Page 35 of Heat of the Everflame

The other followed behind a few steps, crossing their arms and craning their neck for a better view. Just beyond their silhouette, a large crowd of Guardians had gathered around the central fire, shouting and cheering.

I swore as a quick glance around the corral revealed nothing helpful. I would have to go scavenging for a blade in the tents.

With the Guardian on watch still preoccupied by the commotion at the campfire, I slipped past them into the heart of the camp.

Nearby, pained cries hooked my attention. At the infirmary I’d seen earlier, several mortals lay sprawled on bedrolls, their bodies coated in layers of gauze that I knew concealed dragonfyre-scorched flesh.

At the center, a man sat on a large boulder with his head drooping low. His left arm was almost entirely gone.

My stomach twisted. I’d been the cause of these wounds. Even if I hadn’t meant to, even if I’d done nothing to provoke it and could never have stopped it, I would always blame myself.

And so would they.

Heart heavy, I ducked into a darkened tent and rummaged quietly among the scattered belongings. My shoulders sank—no weapons.

I stole a long woolen cape and draped it over me, then tugged the hood low to shroud my distinctive hair and eyes. In these mortal clothes, soaked as they were, I just might be able to pass as a Guardian.

I held my breath and strutted out of the tent. I kept my head low, though there were hardly any mortals to avoid. Whatever was happening at the campfire, it had captured everyone’s focus.

Needing the extra firelight—and perhaps losing a battle to my curiosity—I skulked closer to the crowd.

“Mother Dell, I have news,” a woman’s voice rang out above the clamor.

“Not now, Sister.”

“But Mother, the boat... the prisoner must have found it and taken it to sea, but—”

“Thank you for letting me know, Sister. Let me address this matter first, then I’ll hear your news.”

Perfect—Dell was distracted.

I spied another vacant tent closer to the fire. I tucked my chin and marched toward it with a faux-confident swagger. A few eyes glanced my way, and I forced myself not to falter as I stooped beneath the open flap.

A grin burst across my face. Laying on the bedroll, its dark grey metal reflecting the glint of the firelight, lay an abandoned broadsword. It was bigger and heavier than I’d normally choose, but it was also intimidating as hell. Perhaps that would work in my favor.

With no weapons belt, I’d have to carry it by hand. I pulled the blade free of its scabbard and gave it a few light swings to test its balance.

Behind me, the sounds of shouting fell to a hush. Cordellia’s voice drifted into the tent.

“You’re too far from home,” she said, her tone grave with warning. “You should not have come here.”

“Where is she?”

I froze.

I knew that voice. That low timbre, that rumbling pitch. The dark, lethal calm lacing power in every syllable.

“You’ve only made the situation worse,” Cordellia said.

“Where is my Queen?”

My heart seized in my chest.

“Luther,” I breathed.

My grip tightened on the broadsword’s hilt. All my plans evaporated from my mind, my focus now on the only thing that mattered—rescuing Luther from the mortals’ wrath. I steeled my shoulders and turned to leave.

A hand clamped over my mouth.

---