Page 301 of Heat of the Everflame

My mother grabbed my arm. “Diem, Luther’s right. We can’t go back. It’s too dangerous.”

I didn’t answer. The palace grew nearer, and my lips flattened to a thin, angry line.

At my back, I heard Luther’s quiet sigh, then felt the faint swirl of his nearly depleted godhood. “Shields ready, my Queen.”

“Save your magic, Prince,” I said.

Sorae’s pace abruptly slowed, then stopped just outside the soldiers’ reach.

I met my brother’s gaze. Taran and Perthe gripped his arms as he strained against them to get to me. Even at this distance, I saw the desperation on his face—and when his expression shifted, I knew he saw the plea for forgiveness on mine.

Luther was right. He and I had chosen our fates, and so had my mother. Whatever consequences would come from this, they were ours to bear. If Teller left the palace at our side, he would become our accomplice.

On the run as a fugitive, if I could protect him.

Prison or execution, if I couldn’t.

I knew how badly he wanted our family together. Perhaps he’d be willing to sacrifice the rest of his life for it—but he deserved to make that choice on his own.

“I’m so sorry,” I called out.

“No!” he shouted.

He rammed an elbow into Taran’s ribs, catching him by enough surprise to slip his hold, then twisted until Perthe’s wrist bent unnaturally and he was forced to let go. Both men lunged to stop him, but Teller deftly sidestepped and broke away.

I would have smiled, were my heart not breaking. Teller might be an academic at heart, but he was still a Bellator, through and through.

He ran to the edge of the balcony, shaking his head. “Please don’t go!”

I fought the burning in my throat as I tugged my mother’s hood down to her shoulders and her identity was laid bare. It might condemn me to be a fugitive for life, but I couldn’t leave without letting Teller see that she was alive and well.

Murmurs arose, growing louder and angrier. Troops advanced in our direction. Sorae’s ochre gaze kept a careful watch, edging us further out of range.

I barely noticed. All I could see was my brother’s face and the stream of tears falling down his cheeks. My mother stretched an arm toward him, and he leaned over the balustrade to do the same.

“I love you so much,” she shouted in a wobbling voice. “Be strong, my little scholar.”

“Please,” he begged.

I dropped my chin and placed a hand on Sorae’s neck. “Let’s go.”

Chapter

Fifty-Seven

Storm clouds greeted us in Montios and shrouded the moon in dismal grey. The temperature had taken a dramatic plunge, turning our breath into clouds and our fingers into ice.

We touched down just inside the border in a sunken valley at the base of a towering, snow-capped peak. With little vegetation, we were dangerously exposed to both our enemies and the weather. We exchanged anxious glances and settled in for a long, restless night.

I showered Sorae in pets and scratches for her loyalty, promising to grow her a thousand apples once my magic returned. Thankfully, she seemed unbothered by the cold. She offered up the space beneath her wings for us to sleep, and I breathed a sigh of relief when I saw her wound was healing fast.

My own weren’t faring quite as well. Luther had pushed the last of his magic into me knowing he’d lose it at the border anyway, but it had only been enough to stem the bleeding. My arm was useless, and the throbbing pain had set my already sharpened nerves on a razor’s edge.

“How long until your magic is replenished?” my mother asked me.

I glanced at Luther, brows arched, internally irked that this was something I should already know.

“We have a saying—‘the stronger, the longer,’” he said. “It’s the downside to being powerful. Most Descended take a few hours. Mine takes a day, sometimes two. Yours... I’d guess three or four, at least.”

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