Page 128 of What Lies Within Masks & Shadows

“And?” A thrum of something all-ending—something powerful—laid inside that voice. Its viciousness trembled the earth until she felt certain Garrik would cleave the ground open and send Haiden to Firekeeper.

“For calling you pathetic … a coward,” he wailed, wrists lightening to a shade of pink as the cruel hold of Garrik’s Smokeshadows denied them circulation.

Lowering his head, a flicker of his power swept over the crowd. A reminder of who he was—of what he could do on a whim.

Garrik’s voice rumbled as he said to them all, “Remember who wears the crimson cloak.” A ruthless breeze tore through the masses, collecting the fabric of Alora’s cloak and snapping it in the wind. “And it is not you.”

Not Haiden.

Not another general.

Not any mere soldier there.

Not even the High Prince himself.

Perhaps a threat to all else, but never to Alora.

She met Garrik’s stare, and her blood went molten as something fluttered low in her stomach. To admit it would be to betray herself. But there was something about those simple words. Something that made her insides quiver.

And after months of travel. Of her inner thighs and tailbone aching something fierce as her body adjusted to hours in the saddle. An ache that had her wincing the first night and hobbling to her bed the second…

That ache—once a source of her pain—now rubbed just right against the spot his words had chosen to settle on. Pulsing a heated desire between her legs.

No one had ever defended her like that.

Alora forced herself not to swallow. To not allow anything to take that feeling from her when Garrik’s voice, even in his anger, brushed her like the gentle rake of a knuckle down her cheek.

“Insult what is mine again and find that my knowledge of pain far exceeds the control of shadow.Theywill grant you mercy. I will not.”

Garrik tightened his fist in his lap. Smokeshadows squeezed again, drawing out another wail.

“Get out of my sight.” With a loosened grip of his power, Garrik twisted his wrist, and Haiden and his horse disappeared in a storm of wrath.

Then Garrik turned to the multitude. Most sat rigid in their saddles as if anticipating his fury to be turned on them. Only a few, like Thalon and Jade—and even Eldacar—sat poised and composed.

Icy death remained in his abyss for eyes. The High Prince’s voice soared; the tone that of a fiery winged creature transcending realms. And it was still every bit as damning as that male she had watched in Telldaira’s alley when he spoke to no one in particular. “Anyone else care to question my decisions?”

Nobody said a word.

She’d barely beenable to keep her focus off Garik in the hours after. Suppressing the uneasy pining that constricted her chest, at what exactly that ache meant.

Luckily, Eldacar rode beside her. The perfect distraction to what had settled over her mind and body every step along the way. He held a red leather tome, opened and balanced in one hand, while the other wildly tapped a pencil on the pages. Completely lost in thought.

Tap, tap, tap.

The same heightened rhythm that her heart had hammered. Hammered at the first call—at Garrik’s cruel and malicious and irritating voice. But her mind wasn’t easily convinced. Not now. She had to battle with herself. To persuade herself that itwasirritating and smug and …

Beautiful.Lovely and?—

She was losing the battle, fast.

Feel with your head and not your emotions, for star’s sake, she scolded herself.He would’ve defended Jade like that, too.

So, she turned to Eldacar and studied the engraving on his tome. The lettering appeared to be outside of her knowledge and recollection of any tongue she’d spoken. Her brows pinched with curiosity, tracing each curve and sharp line, every dot and twist of lettering, and finally asked, “What language is that?”

Eldacar startled as if he’d forgotten she was there, almost losing his pencil to the soil. Adjusting his glasses along his freckled cheeks, he rattled off something that she had no hopeof repeating—not with the same inflection and certainly not with the accent of its culture.

She opened her mouth, mindlessly gathering her tongue along her teeth to maybe attempt to repeat the word.

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