Ahlvie’s ribs were on fire, and his chest ached. His legs were burning. His breathing was ragged but not completely uncontrollable. Even though he had just run for what felt like leagues, he knew that he could continue on for as long as he needed. And he felt suddenly…free at the prospect.

Of course, he had almost left Orden behind on more than one occasion. The man was a dozen years his senior and as thick as a tree trunk. Running was not exactly his forte.

But they were out.

Out of that insufferable prison.

No longer underground, no longer behind bars, no longer in that dank, dark cell.

Creator!

He could breathe. He could finally breathe again.

Never again would he let himself be locked up like that. He couldn’t do it. It went against his very nature. Everything he had been and everything he had become in the last couple of months.

“Can you not slow down even a step?” Orden growled. “We’re off castle grounds. No one is chasing after us.”

Ahlvie’s eyes shot to the castle on the horizon. Orden was right, of course. They had outmaneuvered the guards who had been moving them to a new cell on King Edric’s orders. An explosion had rocked the castle, and they’d used it to their advantage. Ahlvie had wanted to use the opportunity to find Cyrene, but Orden had been practical. They needed to get free, regroup, and come up with a real plan. Wandering the halls of the castle would only end with them both back in prison.

Ahlvie slowed his loping stride and returned to Orden. “Where to, old man?”

“Your death if you call me that again, boy,” Orden bit out.

His laughter bubbled out of him. “Fair.”

“We’ll have to reconvene with Rita.”

“You want to go back into the city?” Ahlvie asked dubiously. “And, really…Rita?”

“Lady Cauthorn to you. Don’t let her hear you say it.” Orden grinned from ear to ear at the mention of Lady Cauthorn.

Ahlvie always thought that they were sweet on each other. Though, he usually pushed any female attention away.

“All right. We’ll have to sneak back in at nightfall,” Ahlvie said.

The pair found a place to make camp in a small cave on the edge of the Taken Mountains. They’d been fed regularly but in small quantities of tasteless mush and stale bread. Still, he’d scarfed it down to give him the energy to keep his mind and body intact. He’d need them both by the end of this. When they’d gotten the jump on those guards, no one had ever suspected they were capable of it.

When the sun finally set, Ahlvie’s ears perked up. He stopped Orden with a hand.

“What is it?” Orden asked.

His now yellow eyes peered through the dark night, seeing much more than he knew he should be able to. The wide, barrel-chested bodies and stalking grace of a predator.

“Indres.” The word ripped from him.

Evil wolflike creatures. Pack hunters. Warriors. Razor-sharp fangs. Yellow-eyed demons.

A bite.

A kill.

An alpha.

Losing control.

That night in the gardens in Aurum came back to him like a punch to the gut. He shuddered from head to toe. His body vibrated at the pulse beckoning him forward. Like calling to like.

“Boy,” Orden said, “remember who you are.”

Ahlvie clenched his jaw and took measured breaths. Remember who you are. Remember who you are. Remember who you are.

Orden placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “Let’s get out of here. I wouldn’t like to meet those beasts, unprepared.”

Ahlvie agreed. He wouldn’t like to meet them ever again.

They swept through the empty streets of Byern, sticking to the shadows and avoiding the castle guard. Lady Cauthorn’s residence was in a house off of the Laelish Market, which was thankfully closed at this hour. They slunk around the edge of the building and to the back door.

Orden was about to knock when the door swung open. They both stopped as a man stepped out of the door, clutching a piece of paper in his hand.

“You bastard!” Ahlvie cried, launching himself at Dean in the doorway.

Dean’s eyes rounded, and he wrenched backward as Ahlvie came at him. Ahlvie slammed his fist into Dean’s face. The crunching sound was incredibly satisfying. But Dean blocked his next attack and used the small doorway to his advantage. They sprawled on the floor as Dean tried to hold him off.

“Ahlvie, stop!” Dean yelled into his face.

“You betrayed her!” Ahlvie yelled again.

“Is this truly necessary?” Lady Cauthorn demanded from the doorway.

“Apologies, my lady,” Orden said, stepping on both of them as he strode into her house. Ahlvie and Dean both grunted as they took the brunt of Orden’s weight. “Get inside, you fools, before someone hears you.”

Ahlvie shoved Dean away from him and hopped back to his feet.

Dean stood, gingerly touched his nose, and frowned. “I think you broke my nose.”

“You deserved it,” Ahlvie muttered. He bumped his shoulder into Dean’s as he passed into the house.

“You, too, young man,” Lady Cauthorn snapped at Dean.

He took a deep breath and then followed them back inside.

“What in the Creator’s name is he doing here?” Ahlvie asked, his blood boiling over.

He didn’t know the whole story, but the guards had gossiped enough for him to piece together that the prince of Eleysia had given up Cyrene for a peace treaty after Maelia killed his parents. That meant, Dean was a traitor—to their group and to Cyrene—which meant he was their enemy.

“Prince Ellison is here as the emissary of the Doma Court,” Lady Cauthorn said smoothly.

Ahlvie stilled completely. “The Doma Court?”

“The Master Domas he traveled cross-country with cannot enter Byern without their magic being detected There is a magical shield of some sort up around the country only those who are aware of it can sense. Thus, Dean has been kind enough to be the messenger for them.”

“But how would you even know?” Ahlvie asked. Then, he shook his head. “The Network.”

“Yes. So, as you see, Dean is here as my guest, and you have broken his nose.”

“He betrayed Cyrene!” Ahlvie cried out again.

“Perhaps. Perhaps not,” Lady Cauthorn said in that haughty way of hers. “He is here for her. Maybe all is not how it appears.”

Ahlvie glared at Dean. Yeah, right.

“And, you,” she said, turning to Orden, “I heard you were in a dungeon. How are you at my doorstep?”

“Ahlvie and his incredible knowledge of the inner workings of the castle mostly. We would have been caught otherwise. We are here to beg assistance from you.”

“I think your assistance lies with Prince Ellison,” Lady Cauthorn said. “Housing or aiding known fugitives would not help me or the Network at all.”

“What is this Network?” Dean asked.

Lady Cauthorn appraised him. “An ancient community dedicated to the return of magic.”

“And you all have been working together for some time?” he asked, looking at Ahlvie, Orden, and Lady Cauthorn.

“We are more prolific than you know,” Orden said. “But that matters not. What matters is, getting out of here once more so that Lady Cauthorn is not disturbed and then finding a suitable place to rest for the night.”

“Prince Ellison will see to your accommodations. I will have access to Cyrene up until her Investiture. She seems different,” Lady Cauthorn confessed.

“Different how?” Ahlvie asked.

“Depressed and hopeless. Her trials and tribulations have left a mark on her. You will have to really help her see the good once more.”

Ahlvie processed that as Lady Cauthorn ushered them out of her house. Cyrene didn’t break easily. If she truly was hopeless, then she must be really lost. He thought about that the entire way as Orden took charge over both of them, and they followed Dean’s directions back out of the city and up into the mountains.

Ahlvie suppressed the call that was scratching to take root.

Come, brother.

Come.

Kill.

Feast.

No. He wouldn’t.

You belong with us.

You are one of us.

Our leader.

Ahlvie ground his teeth together and fought to block it out. He was not one of them. He would never be one of them. That was not the life he had ever wanted, and he would never give in.

They entered the mouth of a cave after an arduous climb up the mountainside. And what he saw when he entered knocked the wind out of him.

“Avoca,” he gasped like a prayer.

She turned in all her ethereal glory. Tall, sleek gold hair, round, innocent eyes that bore more than a hundred years of wisdom. Gorgeous. Feral.

Mine.

Ahlvie didn’t think twice. He barreled past Dean and Orden and scooped Avoca up into his arms. He held her as light as a doll as he kissed her senseless.

He had gotten on that ship and left her behind to deliver Cyrene’s letter. Avoca hadn’t even seen him off.

All he wanted in that moment was to take her to the nearest bed and show her exactly how much he had missed her. Taking his time and letting the message sink in, in excruciating detail.

“Ahlvie,” she said with a soft laugh. A laugh he would kill for. “You…you made it out!”

“What happened to your nose?” Matilde asked with her own stifled laugh as she beheld Dean.

Dean cocked his thumb at Ahlvie. “I picked up some strays.”

“Good. Then, we’re all back together,” Vera said, coming to face Dean. “I think you look very handsome as it is, but I will set it, if you like, so it heals straight.”

“Get it over with,” Dean said.

Vera touched her hand to his nose, and a crack rang out in the cavernous cave.

Dean winced. “Thanks,” he muttered halfheartedly.

“Ahlvie, are you ever going to put Avoca down, so we might have a meeting?” Matilde asked impatiently.

“No,” Ahlvie murmured against Avoca’s lips.

She kissed him once more and then slid out of his arms. “I’m glad you are well.”

He knew that was a lot, coming from her. Her people, Leifs, weren’t one for big displays of emotion. But, when they loved, they loved endlessly, and he was damn sure going to be around when that happened.

“We must get Cyrene out of the castle. Untold damage could be done to her mentally in the time that she remains within those walls, surrounded by Dremylons,” Vera said.

“Worse, she could be killed,” Matilde added.

“All right,” Ahlvie said, “how are we going to get her out?”

Dean handed Avoca the scrap of paper he had been holding. “Lady Cauthorn received this from Cyrene.”

Avoca snapped it out of his hand. Ahlvie noticed that she had as much venom for Dean that he did. She read it quickly and then fumed.

“Cyrene is…not herself,” she said, tucking the paper away. “We need to move as quickly as possible. Dremylons are circling like vultures, and she’s to be made consort as soon as the king sees fit.”

Dean snarled something vulgar and paced away from the group.

Ahlvie didn’t much like it either. He’d heard talk of it from the guards. Then, a light seemed to blind him with recognition.

“I have an idea,” he said. “You might actually like this one.”

Avoca tensed next to him. “With the risks you take, I doubt it.”

“Me, too,” he said with a toothy grin.