“Rayghast uses dark magic,” Marai explained to the werewolves. “His well doesn’t empty the way ours does. Dark magic will continue to replenish him.”

“Won’t Keshel’s shields prevent him from using magic until they’re down?” Aresti asked.

“My shields only work above ground. I’ve no way to stop him underneath,” said Keshel, brow furrowed. It was the first time Ruenen had seen his impassive mask crack. “That will be up to Kadi.”

Kadiatu squared her shoulders, but her eyes betrayed the fear inside. Anguish bolted through Ruenen. This girl was not meant for gore and death. She wasn’t supposed to battle anyone. The usual glowing radiance of her skin had dimmed, the light gone from her heart. Ruenen had taken that from her this day.

“That leaves you, Marai,” Keshel said, his dark eyes landing on Marai’s face. “You save your magic for the end.”

“Why? She’s the most powerful of us. Let her go first,” Leif said. It wasn’t spoken with his usual tone of contempt.

“I don’t have the power to defeat two armies. I’ve never tested my magic against a force so large. Whittle down the numbers for me, and then I’ll finish it,” said Marai, “and hopefully stall long enough for Greltan forces to arrive.”

Ruenen didn’t like the dark glint in Marai’s eyes. Bells pealed in his head in wariness and warning. Marai was the last resort. Once she unleashed her power, Ruenen knew she wouldn’t stop. Gods, she might even call upon the dark magic, herself, if she had to. Ruenen felt it right down to the marrow in his bones: she’d give all of herself and more. But if they reduced the numbers, broke the ranks of the Tacorn and Varanese lines before she reached into her well of power, then she wouldn’t have to go so far.

Maybe she could give enough. 

The tent emptied sometime in the evening. Ruenen was left alone to stare at his untouched dinner plate and wine goblet. Then to toss and turn in his lavish cot. There would be no rest for him tonight. Not with the battle looming, racing through his consciousness on horseback. Rayghast’s dark, murderous, miasmic rage crept across the moor, worming its way through the encampment, seeping in through the seams of the canvas tent.

A figure paced outside the canvas. He watched the shadow prowl back and forth, illuminated by the nearby campfires. Eventually, the shadow decided to enter, whispering curtly to the guards at the flap. A pale hand pushed aside the tarp and peered inside. Ruenen bolted upwards, lowering his feet onto the sheepskin rug.

“You should be asleep.” Marai stepped inside, flap closing shut behind her.

“I’ve watched you pace around outside for five minutes deciding whether to come in or not.”

The corners of her mouth twitched. “I didn’t want to disturb you, in case you were resting.”

“Why aren’t you sleeping?” he asked.

“Leif snores.”

Ruenen snickered. He smelled the lie. He saw it in the way her eyes simmered in the dark tent; two beacons of purple flame.

“Are you really a faerie queen?”

Marai glowered. “Nosficio shouldn’t have said that.”

“But are you?”

Her jaw clenched. “I’m Queen Meallán’s descendant. Progeny to her power. Nosficio seems to think this makes me heir to her nonexistent throne, as well.”

An ember glowed deep within Ruenen. Something bloomed and spread, and brought him warmth. He began to laugh.

Marai stared at him as if he’d gone mad. “Why is that funny?”

“Because it’s ironic. I have no royal blood at all, yet I’m Prince—”

“Not so loud,” she hissed at him, stepping closer.

“—While you, the Lady Butcher, are actually heir to an ancient throne.”

“I have no intention of taking action on it, though,” Marai said, crossing her arms.

“You could. You’re already the leader of the fae—”

“Keshel’s leader of the fae—”

“No, he’s not. They look to you now, Sassafras. The moment they stepped foot in these lands, you became their leader.”

“I don’t want it. A throne. Power. None of the responsibility.”

“You sound like someone else I know,” Ruenen said with a snarky grin.

Marai’s lips twitched again. They quieted. He couldn’t look away from her. His heart hurt so deep it felt like it might devour itself. If this was the last night he would gaze upon her face, he’d savor every single second.

“We could die tomorrow,” he said, sucking the air right from the tent. He couldn’t help but voice the growing fear that had ravaged his mind all day. They didn’t have enough men. Even with Nosficio’s strength and speed, and the magic of the fae, it wasn’t enough.

Marai’s face shuttered. “Don’t say such things, Ruen.” Her voice was as soft as the silken petals of a flower, ones Ruenen had rubbed between his fingers in the garden at the monastery, distracting him from Amsco’s lessons.

“Why are you here?” he asked.

“I didn’t want you to be alone.”

Another lie. Ruenen knew it was also because she didn’t want to be alone that night.

He gulped down the unspoken things. Words that were too heavy to say out loud. Not when they could both die in mere hours. Three words stayed on his tongue, sweet and sour at once, twisting his gut into knots.

“Stay with me, then.”

He reached out his hand. Four steps and she’d crossed the tent. Her calloused fingers closed around his own. He laid back onto the cot, scooting to make room. Marai curled around him, holding his hand to her chest. Ruenen draped his other arm over her small body and pressed his forehead to hers.

Their breath synchronized. Their hearts beat in tandem, a music so pure and potent. He’d never truly appreciated those sounds before. That music could be a person. A feeling. A moment suspended in time. A song in his blood. Ruenen breathed in the leather and verdant smell of her. A crackling fire in his lungs.

And slowly, over the course of the night, their eyelids drifted closed. Her soft breath, a whispered kiss against his cheek, lulled him to a sleep he didn’t believe possible.

All through the night, they held each other. The Butcher and the Bard.

Chapter 23

Rayghast

The city of Dul Tanen was electric with preparation for battle.

Hundreds of soldiers vacated the barracks and the city. Rayghast had been worried about the morale of the men with all the nasty rumors, but his concerns were swept away by the evening’s appearance of several blue-armored Varanese commanders through the castle’s portcullis.

Varana’s forces had finally arrived.

“King Rayghast.” A stoic Varanese commander bowed to him, his voice heavily accented. “I’m Commander Chul, head of Emperor Suli’s forces.”