never known another home. Her life there was her past, present, and future. She’d never wanted anything more or anything less.

  But that girl was dead. That Wren Farley had died five months ago on the day her village turned on her. The ghost of her still haunted Wren now, corrupting her dreams and overwhelming her memories. The cycle was endless, and she knew there was no way around it. It would continue for the rest of her life, however long that may be.

  The Ravyns on either side of Wren dragged her to a small tent isolated in the center of the field. Three more witches waited for them there, greeting her with stern faces and narrowed eyes.

  The last one, fiery hair blowing in the wind, seemed more relaxed than the others. When Wren looked closer, she caught sight of the witch’s steely eyes. Her mind flashed back to those same eyes gleaming in her moonlit room at Farrador Castle six days ago.

  Was it six days ago? Wren had no idea how long she had been unconscious while traveling through Marawood. The sun had now begun her descent towards the horizon, casting long shadows over the glade.

  Wren was forced to stop in front of the three imposing Ravyns. The witch in the middle waved her hand, sending Wren’s two chaperons away. The two witches Wren was not familiar with examined her closely. She returned the sentiment.

  The first Ravyn—the one who had given the order—was not much taller than Wren, but her square frame was packed with muscle. Her striking brown hair was braided in a coil at her neck, her emerald eyes digging into Wren’s. The witch didn’t look to be much older than Wren, but she knew that witches lived for a very long time while remaining young and attractive.

  The second witch had hair the colour of straw that hung in waves around her shoulders. She was tiny, but the thin scar on her left cheek made her appear more menacing. She cocked her head, onyx eyes bearing into Wren. “I thought she’d be… prettier,” the Ravyn remarked, voice modulated.

  “Nissa,” the first witch hissed. She bared her teeth in a saccharine smile directed to Wren. “She is our guest.”

  Before Wren could think better of it, she blurted, “Is this how you treat all your guests?”

  The witch’s face fell. “How dare you—”

  “Forgive them, darling,” the red-haired Ravyn drawled, raising her crimson eyebrows. She went up to Wren and placed a hand on the small of her back to guide her inside the tent. She still towered over Wren. “They’re not so keen on the company of Lithians.”

  “And you are?” Wren accused incredulously. “The last time we encountered one another you stabbed me.”

  “A mere loss of temper.” The witch dismissed the topic with a flourish of her hand. “I haven’t had the centuries they’ve had to brew true hatred for your people.” She pulled back the entrance to the tent and gestured for Wren to enter. The inside was much bigger than the exterior assumed. It was a modest set up, a surprisingly plush bed off to one side and a small wardrobe opposite to the bed. Carpets lined the floor and simple lamps illuminated the rather large space—for a tent at least.