Page 138 of Steel Heart Iron Claws

I don’t have time to reign in his ego, because the moment he lifts his horn to the sky, Samaur drops my wrists and holds out his hands toward the monoceros instead, golden-orange fey bolts sparking at his fingertips.

“Don’t try to stop him,” I choke out. “You might be the God of Day, buthe’sthe one who wields the sun’s power.”

To my right, Hawk growls low in her throat, and I whirl toward her and her master.

“The same goes for you, Ender,” I tell Woudix. “Before you can spread your fey two feet, Tòrr will reduce you to ashes. I doubt even the God of Death is impervious to a solarium hit—but I’m willing to test that.”

Rubble shifts to my left, and Iyre extricates herself from the pile of broken wood. Dust covers her from her hair to the hem of her white gown, and her exposed skin is covered in deep, bleeding gashes. Yet, almost immediately, her wounds begin to heal.

She narrows her eyes at me and croaks, “The monoceros stall is unbreachable. You couldn’t have gotten him free.”

I blink at her, with Tòrr standing behind me as my only answer.

She scoffs, rubbing a scrape on her throat. “How? It takes ten men to slide open the drawbar. No animal is that strong except the monoceros itself. Or a—” The arrogant lift of her upper lip slowly lowers. Hoarsely, she mutters, “Or a goldenclaw.”

I rest a hand on Tòrr’s withers. “All goldenclaws want is someone to listen to their riddles. They’ll do anything for a patient friend.”

Iyre tips her head downward like a predator, glaring at me through her eyelashes as a line of silver blood rolls down her forearm. “I told Vale this charade of his wouldn’t work—keeping you in the dark. We should have told you the truth from the start. Like the other times. And if you’d resisted again? Bend you to our will.”

Her words prickle my mind. Keeping me in the dark? What does she mean, about them being fae?

Basten moans, stealing my attention. I fall to my knees by his side.

“Basten? Basten!” I stroke a tender hand down his blood-soaked temple. “Hey, you’re going to be okay—I’m going to get you help.”

As fear weaves between my ribs, I throw a glance over my shoulder at Vallen Forest. A robin flits from one branch to another.

I ask in a rush,Where is the fae huntsman?

He has your trail, the robin replies.He approaches fast.

Swallowing, I glance at the high sun, and then thread my fingers through Basten’s blood-soaked hair. “Samaur, do it. Now. Bring dusk early. And I’ll save your twins before Tòrr launches another blast.”

Samaur rests his boot on a broken hunk of stone, leaning forward with golden eyes sparking. In this instant, he’s never looked less human. “Go ahead. Plenty more fawning little humans where those two came from. Twins aren’tthatrare.”

Coldness settles deep in my belly. “You’d throw away your acolytes so easily?”

One look at their frigid faces—Samaur, Iyre, even Woudix—and the answer is an obviousyes.

“I’ll have Thracia soon, anyway,” he scoffs. “Then, I’ll need acolytes less for companionship and just for blood—and they don’t have to be pretty to give me their veins.”

Feeling sick, I scold myself with an inner lashing that I thought the fae could be anything but cruel.

I whip back to Basten, whispering, “Hold on. Don’t you dare die.”

I shove to my feet and rest a hand on Tòrr’s muzzle. He presses his nose into my palm, reassuring me that we’re in this together.

Then, I face Samaur.

“What about something you hold more precious than your acolytes’ lives, then? My father toured me around the fae artifact room. The one that’s housed in Cloudveil Tower. So many objects that would be devastating to lose—but maybe none as much to you, in particular, as Thracia’s Midnight Vase.”

Samaur immediately strides toward me like he’s going to wring my neck. “You scheming whore, you wouldn’t dare. That’s her most prized possession.”

“Try me. Tryhim.” I tweak Tòrr’s nose, and he tosses hishead in confirmation. “You might not care about your acolytes, but you’re fated to love Thracia. The God of Day and the Goddess of Night. You said it yourself—you win her over each Return with the midnight vase. Without it, do you think you can still earn her favor? Is it worth the risk?”

Samaur’s fey lines burn brighter as his rage rises to the surface. He glances at the sun, and Iyre strides up to deliver a sharp smack to his cheek.

“Don’t you dare consider it! Not over some bauble.”

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