Page 102 of Steel Heart Iron Claws

“That depends on you. Both of you.” Vale moves back to the center of the stall, placing himself squarely between the two of us. “Kendan does not know his brother’s habits as well as you do. We need to know how to manipulate King Rian. How to isolate him from his sentinels for my spies to attack.”

The words land like a yoke on my shoulders. For as much as I want to see Rian suffer for betraying Sabine andwrenching out my heart in the process, there was a time—once—when I would do anything for him.

He was my rock when I was unmoored. His laughter mademelaugh. A round of ale together, and all my worries vanished. He shared his table when I was hungry, his ear when I went on a tirade, his bed when I needed a drunken place to crash.

I stew on the memories, jaw working.

Sabine studies me, then pulls in a resolute breath and says, “Rian has an old battle wound that pains him. He admitted it to me once while he was drunk. A healer adjusts the bones in his back on the first of every month. He’s sensitive about the weakness. Doesn’t want his guards to know, so it’s only him and the healer. He’ll be flat on his stomach, face down, naked from the waist up. Without his weapons.”

I briefly close my eyes. I’m grateful to her for doing what I couldn’t do. For revealing his weakness. Hell, I know what has to happen—Rian’s ass in exile in some prison on the far side of the Kravadan desert—but she spared me from being the one to land him there.

Silently, I tip my head in a nod to her.

Her lips flicker in a sad smile.

“Good.” King Rachillon rests his hand on the round iron door. “First of the month, you say? That gives us some time. Now, Lord Basten, it is only a matter of getting you back to Old Coros before that day without having you immediately arrested as a traitor.”

My eyes lock possessively to Sabine.

No—it won’t be nearly that simple.

Like all fae castles, Drahallen Hall is set out like a star, with the Aurora Tower wing making up the southwestern point. That means the turret’s pointed roof is clearly visible to any onlookers until after midnight.

Luckily, I’m no stranger to midnight escapades.

Getting to the central portion of the castle’s roof is as straightforward as climbing the spiral stairs to the top, where a narrow landing leads to a trapdoor that opens into the bellringer’s post.

There, below the trapdoor, I wait behind a barrel of pitch, listening for the bellringer to leave his post. It isn’t long before his footsteps tromp over to the roof’s edge, followed by the sound of him pissing off the side.

I carefully climb the short ladder beneath the trapdoor and push it open. Once outside, I slip behind the raised parapet wall and crouch low to stay hidden from view.

Here’s where it gets tricky.

Unlike Hekkelveld Castle, whose wings are short and squat, Drahallen’s reach out like five elongated points of a blade. The roofs are sharply pitched, especially at the turrets, whose points rise to a 50-degree angle.

If I tried to cross that slope, I’d only slide on my ass. The only way across is to balance along the narrow ridge cap that runs the length of the Aurora Tower wing. The wind is vicious. Bitter-cold. By the time I reach the turret, my lips are so chapped they’re bleeding.

“Can’t get in the window or door, huh?” I grab hold of the rough stone bricks, cold and slick with frost, and haul myself up toward the turret’s base. “Then I’ll go through the damn roof.”

The wind whips my face as I unroll my rope, trying to throw it around the turret’s iron spire. On the third try, therope catches, and I yank it tight, using it to hoist myself up the last few feet.

Clutching the spire, I listen.

The castle is a chaotic jumble of sounds. Servants gossiping. Love-making couples moaning. Half a dozen people snoring.

I tune it all out to focus on the room directly beneath me. It’s quiet. So quiet all I hear is the gentle ruffle of a lantern’s flame.

Adjusting my grip on the spire, I set my hunting knife under a slate tile and pop it up. The slate tumbles off the castle’s side, crashing to the river valley below.

I make the mistake of watching it fall hundreds of feet.

You idiot—eyes up.

Heart jackhammering, I pry up more tiles until I can slip feet-first through the beams.

I land in a crouch, knife at the ready.

The tower room is small. The circular shape makes it feel even tighter. There’s only room for a few worktables of various heights, a wardrobe, and some wall shelves. A lantern flickers, but otherwise, there are no signs of anyone.

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