Page 65 of A House of Cloaks & Daggers

He was beginning to squirm.

The caenim struggled against him, teeth-filled eyes hissing and snapping, and I saw the killing blow—my killing blow, if I picked up the blade and drove its point right into the base of its neck.

And I hesitated.

Wren saw it. His face folded in disbelief—a handsome face, a truly handsome face that some part of me might have eventually missed being able to appreciate from afar.

But maybe Lucais could commission a statue created in his likeness using marble, which was probably the only type ofrock that would do justice to Wren’s strong features and sharp jawline. Although, I wondered what they would do for his eyes, which were incomparable and fast glazing over with hurt as he watched me and understood.

I had stopped hesitating.

I was refusing.

And I thought that, for some reason, my refusal hurt him the most—more than anyone else—because there was not even a spark of magic left at his fingertips.

The whole world saw my choice to let Wren die.

I hoped the damn Oracle saw it, too, and gave me some sort of sign in my next dream that I had made the right choice for the High King of Faerie. For Lucais, who would probably never understand.

Not the way Wren did as he glowered at me.

And let go.

Chapter twenty-five

Touching Her is Suicide, and Speaking About Her is Treason

The Oracle did notsee me allowing Wren to die…but the High King’s Guard certainly did.

In the blink of an eye, they appeared on horseback, charging through the clearing with their swords raised in the air. It was as if their horses, without horns like Elera, had simply evanesced through the woodland. I only knew that they were the High King’s Guard because of their uniforms, which were a regal set of white pants and gold coats. They looked rather ridiculous, I thought, as they galloped towards us to save the traitor to their High King.

Alleged traitor, I supposed.

There was no real proof yet.

It was a feeling I had, an explanation for the peculiarities that nobody else could or would give me, but I did still findmyself exhaling in relief when a dagger came spinning through the air, landing in the caenim’s back before it could spill Wren’s throat.

He hadn’t moved to stop it himself, hadn’t blasted a hole of light through its torso or vanished into thin air beneath it. He hadn’t done anything but let the caenim go while he held onto me with his burning eyes.

Aside from that shuddering breath of repose, I felt numb from head to toe, from the inside and out.

The collective shouting of the Guard was a distant murmur, even as they came to a stop around us, and the one who had thrown the dagger jumped down from his midnight stallion. He was taller than Lucais but shorter than Wren, and he had a mean face, nose pinched, and mouth turned down as he stalked towards me and raised a large, plump hand in the air. His palm connected with the side of my face with a crisp slap, but it did nothing to wake me up.

I let the blow throw me to the ground, bracing myself with my hands as I landed on my backside in a pool of sticky caenim blood.

Even then, I didn’t move.

I sat there in the muck, tunnelling down into myself, trying to make sense of the choice I’d made. Trying to remember what had felt right about it in the moment when I suddenly felt so empty and broken at the very thought of Wren dying.

The sentry was yelling at me, shouting filthy and horrific slurs as he grabbed my arms and hauled me to my feet.

I barely even heard him. I looked at Wren to make sure he was still okay, just in time to see him shoving the caenim’s lifeless body off himself and leaping to his feet without the assistance of his hands. His beautiful face was the picture of absolute fury, and I braced myself as he stormed over to me, ready for another strike, knowing that I probably deserved it.

But Wren didn’t hit me, though the action he took still woke me up and brought full light and proper sound back to my awareness.

He ripped the sentry away from me, light flaring on his palms, and punched him in the face. A muffled cry made its way up my throat as the sentry staggered backwards, guilt and incredulity rolling over his features as a trickle of red blood leaked from a cut on his cheekbone.

Wren struck him again, sending him to the ground. Blood gushed out of his nose this time. He became wedged between two dark corpses, but his eyes were glued to Wren’s face. He looked like he was about to cry. Wren looked like he wanted to hit him again.

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