Page 129 of Spark of the Everflame

“Just see him, and tell me if you think I should send for Maura. Will you at least do that?”

Saying no would require explaining too much. Explaining that I’d been forbidden from seeing patients at the palace, that I couldn’t be trusted with Descended patients, especially not the King.

I forced a stiff smile. “I can take a quick look.”

He gave me a moment to secure my boots—and, to my shock, my weapons belt, which he’d recovered from the woman I’d shoved them off on last night. Even Brecke’s knife had been strapped back to its place on my calf. I stared at it, wondering if Luther had put it there himself, and a burst of heat ran up my leg.

I debated a myriad of snarky comments about his rules on weapons in the palace, but there was such a quiet earnestness in the way he watched me, his hand shooting out to steady me every time my balance wobbled, I couldn’t bear to break the easy peace that had somehow formed between us.

I followed him down the hall and through the iron doorway of the Crown’s suite, where two guards bowed to him and glared at me, undoubtedly remembering my eventful last visit. I threw them a syrupy-sweet smile, though it lacked my usual bite. They reminded too much of the guards I’d tended the night before, those anguished sobs still ringing in my ears.

As soon as we entered, Sorae’s high-pitched howl reverberated through the room, now so much louder and nearer than before.

My gaze caught on a far wall lined with a row of wide arches. Their doors had been closed on my prior visit, but today they stood open, their gauzy drapes billowing in the morning breeze and revealing slivers of feathered wings and a powerful, fur-covered body sprawled on a stone terrace.

“Is that...?”

Luther followed my eyes and nodded. “Sorae has a perch outside so the Crown always has access to her if needed.”

As if she’d heard her name, a spiky, draconic head poked through the gossamer curtains. Her black-slitted pupils dilated at the sight of me.

Almost subconsciously, I started walking in her direction, drawn by the same odd tug as before. Her nostrils flared as she stretched her neck and sniffed at me. My hand rose toward her snout, her fanged jaws cracking open with a low rumble, and—

“Diem,no!”

Luther shot toward me, arms locking around my waist. He spun me in his grasp, clutching me against him as he shoved his body between me and the gryvern.

“Don’t,” he warned, a little breathlessly. “If she attacks, only the King can call her off.”

I wanted to protest, but the words dissolved under the urgent grip of his hands, the heat of him against my skin, the sudden nearness of his face to mine, the desperation on his features. It was the same way he’d looked at me as the armory’s roof was caving in—like he might have just lost something important. Something he valued more than he, or I, could fully make sense of.

His arms loosened, but didn’t let go. “Blessed Kindred,” he swore, his eyes lighting up as they studied my face. “You aren’t scared of anything, are you?”

I wasvery muchscared of the way all my nerve endings were aflame, my blood rushing to all the many, many places where our bodies touched.

And even more scared of how I couldn’t seem to talk myself into pulling away.

I looked over his shoulder at the gryvern, whose golden eyes had dropped to Luther’s back—where, I realized suddenly, my hands were holding on to him as tightly as he held on to me. The creature’s head cocked to one side, and the soft whirr that floated from her throat sounded almost like an accusation.

I scraped together enough self-control to pull myself out of his arms, face burning hot, unable to look manorbeast in the eyes.

King Ulther looked much the same as he had on my prior visit, motionless and peaceful under the high canopy of his four-poster bed. Out of habit, I took command of the room and strode toward my patient’s side, nearly tripping over Luther as he stopped to kneel in respect. I caught myself in time to clumsily mimic the movement, though I didn’t miss the hint of a smile on Luther’s bowed face.

“Sorry,” I mumbled. “Usually my unconscious patients aren’t so concerned with formal greetings.”

“There’s a purpose to the protocol, you know,” he said as we both stood. “It distinguishes between a role of public service and the person who currently occupies it. It’s about understanding that His Majesty King Ulther of Lumnos and Ulther Corbois, uncle and brother and mate, are two very different people. It’s not just—what were your exact words last night?—a ‘fancy fucking title.’”

I threw him a look. “Keep telling yourself that,Your Highness.”

“It disturbs me how unusual it feels to hear you call me that,” he muttered, drawing a loud, genuine laugh from me. His posture tensed at the sound, an unreadable look sparking on his expression.

I walked to the King and perched on the bed beside him, watching his chest struggle to rise in quick, uneven bursts. Now that I was closer, it was startling how much his condition had deteriorated—his skin grey and paper-thin, his body jerking with the occasional spasm.

I gingerly laid my palm against his cheek, disheartened to find it clammy despite the thick warmth of the firelit room. A touch to his neck confirmed a weakened pulse that felt like it was being reluctantly dragged through every beat.

“It’s almost time, isn’t it?” Luther asked quietly.

I nodded. “I think it is. I wish I had better news, but there’s not much Maura or I can do for him now.”

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