Page 2 of What Whispers in the Dark
Silver eyes swiped to ones as light blue as a cloudless sky.
Aiden. A half-human of great lung capacity, an active imagination, and many talents, but convincing his wavering mind to focus was not one of them unless aided. However, Garrik knew his brother like his own sword. He knew Aiden would excel as Alora’s shadow for the day.
Aiden twisted his boot in the dirt, idly scraping his thumb on a button near the pocket of his pants like a faeling with too much energy, unknowing of how to release it.
Stay with her.
There.From the snap of his eyes,therewas Aiden’s attention. It lifted from his folded, buckled boots, glistening in the sunlight, to Garrik, who waited for those unfocused eyes to clear. A touch of mischief cloaked Aiden’s features as he subtly inclined his head.
Ghost turned with pressure from Garrik’s knee.
The sound of beating hooves followed as he, Thalon, and Jade rushed along the path between their tents. His Swordsmaster and assassin rode close beside as they ascended the steep incline leading to his sentries standing guard outside the tree line.
Garrik felt his power beckoning him long before he neared his permanent barrier of protection, a cunning warning and illusion to the world.
Power surged inside his veins, like calling to like, recognizing itself like the shard of a shattered mirror settling into place. That piece of him given, he always felt missing, with every shield he created. This one—one of the hundreds alive and surging—wrapped around him. Garrik breathed the force in, feeling a ribbon of strength return as it welcomed its master. Against his selfish desires, he passed through and felt his power mourn his presence the moment he emerged on the other side.
Given their faces, Garrik knew the moment Thalon and Jade passed, too. His magic thundered through anyone whocrossed it. Left them with agony behind their eyes and unsettled vision, unsteady in their stride and unable to remain standing. But he had perfected the aftereffects to where only a mild irritation coursed through his Dragons’ bodies once deemed nonthreatening.
It was the reason Alora nearly fell from his horse last night. One reason why he wrapped his arms around her. Spoke into her panicked mind until she stabilized. And it would continue doing so until she allied with him.
Behind, the near-distant splash of water echoed from the lake, and winged fae cast their shadows on the ground from the sky. Metal clanged from the arena as camp bustled with a symphony of sounds from his Dragons readying today’s duties and whatever training their generals deemed imperative.
In the few years as their sovereign in command, Garrik admitted thatthiswas … timelessly appealing. He never departed camp without that quick glance over his shoulder. Never forsook the opportunity to indulge in the sounds of mirth and purpose from faeries who owed him nothing. This security, this protection, a thing he could only dream of when his body lay in bloody puddles clinging to the last breath of life. The thing he suffered for all those decades. Of a home most of them never had. Of the hope so heavy in the airthat it became hard to breathe.
A world without Magnelis.The words meaning … so much more than simply the absence of a cruel male. A world with a future. With peace.
Shadows gathered around his hands, noticing they tightened into fists. Forming bleeding crescents in his frigid palm. And knowing without hesitation he would bleed for them all again and again, Garrik angled his head to his sentries who had stood at attention the moment he crested the hill, and commanded,“No one enters until my return,” before filtering through the tree line, prepared for the horrors of Brennus’s camp.
The ride wasa pleasure he should not indulge in.
But even with guilt weighing down his leathers, he could not stop himself from finding comfort in it. Morning moisture cloaked the forest. Fog lifted, leaving leaves covered in a thin layer of dew, which also clung to Ghost’s fetlocks. An earthy aroma remained, smelling of recent rain.
Garrik tilted his head as sunlight beamed in broken rays between the labyrinth of leaves overhead. A calm before the pending storm that was Brennus’s encampment.
They should have dawned directly there. He knew that, but refused to care. Provoking Brennus was one of the few pleasantries remaining in his life. And he would be in the High General’s warpath no matter if he arrived the moment he was summoned or two days later.
Why bother rushing?
So, Garrik slowed them to a languid walk, meeting the beginning of a meadow. Thick grass swaying in a lilac breeze greeted them, while golden and snow-white flowers peeked through the blades. In the coral and crimson-painted sky, asymphony of birds carried melodies as full clouds caused the hills to bask in warm light.
“These meetings are always … fruitful.” Casual sarcasm leeched from Thalon, threatening to melt the steel of their blades. He tightened his jaw and flexed his shoulders as if his kind’s gift was manifested upon them. “Perhaps we can persuade Brennus to move east.”
East. Toward uninhabited lands where death would not reign. Where Ravens could not leave villages in ruin and bloodshed, rip younglings from mothers, wives from husbands. Mates from mates.
Drawing his focus from the holy fury stirring in Thalon’s eyes, Garrik closed his and suffered a deep sigh. “Brennus cares not for voices beyond his own unless Magnelis is mastering his strings… No amount of conversation will sway him into agreement on anything I offer.” His eyes opened and stared into the distance, where smoke billowed to the sky.
Telldaira.
A fitting example.
He went on, “Either Brennus conjures the ideas himself or performs the opposite of what I see fit.” And Garrik would not dare to offer suggestions involving lethal consequences lest Brennus, for once, endorsed him. He would never gamble that risk. “I will not persuade him so easily.”
In fact, Brennus rarely entertained Garrik’s council. Mere vermin nipping at his ankles to be kicked or squelched under his polished boot. And when he did follow Garrik’s suggestion, the High King was sure to learn of any error or flaw. To which he would inevitably be punished for.Brutally.
A cold shudder waved down Garrik’s spine, over the decades of barbarous mistreatment.
That relaxed hold on Ghost’s reins tightened punishingly as echoes of sharp snaps from a multi-fringed, barbed whip toyedwith his mind. A cruel reminder of the countless instances Magnelis used Garrik’s body as a bloody example for hispoor decisions. Miscalculations. For making a mockery of the High King by raising such astounding incompetence.
