Page 65 of Winter's Fate

He frowned, confused. “That’s the end of the story.”

She reached a hand to his face, smoothing the wrinkle from between his eyes. “You left out the part where the king’s death was your fault.”

“I wasn’t there,” he said. “I left the castle unprotected.”

“I don’t think Edmun would see it that way,” she said softly. “Or even Silas and Dom. Were they not trained under your command?”

“Partially, but?—”

“As the king’s personal guards, I would expect they were among his best.”

“I still have no soldiers as fast as Dom, nor as dextrous as Silas.”

Their loss had been devastating. Not only for their skills, but for their place among the guard. Dom’s jokes and Silas’s quiet dedication. The men had marked the anniversary of their deaths with a visit to the gravesite and a night of stories, their grief still fresh.

Laena traced her finger down his cheek, cupping his jaw. “If you had been there, you would be dead, too.”

Callum opened his mouth to argue, then closed it. He had never considered the possibility, not once. If he had been there, surely there would have been something he could have done.

But the thought vanished. She was right. If Dom and Silas could not win against the assassins—there was reason to believe, in fact, that the two guards had not even seen the attackers’ approach—then what hope would Callum have had?

“Hawk blames me,” he said. “He blames the drinking for my removal from the King’s Guard, but he wants me gone from Vunmore altogether. He holds me responsible for his father’s death. He cannot forgive it.”

“Then Hawk is a fool.” Laena twined her hands around his neck, drawing him into a kiss that set his head to spinning.

He allowed his hands to travel to the hem of her shift, dragging it up over her knees, caressing the sensitive skin on the inside of her thighs. This night would just have to go on, forever.

“Callum,” she breathed, and he dropped his lips to her neck, sucking gently on the patch of skin where her throat curved toward the collarbone.

But when she said his name again, it was with alarm rather than desire. He sat up, alarm bells ringing as the tent flooded with the unmistakable scent of a heart-tithe.

CHAPTER 27

The sky was boiling.

Night air whisked around Laena’s legs, the wind pulling at her thin shift, but she hardly noticed the chill. She was distantly aware of it, like she was distantly aware of the clanging alarms, the shouts of the soldiers, theshingof metal swords leaving sheaths, the camp roused from its after-travel rest to face some as-yet-unseen attacker. The smell of the tithe was thick in the air, each breath of it filling her lungs with a searing heat, but that, too, was little more than a vague sensation.

It might have been a dream.Shemight have been a dream, a ghost, leaving the comfort of her tent—of Callum’s arms—to wander into the midst of these frantic battle preparations.

Callum. He was calling her name, his voice nearly lost behind the clamor of activity. But the sky was boiling, the clouds undulating with red and purple lightning, and there was no time to hear.

As she reached the edge of the camp, her body felt as if it were not entirely her own. She walked as if in a trance, the knot of ice at her core pulling her forward like a tether as thin as a fishing line, her magic reaching for whatever was coming.Ready, like a sword not yet drawn. She wasthere, and yet she was alsohere, counting each grain of dirt beneath her bare feet, each whisper of wind in her hair.

Steel clashed behind her, and she thought she heard Callum call her name again, but his voice was immediately lost in the din of the fight.

But this, her magic said, was not the real threat.

This was the distraction.

A band of shadows materialized out of the darkness, and in her core, Laena’s magic unfurled. She threw up her hands, pushing out a wave of frigid air to meet the oncoming threat, the pulse so strong she could almost see it as the surge of cold air met the warmth of the summer night.

The first wave of shadows dissolved, crystalizing into snowflakes that swirled in the breeze, finally falling to coat the green grass like a swath of spilled paint. She could hear each hushed landing, feel the blades of grass bending beneath the gentle weight, taste the sharpness of the cold on the tip of her tongue.

Behind her, the shouts intensified. A dagger escaped the fight, whistling toward the back of her head, but she felt it coming—she felteverything—or her magic did, and she batted the blade aside with an icicle.

As a fresh wave of shadows thickened over the hills, Laena readied another wave of magic. It was coming easier now, flowing from her center like it would keep coming forever.

A woman materialized at the center of the shadows, her slight form cutting a sharp outline amid the smoke.

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