Page 26 of Steel Heart Iron Claws

Our line of soldiers—stretching back further than I can see—stops to take a final break while a mage scout runs ahead to announce our arrival.

I find a quiet nook at the top of a cliff, where I grip a sapling for safety and gaze down at my father’s capital city.

From here, the capital city looks like a black beetle on the horizon, its spired rooftops forming a glistening shell of menacing spikes. The tallest spires belong to Drahallen Hall, my father’s home and the place of my conception.

Mother, I whisper.Why did you run away?

Of course, ghosts don’t answer.

I found out at my father’s death that my mother had been a concubine to King Rachillon. Her unearthed journals revealed that she stole Myst from the royal stables and fled to Astagnon when she discovered she was pregnant. But her journals didn’t explainwhy.

Iyre sidles up to me, puffing on a long pipe as she gazes down at the view.

“It’s a striking city, is it not? Two thousand years ago, devotees constructed Drahallen Hall in the King of Fae’s honor after the First Return. The five towers are named for ancient fae monoceros steeds—Aurora, Hailstrom, Sunflare, Stormwatch, and Cloudveil. When we fae awoke for the Second Return, the castle served as the seat of the immortal fae court. As it shall be for this Return.”

“Fascinating,” I say flatly, tightening my grip on the sapling. “All I know of Drahallen Hall is that something so terrible happened within those walls that the idea of birthing a daughter there caused my mother to flee for her life. And mine.”

Iyre blinks calmly. “And now you’ve returned.”

“And now I’ve returned,” I echo with an edge.

“Lady Iyre!” the mage scout shouts, scaling the loose scree at the top of the cliff path. His cheeks burn red from exertion. “His Majesty’s Blades approach from the north.”

The serenity on Iyre’s face falls away. She strides away to her carriage, harnessed atop Six, as she murmurs something under her breath in a language I don’t know.

Among the crowd, I spot Tati testing Three’s harness in preparation for the descent down the mountain.

“Who are the king’s Blades?” I ask.

Tati’s hand pauses on the harness as a shadow briefly crosses her face. “The Blades are His Majesty’s bodyguards. They serve as your father’s advisors. Tasked with carrying out his most vital orders.” She grimaces as she strains to tighten the girth strap, and when she finally buckles it, she parts her lips, a wariness in her eyes. “About the Blade Boys?—”

Before she can warn me, a breathtaking chestnut gelding crests the mountain path, followed by a dappled stallion, then a blue roan mare, and every soldier within eyeshot stops to stare. The horses are beautiful—but their three riders?

Their riders can only be described as absolutefantasiesstepped straight out of a painting.

This…is unexpected,I think.

The lead rider is a god of a man, with the typical tanned skin and white-blond hair of the Volkish people, along with a jawline that could slice bread. He wears iron-studded leather armor that cuts into a deep V over chiseled bare abs that would rival river stones.

The second man is a head taller than the first and no less handsome, with skin the color of warm shadows and thick, dreadlocked hair pulled back to show off simmering, hooded eyes.

The third man is all contrasts: raven hair and pale skin. His dark eyes gleam with a strange cloudiness that throws me off, making me unsure where his attention rests. A sleek female hound follows at his mare’s side.

I realize I’m gaping and quickly shut my mouth.

The three men are gorgeous, yet a voice in my head warns me away. I toy with the twinering on my finger. They lack Basten’s gritty, dark, imperfect beauty, like a diamond hiding in coal.

There’s such a thing astoopretty.

The female soldiers, however, don’t seem to share my sentiments as they transform into swooning fools instead of the deadly archers and sword-wielders I’ve traveled with for days. Even Tati, who has a solid head on her shoulders, surreptitiously cups her hand over her mouth to check for bad breath.

I roll my eyes, and she quickly pretends she was only scratching her nose.

She nods in their direction. “Ghost, Whisper, and Night. Those are the Blade Boys’ code names. Ghost”—she motions to the white-blonde one—“Whisper”—she points to the one with dreadlocks—“and Night.” She indicates the dark-haired one with the hound.

A chill coils in my belly. There’s something about those names that echoes how Basten spent years at Rian’s side, doing his dark bidding without the dignity of his real name.

“Wolf,” I murmur to myself.

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