“How informal of you,” Garrik thundered, rattling the chandeliers and every bone present in the room too.

From his voice, Alora knew this was no illusion. No performance. This was true, honest rage.

Thalon rolled his shoulders, puffing his chest as his tattooed hand gripped the pommel of his golden sword. “Choose your next words wisely, Prince Ezander. Show our High Prince some starsdamned respect.”

Russet eyes shot between them, making no attempt to retreat. “Apologies, High Prince.” Ezander nodded in a show of respect. “I require an audience with you.“

“Nothingyou have to mention is worth a breath. Leave my sight before I show you the same courtesy our High Queen received.”

Pursing his lips, Ezander tightened his grip on the chair and dared to speak again. “You will want to hear what I have to say.”

“Why the fuck would I want to do that?” Garrik growled, his temper slipping from its tether.

“Because we were friends once. We trusted each other.”

Scoffing, “In what reality would one such as I entertain myself as yourfriend?” Garrik spit the word with an air of disgust. “Even if I considered such a derisory thing, you would be the last to flatter my thoughts. And as for mytrust, you forfeited that. Or do you forget so easily what you have done against Mist and Sea? The only reason I allow you to live is so I can take pleasure in your pain the second I grow bored. So tell me, before I do so, how did it feel taking that which I so dearly treasured and using your hand to stab me in the back?”

Ezander shifted upright, a muscle feathered in his cheek, and he said nothing as his eyes shifted around the court.

Garrik brushed his tongue along sharpened teeth, snarling through them, “Nothing. You havenothingto say? Not even a plea for your worthless neck? You disappoint me … oldfriend.”

“Not here,” Ezander snapped with caution. Those eyes shifted until they located the king, his father.

Garrik tapped his fingers on the table, regarding the way a sheen of sweat formed on the prince’s brow. Long moments passed. The expression on Garrik’s face displayed his thoughts—as if he debated drawing his sword and removing Ezander’s head.

Before he spoke, amusement and something utterly wicked danced in his eyes. “With blades then. Only once blood is spilled will I entertain another moment of your false narration.”

A smile as delighted as her High Prince’s played on Ezander’s face. “I accept your challenge. Tomorrow morning. I will meet you where we once sparred as brothers.”

“Do not be so quick to amusement, princeling. You may have bested me as faelings, but you have never incurred the full extent of my power. Such restraint will not be gifted to you this time.” Garrik carelessly flicked his hand, dismissing him.

“Perhaps I shall bring my sister as my audience. You never could fight with her around.”

Glass shattered in Garrik’s hand. “Out.”

Blinding sunlight wept across the Blackstone Mountain peaks, waking Kadamar’s privileged hours after the working class had been on their feet in the lower towns. Though Garrik had been awake for two nightfalls, this sunlight was not as welcoming for him.

Silence made a terrible companion.

Leather groaned beneath his fist. Every crack on the hilt of his sword, every dip, was a familiarity that settled him more than any moment of peace he could imagine. Knowing every inch of the weapon in his hand, begging to be used, begging to bleed, was something akin to peace.

Garrik dug his shoulder into the stones by a window in his sitting room. Thinking. Weighing.

Scanning down to Alora’s balcony, then over the rolling mountains and the endless sea of trees concealing mysteries beneath. Down to the High City of wealthy shops and weaving through the guarded gates to the lower towns, through the city streets teeming with the less fortunate folk.

For a moment, he closed his eyes and called on his powers—on the stronghold deep within his mind. Indulging in the weightless feeling and pressure pouring off his bones as if he were being swept away on a phantom wind. In this state, his awareness of the reality around him drifted away like it did when in pursuit of powers that only he could locate—of yet another soul cursed with magic needing rescue.

Only this use of power was selfish. There was no reason to arrange his attention to the forest on the other side of the castle, to weave between the evergreens and the path laid within, to feel the splash of rivers, or to fly alongside wolves and their pups.

No other selfish reason but to findhim.

Garrik’s jaw tightened as hatred carved at his chest.

Ezander.The name was like burning coals in his mind.

As if soaring on the wings of thousands of flying things, Garrik’s mind transcended across the Blackstone Mountains until his thoughts settled on a landing place hewn out of a cliffside not far from Castle Karanagar and the High City. Close enough that those wealthy and fortunate could hear the clash of metal echoing along the streets and businesses.

The High Guard’s training grounds.