Page 71 of Beneath a Shattered Sky
“You’re coming with me,” I tell her. “Apparently, they need male bonding time.”
She snorts, looking over my shoulder. “How long until one of them loses an arm?”
Goddess, what have I done? She waves me out in front of her, walking beside me as I try to recall the way to the war room.
“If they do, I’m not healing it on principle,” I murmur. “They promised it’s just sparring.”
Prae rolls her one good eye. “If you believe that, you’re even stupider than you look.”
“I know, but still… Caed’s taking me on a date next week. That has to mean something, right?”
Prae actually misses a step before she catches up to me again.
“A date? And he came up with this idea on his own?”
My turn to snort this time. “I get the impression Jaro was instrumental in setting it up.”
“That makes more sense.” She pauses. “Are you…”
“What?”
“Are you seriously giving him a chance? Are the rest of them? Because if this is just a way to raise his hopes?—”
“I can’t speak for the others,” I cut her off. “But I appreciate what you both did in Siabetha. Even before that, I didn’t want him to die. I’m just…”
“Caught in a shit situation. I get it. But for the record, if you hurt my cousin…”
There’s a hint of threat there, and I nod.
“I think Caed and I have hurt each other enough.”
We reachthe war room doors, and our conversation dies, killed by the harsh words leaking through the open door.
“I don’t know where I went wrong with you, Gryffin. I really don’t?—”
“Oh horror. Something the great Queen Cressida doesn’t know.” A lazy male voice drawls.
“I sent you to negotiate with the Court of Winds. Not eradicate them. Even fucking Harlen could’ve done better.”
“They were dissenters.”
“Weneededthose troops.”
“No. We needed fewer upstart pixies taking advantage of?—”
I shove open the door, uncomfortable with eavesdropping further.
Cressida is at the far end of the table, toe-to-toe with a scarred fae male with a bright shock of flame-red hair. Fury is written in her face and bored indifference in his as they stare one another down. Around the map table, her knight consorts are focused on the little flags representing our troop movements, barely paying attention to the argument, as if it’s a regular occurrence.
“I’m ready for training,” I say loudly, drawing all of their attention at once.
“Nicnevin.” Cressida turns stiffly from the armoured male. “You’re early.” A pause, then a groan. “This is my nephew, knight, and ward, Prince Gryffin of—” She cuts off, elbowing her nephew, and hissing, “Bow!”
But the ginger male, with the wicked-looking scar bisecting his face, isn’t looking at me. His hazel eyes are fixed on a spot to my right.
Beside him, a potted fern withers to a crisp, the leaves crunching and shrivelling until they’re a skeletal husk of what they once were.
I turn to the queen in confusion, but she’s staring at the plant in dismay.
