Page 44 of The Dryad Storm

“The turmoil is just beginning,” Clive continues. “The Smaragdalfar are deeply divided about having non-Smaragdalfar in the Sublands.”

“Well, that’s justifiable,” Freyja says. “The East never once prioritized freeing the Smaragdalfar in the West, or providing them asylum.”

Clive nods, acknowledging the point. “And there’s the thorny issue of Ra’Ven Za’Nor and his Light Mage partner, Sagellyn, having disappeared. Along with a number of the Black Witch’s other allies.”

Freyja holds his grave look. “I should have killed Elloren Gardner Grey when I had the chance, when you sent her to find me. It was a mistake to let her live.”

A pained look slashes across Clive’s visage, and he nods tightly, holding Freyja’s troubled stare. “Yvan Guryev brought her to meet with me in Keltania. He’s in love with her.” He shakes his head, conflict knifing through his gaze. “I’ve known Yvan for most of his life, but I never knew what he was.” He grows silent, jaw flexing, before he lets out a frustrated huff of a breath. “And now, Vogel’s fully turned the Gardner girl into his hellish Black Witch, and Yvan’s foolishly gone after her. Ormaybe she’s imprisoned both Yvan and the Dryad Fae who portaled them out of Noilaan. In any case, both Yvan and the Black Witch are headed for the Northern Forest, caught up in alongDryad portal lag. She’ll likely kill Yvan when they get there and bring about the damned Prophecy.”

“Or worse,” Freyja responds, harsh and unsparing as she thinks of Vogel’s gray-eyed soldiers.

Clive winces, a tortured look entering his gaze. “When I met the Gardner girl in Lyndon, gods help me,Ishould have killed her.”

“Yvan Guryev might have burned you down.”

“He might have,” Clive soberly agrees. “But he wasn’t the warrior then that I hear he is now. A student more than anything. Ignorant of the extent of his power. He’s been training with Wyverns. With Lasair.” A guarded hope lights Clive’s eyes. “He might survive her yet.”

“Clive,” Freyja cautions, a trace of sympathy edging her tone, “he’s not strong enough to stand against both the Black Witch and the entire Magedom.”

Clive’s mouth forms a tight line, his expression darkening. “I know it, Freyja.”

She straightens against the impossible situation bearing down, suddenly all business.

Queen’sbusiness.

“Why did you come as messenger,” she challenges, “knowing it would undermine me?”

“They gave me no recourse,” he answers, his tone edged with anger. “Yes, Noilaan’s reactionary, sorry excuse for a Conclave wants to undermine you. Their rising Vo’nyl majoritywantsconflictbetween and againstall Westerners. To give them an excuse to drive every Westerner out of the Eastern Realm.”

Outrage burns hot at the base of Freyja’s throat. “So, they want me to fail as a leader.”

“Yes,” Clive bites back. “So,don’t indulge them.”

They exchange a loaded look. “What do Vang Troi and your army seek?” Freyja finally asks, fighting back the urge to draw him nearer.

“Well,” he says, his gaze flicking over the Varg-rune-marked weapons strapped all over her form. “For starters, we’d love the help of your Smaragdalfar runic sorceress.” He takes her hand, and Freya’s breath hitches as that familiar heat rises between them. Turning her hand gently over, he studies the Varg weapon-retrieval rune marked on her palm, its emerald color flashing and fully charged,Freyja’s hazel skin tough and calloused beneath it.

His brown eyes flit to hers. “The Vu Trin also wouldn’t mind a few more Varg-charged weapons in their own hands either.” Rebellious heat smolders in his eyes as he lifts her hand, holding her gaze, and presses his lips to the rune. Freyja’s heart trips into a pounding rhythm.

“Freyja,” he says as he lowers her hand, a martial glint edging into the adoration in his molten-brown eyes. “We all need to align, and quickly. Vang Troi wants the Amaz to lead a new division of the Vu Trin.”

Surprise strikes through Freyja. This would be more than just an alliance.

This would be a merging of armies.

“Their Conclave willneverapprove that,” she says.

“The Noi Conclave can go straight to the deepest of hells,” Clive shoots back, keeping firm hold of her hand.

For a moment Freyja is caught up in tumultuous conflict, the East’s sheer political chaos a monstrous obstacle to overcome. Yet Vang Troi wants to pursue unity. The underlying ramifications crackle through the air between them.

“Is Vang Troi about to go rogue?” Freyja presses.

Clive simply gives her a knowing smirk. “Lead your people into the future,” he challenges, as gooseflesh ripples down Freyja’s back, a sense of the momentous cycling down.

“What future would that be, Clive,” she challenges back, her head spinning from the impossible idea of merging three militaries, three peoples—one of them zealously set on isolation from men.

“Not fracture,” Clive shoots back. “Not if we’re going to have any future at all.”

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