Page 25 of Trials of Dusk and Dreams
The others look at me with a mix of caution and curiosity. The warmth I glimpsed in Legion leeches away until he is the same indomitable leader as before. If not for the blood streaking his forearms, a few stray hairs out of place, and the spectacles, which I might add, only serve to make him even more attractive.
He lets go of my hands and scolds, “Don’t wait so long next time to ask.”
“Yes, sir.” I give him a salute, and his lips flatten. But I’m sure I glimpse a dash of that affectionate amusement before he locks it down and faces his hive.
“Willow,” he says quietly. “Go get cleaned up and find something to eat. I’d like a moment alone with my brothers.”
Chapter 12
Bodin
As I lean against the door, my eyes catch on a painting hanging slightly askew on the opposite wall. I cross the room in two swift strides and adjust the frame, aligning it perfectly with the others. The simple act releases tension within me.
With Fox gone and Styx returned, even my thoughts feel untethered. The castle itself seems made of transient thoughts, as insubstantial as mist. But at least our Shadow has left and taken her intoxicating scent with her.
Legion releases a strangled, furious sound. Tension coils in his posture. He stares hard at his desk, the reports and the war map pinned to the wall behind him. Then he looks at us in turn, and his demeanor grows incandescent and dark.
He is not one to lose control of his emotions. Even in my gut, where I know our history is stored, I feel this statement’s truth. So when the room dims as his fury sucks the light and his fists tremble, I take a step in Varen’s direction, the weakest among us. He sits by the hearth, lost in a puzzle of his own making—strips of kindling and bones, leftovers from the wildling’s snack.
Legion sees my protective move, directs his gaze down, and roars his fury. He swipes his desk clean of papers, quills,inkwells, and the jar of trapped wisps clatter to the floor. Then he braces himself against the desk, head bowed, breathing ragged.
This is not control. This is catastrophe with its claws in all of us.
As papers and inkwells clatter to the floor, I lock eyes with Emrys, then Styx, a slight tilt of my head conveying my concern.
My muscles coil, ready to spring into action at the slightest provocation.
“Pay attention,” Legion’s harsh, guttural voice cuts through the tense silence. “Because I will only say this once. Ifanyof you allow our queen to suffer again, I will disembowel you and string your entrails over the mantlepiece until you have learned your lesson. Understood?”
I blink, stunned into silence. So many parts of that statement don’t make sense.
“Hardly fair,” Emrys drawls, “considering our current afflictions prevent us from following your decree to the letter.”
Legion’s hand hits the desk. “Do not belittle your intelligence by feigning ignorance of my true meaning, Emrys.”
“I have a question.” Styx raises a hesitant hand. “What suffering are you talking about, the cut on her palm?”
Legion glares through the curtain of his hair, hand on desk, jaw clenched until Styx’s facetiousness fades. Only then does he straighten, fix his shirt, and calmly reply, “For eons, the word suffer has only had one definition: Us.”
Stupid question, Styx. He hears my thoughts and rolls his eyes, then continues aloud.
“Let’s say,” he waves his hand around. “For shits and giggles, and unless you want me to dip into your mind . . . be precise, brother.”
“The most recent incident is her wounded palm.” His eyes turn inward, self-deprecating. “I admit, I was also to blame. It is unforgivable.”
The others stare at him, holding their peace. Perhaps out of fear or respect. Not me.
I fold my arms and say, “If you admit to this oversight without your memories, how are we expected to uphold this impossible task?”
He drops into his chair, his expression defeated for a moment before he gathers his composure.
“Which is why,” he growls, “I now give this order as your Knight Commander, your First, and your Last.” His emphasis on the final word drops the temperature in the room to arctic. “If any of you willingly or negligently allow our queen to suffer, then there will be consequences.”
A low growl builds in my chest, my teeth aching to elongate into fangs I don’t have. I swallow hard, forcing the sound back down. Even Varen looks up from his mystery puzzle, wary.
The dragon takes advantage, slinks out from beneath a couch, and tentatively bites a bone. Varen snarls at him and snatches it back. A tug of war ensues, and I walk over to break it up.
Styx strides to the desk, fearlessly meeting Legion’s gaze. “The mortal is not our fated queen.”
