Page 1 of Claws of Death

Myron

The air reeksof betrayal and anguish as I wake from what should have been my final slumber. I wish I wouldn’t remember what happened, but I do. Every little detail is sharp and clear in my mind like the morning dew on the branches above me. A gray sky peeks through the cover of leaves, promising the end of night. My limbs protest as I roll to my side in an attempt at getting to my feet, and iron coats my tongue as I bite back a groan.

“Myron.” Royad’s voice is like the sun hiding behind the towering clouds. “ByShaelak, you’re awake.”

I am, but I don’t get a word out. In my mind, I am clinging to the view of Ayna’s dirt-streaked face above mine as she begged me not to give up.

Don’t you dare say goodbye.

That crease of fury on her forehead.

We’re getting out of here.

And terror as she realized there was no way out for either of us as she dragged me one step after the other until my legs failed me and the drug fully kicked in.

Stay awake. Do you hear me? Fucking. Stay. Awake.

I tried. Gods, I tried.

It’s too late.

Ephegos found us, and I failed my mate.

“Can you hear me?” My cousin is leaning over me, his tan features unusually pale.

I nod and blink away the memories.

“Ayna?” It’s worth a try, but no one responds when I whisper her name.

Royad’s hand wraps around my shoulder, guiding me into a sitting position until my back rests against the smooth bark of a tree. Four pairs of eyes are staring at me as I scan the small clearing for any sign of my mate … and find none.

“Welcome back.” Astorian dips his chin at me while his hand clasps Princess Cliophera’s where they sit side by side a few feet away by a dead fire.

Clio gives me a tight smile that promises nothing good.

I don’t ask what’s wrong because instinctively, I already know. I don’t need to glance to my right to identify the fourth person as Herinor.

Ayna isn’t here.

But my cousin is, and so are the Askarean general and his mate. And the male who saved Royad. “Thank you.”

Herinor’s eyes reflect a pale green in the morning light as he presses his mouth into a tight line, shaking his head at me. “Don’t thank me before you hear the full story.” His features set into a grim mask, and I see the male who once guarded Ayna for me in what I used to call my palace—before he betrayed me to help Ephegos’s cause.

“Here—” Royad offers me a canteen of water. Where he got it, I don’t care. It’s not spiked with the horrible drug that took me out in the dungeon and took away all capabilities of defending my mate. I chug down a third of its contents and wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, closing my eyes for a moment as the coolness of the water seeps into me. “You’ve been out for two days.”

That might be a new record. I don’t know what was in the syringe that landed in my arm instead of in Ayna’s, but I’d gladly take the blow all over again if it means she gets to fight for her freedom.

“Two days?” I barely sound like myself, throat clogged with anticipation of the worst. My hand flicks to my shoulder where the mark connecting Ayna and me is tingling so lightly it could pass for a mild irritation of my skin. I know better, though. That mild nuisance means she’s alive.

“Next time you pass out, choose to do so when we have horses. I’d hate to carry you again.” Clio elbows Astorian, who’s giving me a grimace of a smile. They are both in the same clothes I last saw them wearing, their faces an array ofclean skin and dirt like they tried to wash away the grime of the dungeon and their escape. It’s a small relief there’s no blood.

“They took turns,” the princess corrects, her gaze darting between Astorian, Royad, and Herinor. It’s only then that I notice the fourth male is missing.

“Silas?”

Royad’s gaze darts behind the tree I’m leaning onto, throat bobbing as he shakes his head. I whirl around and spot the bronze face of the male a few feet away. A blanket is draped over his chest, covering the hundreds of cuts Ephegos and Katrijanov left on his torso. His skin is ashen, hair matted against the sides of his face, and his jaw is slack, no trace of the sarcastic warrior Crow who likes to make my life miserable.

“Is he…” I don’t dare finish my thought. If he’s dead, we lost another Crow. Another one of my people.

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