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Varthan needed to die, but not by the youngster’s hand.

  Jorrin rushed to her side and pulled her to her feet.

  She flashed a smile of thanks and refocused on Varthan whose face and body were contorted in pain. Cera didn’t feel anything as she watched, her love at her side.

  Everyone in the room had eyes transfixed on the glowing little shade and Varthan; stunned into a silence that was partly because of the youth’s strength and partly because the former archduke was being betrayed by one of his own.

  “Lucan, no, not you!” The healer rushed forward, but it was too late.

  The boy was concentrating so hard his figure was consumed by his glowing aura. He was a ball of light.

  Many of the others put their hands up to cover their faces from the radiance, but Cera stared, unable to tear her eyes away.

  Varthan’s head was thrown back, his dark eyes popping out of his skull.

  Several people, Cera included, winced at the resounding snap, followed by various cracking and popping sounds as Varthan’s spine was crushed.

  She trembled as the awful noises went on forever, every bone in his body pulverized. The bastard slumped and the boy dropped his arm.

  He fell to the ground like a pile of rags.

  Varthan was dead.

  It was too simple.

  There was no blood, no torture.

  Too good a death for him.

  She half wanted to grab her sword and run him through, ensuring he couldn’t get up.

  It wasn’t supposed to be so easy for him to die . . .

  Relief warred with regret as tears threatened.

  Her knees buckled and Cera collapsed.

  She was in Jorrin’s arms in seconds as hot tears streaked down her cheeks.

  Why am I crying?

  Trikser walked circles around the two of them, whimpering, but Cera couldn’t comfort her wolf until she gathered her thoughts.

  “It’s over, love,” Jorrin whispered, stroking her hair.

  Words deserted her.

  A child killed him.

  A child had done what she was supposed to do.

  She looked into Jorrin’s blue eyes, reading worry there.

  Commotion in the hall brought her head around.

  Her aunt, uncle and Avery were in a tight embrace, not far from them.

  Neomi, hand-in-hand with Gamel and two other young maids had also entered the great hall with a smattering of people.

  It was a relieved chaos, knights and her uncle’s servants everywhere.

  She had to say something to Jorrin. Cera didn’t like his expression. “I’m all right.”

  Nodding, he helped her to her feet and wrapped her tightly against his chest.

  She held on, needing his physical strength to compose herself. Leaning up, she brushed her lips against his.

  Jorrin returned the soft kiss with one of his own.

  When she pulled away, he smiled and she suddenly felt much better.

  “Thanks,” she whispered.

  “Anytime.” Jorrin released her.

  Cera turned to her wolf, patting his head and sending him thoughts of love. She asserted she was all right. Giving him a scratch behind one ear, she told him he needed a bath.

  Trik sat at Jorrin’s side, and she admonished him to stay there as she surveyed the room.

  She wiped the tears from her eyes as she caught sight of the littlest shade. Cera needed to say something to him.

  Lucan, the healer had called him.

  Jorrin followed her gaze. “Go ahead, love.”

  Cera flashed a smile and headed to him.

  The little shade was standing with the healer and Braedon. Devastation dominated his expression, as it did Braedon’s.

  “Lucan,” she called.

  The greenest eyes she’d ever seen met her gaze, tears on his cheeks. Gathering the boy into her arms without hesitation, Cera pulled him close.

  His surprise lasted for a second—then his arms snaked around her waist and she squeezed him tighter. The boy’s head didn’t quite reach her shoulders.

  “Thank you,” she whispered into his soft dark hair, her breath causing movement that tickled her nose.

  Lucan looked up and shook his head.

  The impact of what he’d done was hurting him.

  Cera could feel it, even though she was no empath. She looked at Braedon. He, too, felt everything Lucan did.

  The boy didn’t know how to hide his anguish.

  “Lucan, you saved us. All of us. You did what I couldn’t. You saved Dagonet, and the rest of my family.”

  “Tristan . . .” Lucan whispered, glancing at the healer.

  “Tristan?” The name clicked. “Tristan Dagget,” Cera breathed, releasing Lucan.

  “I couldn’t tell you, Lady Ryhan,” the healer said, taking a step forward and holding out his hand.

  Cera shook it and met his eyes. “I can’t believe I didn’t know you,” she said more to herself than to him.

  She glanced at Braedon, who smiled and pulled Lucan to his side, throwing an arm around the boy’s shoulders.

  Lucan looked up at Jorrin’s father and offered him a tremulous smile.

  “With as much time as I spent in Greenwald and with your father, I’m surprised I was able to pull it off.” Tristan grinned, his hazel eyes twinkling and lightening the serious expression on his handsome face.

  Cera met and held his gaze.

  They both thought of her father and his expression was suddenly fraught with sadness.

  “I miss him so much . . .” she whispered.

  Tristan squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, then nodded. “As do I. He was as much a father to me as my own . . .”

  Braedon paled, his expression pained. The apple of this throat bobbed as he swallowed.

  She flashed a smile. “Sorry, Braedon. It’s a wonder you don’t go hide in a cave.”

  Jorrin’s father chuckled. “I have before, lass.” Braedon smiled, looking a great deal like Jorrin at that moment.

  Her heart skipped a beat. “Lord Tristan, this is Braedon Aldern,” Cera said. “Braedon, Lord Tristan Dagget, son of the Duke of Berat, and a former ward of my father.”

  The two men murmured greetings and shook hands. They fell into comfortable conversation, Lucan shifting from foot to foot.

  Braedon gave the boy a comforting squeeze against his side and Cera suspected Jorrin just might have an adopted little brother when all was done.

  King Nathal wouldn’t punish Lucan, but the boy would likely have nowhere to go.

  Cera would take him back to Greenwald if Braedon or Tristan didn’t claim him. She owed Lucan her life.

  “Tristan.” The Lord of Berat himself, Dugald Dagget strode over, his expression a mix of relief and pride.

  Same hazel eyes, rich brown hair, even lean muscular build, Tristan resembled the tall, thin man so much there was no mistaking their relationship.

  “Speaking of my father . . . If you’ll excuse me, Master Aldern, Lady Ryhan.”

  “Just Cera,” she muttered.

  Tristan nodded and flashed a smile. He grabbed Lucan’s hand. “Come, Lucan. I want you to meet my father.”

  The boy blanched, but placed his hand in Tristan’s.

  Cera smiled encouragingly and glanced at Braedon.

  Jorrin’s father smiled at Lucan as well, fondness in his expression.

  She didn’t have to worry about the boy after all.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  “Hello,” the quiet female voice pulled Jorrin from his thoughts.

  He turned away from the scene of Cera and the little shade she held in her arms.

  Jorrin had witnessed it with his own eyes, yet he was still stunned. The child had accomplished quite a feat.

  A child had saved them all.

  Looking down, Jorrin met a pair of emerald eyes.

  She was a tiny little thing with bright hair and tapered
ears slightly longer than his own, but instinct and magic alike told him she was half-elfin like him.

  Her black tunic, wide and mostly shapeless, fell to her slender knees, covering black breeches, but he could sense a slender waist beneath, see the outline of small, high breasts. A Terraquist blue cape covered her thin shoulders and stopped mid-calf. She might be small, but she exuded femininity. Beautiful and slight, just like a fully blooded elf maiden.

  It was an oddity to meet someone like Jorrin away from Aramour, and he sensed her curiosity.

  Before he could answer, another appeared at her side. Jorrin looked at the other half-elf trying not to be rude as he took in the tapered ears.

  The man was almost as tall as Jorrin and his hair and eyes were the same hue as the girl’s, but in lighter shades. Siblings.

  He was clad in Terraquist blue from head to foot, but the belt around his trim waist was thick and black. He was the opposite of his sister: tall, muscular and solid.

  “Hello,” Jorrin said, nodding to both of them. “Jorrin Aldern.”

  They appraised him silently. Hadn’t they ever seen another half-elf?

  “Rory Leodin.” The other male finally reached to accept Jorrin’s outstretched hand. Voice clear and deep, his accent was not Aramourian. “This is my sister, Edana.”

  “Nice to meet you both.”

  “He is your father?” Edana asked without preamble, gesturing to Braedon where he stood with Cera.

  Jorrin glanced in their direction. He’d missed the healer and little shade leaving their company. “He is.”

  “He is an empath.” Edana’s eyes were wide, head cocked to one side.

  “Yes, he is.”

  “Very odd,” she whispered, more to herself than to her brother or Jorrin.

  Jorrin hid sudden amusement, not wanting to offend her, catching Rory’s eye.

  “My sister can be rather intense when she’s trying to understand something,” Rory said, a smile playing at his lips.

  “I see.” Jorrin smiled.

  “Where’s your mother?” Edana asked.

  Brow furrowed, Jorrin met her emerald gaze. “At home. In Aramour.”

  Rory and Edana exchanged a glance.

  Jorrin’s magic tingled. The siblings were saddened at the mention of his childhood home.

  Why?

  “Jorrin,” Hadrian called.

  Two sets of green eyes widened as Hadrian approached, but neither said a word.

  The elf wizard greeted them warmly in Aramourian, but at their obvious confusion, Hadrian spared Jorrin a glance.

  The siblings didn’t understand Aramourian.

  “Hadrian, this is Rory and Edana Leodin,” Jorrin said. “They are two of King Nathal’s mages.” He guessed their role, though they hadn’t said.

  Rory confirmed with a nod.

  “You don’t speak Aramourian.” Hadrian’s surprise was evident. The siblings exchanged another sad glance and shook their heads collectively. “Twins?” the elf asked, quirking a smile.

  “Yes, sir.” Edana’s tone was shaky.

  Hadrian was a full head shorter than she, so Jorrin was amused at her apparent nerves.

  “We’ve never been to Aramour,” Rory admitted.

  Jorrin’s stomach clenched. How awful. Growing up, Aramour was home, nothing spectacular, but at least he’d belonged there. He couldn’t imagine growing up in the human world.

  What horrible prejudices they must’ve dealt with. Yet the king had accepted them. He had a new insight into King Nathal; admired him.

  “Come, come, let me tell you all about Aramour,” Hadrian told the twins.

  Jorrin smiled as they sat, the wonder in their eyes making them seem like children. Hadrian held their rapt attention, for sure.

  “Ceralda Ryhan, come here,” a deep voice bellowed.

  He looked over at the man who’d just been in his thoughts.

  Without hesitation, Cera left his father’s side and strode to the king, giving a small bow when she stopped in front of him.

  Jorrin gaped, and room fell silent when King Nathal enclosed her in a rib-crunching embrace. Standing at his full height with her still in his arms, he lifted her off the ground. The king had to be six or seven inches over six feet, and just as broad.

  A large blond giant.

  His love was held tight against the king’s massive chest.

  Jorrin’s heart skipped a beat when she grinned.

  The king said nothing as he released her, but their gazes locked.

  Jorrin’s magic tingled.

  The king was feeling some pretty substantial sadness, although he smiled at Cera. “I’m so sorry about your family, lass.” His deep voice carried across the large room and pinpointed just how far north he was from originally. His accent was reminiscent of Hadrian’s. “I miss your father more than I can say.” The king’s tone was thick with grief.

  Cera’s face scrunched with the effort not to cry, but she nodded. “It’s over.” Her gaze remained locked with King Nathal’s.

  Even as they spoke, some of his men were taking the bodies out of the great hall. Three bodies of evil men.

  The only consolation was that no others had been harmed this day.

  “Aye, that it is. You must introduce me to your companions.” The king smiled.

  Jorrin had been aware she was acquainted with the king personally, but she’d never mentioned what seemed to be a relationship between them.

  How insignificant he must seem.

  Jorrin grimaced.

  He’d been fooling himself to think he was good enough for her.

  His father’s hand squeezed his forearm in comfort, and he turned to meet amber eyes. Jorrin hadn’t heard his approach. Trying to smile, he couldn’t fool his empath father.

  “She’s not concerned with what you have, or don’t have, my son.” Braedon’s tone was gentle. “She loves you.”

  “I know, Da,” Jorrin said, calling his father something he’d never gotten the chance to as a child. “But I can’t say the same for the king.”

  Braedon sighed and smiled.

  Was it forced?

  Did his father just unconsciously confirm his fear?

  Jorrin’s heart dropped to his stomach.

  “It will all work out,” Braedon said.

  Nodding absently, Jorrin stared at Cera as she interacted so casually with the most powerful man on the continent.

  Hadrian soon came to stand next to them, saying nothing.

  He tried not to be intimidated when Cera brought the king to them.

  Neither Jorrin nor Braedon were small men, but he soon learned just how much he had to look up at King Nathal. Had he not been so nervous, he might’ve found it amusing.

  Cera smiled, and he looked deep into her eyes, willing her to feel his love. Her gaze lingered and from the softness in her expression she’d caught his thought.

  Jorrin took a breath and relaxed.

  “Jorrin Aldern and his father Braedon, your Majesty. They are of Aramour.”

  He suppressed a wince at her almost regal formal tone. Hastily bowing, he followed his father’s lead.

  “Hadrian Rowlin, also of Aramour, though of Berat for the last twenty turns or so,” Cera said.

  King Nathal looked them over, and Jorrin felt almost naked.

  Then finally, the king smiled and placed his hand out to shake each of theirs.

  Jorrin stifled a laugh at the sight of Hadrian’s barely four-foot-tall slight frame next to the big man.

  King Nathal had very kind eyes.

  In the three turns he’d spent in the human world, Jorrin had heard nothing but good things about the king, but it was different being close to such a legend. A place not even his wildest dreams had ever taken him.

  “I am indebted to them, your Highness. In a way that can never be repaid.” Cera looked directly at him.

  Jorrin reached for her hand, stomach fluttering wh
en Cera took it and came to his side, entwining her fingers with his.

  He was not comfortable, however, when the king looked him up and down.

  The large man’s gaze locked onto their clasped hands and lingered before he studied Cera and then Jorrin again.

  For a man who possessed no magic, there was nothing wrong with King Nathal’s intuition.

  Jorrin had inadvertently made a statement when he’d reached for her. He had to force himself not to squirm.

  “I will see adequate rewards are given.” The king’s voice sounded sincere, but he didn’t break eye contact with Jorrin.

  “It was my duty, your Majesty,” Braedon said. “I do not seek a reward.”

  “Nor do I,” Hadrian said.

  The king looked away from Jorrin finally, glancing at his father and the elf wizard. His smile took ten turns off his bearded face. “Regardless, you will all accompany me back to Terraquist.” Tone pleasant, it was still a command, not a request. No one objected.

  “But first, I’d like to assist my aunt and uncle in restoring order to Tarvis,” Cera said.

  “Aye, lass,” King Nathal said. “I’ve no intention of leaving until we see to that.”

  “Thank you, your Highness.” Cera flashed a smile that had his heart tripping. She was different, lighter than she’d been before.

  Jorrin liked what he was seeing.

  “We shall not linger, though. We have much to discuss, you and I, Ceralda Ryhan.” His tone was even, but his eyes bored into Jorrin’s.

  His love merely nodded.

  Jorrin gulped.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Cera sank onto the bench, having to convince her eyes to stay open a bit longer.

  The king had kept true to his word; they were all staying in Tarvis until the Province was back in order, but the work was back-breaking.

  King Nathal himself was directing most of it, despite her uncle’s protests. The king was trying to help the duke by insisting he rest, but her uncle had never been a gracious patient. He’d insisted multiple times that Tristan had healed him adequately and he had no need of rest.

  When things had calmed that horrible day, she’d retrieved her father’s sword from the kitchens. Cera smiled at the memory of everyone’s astonished looks when she’d revealed where Neomi had helped her to hide it, but the sword was safe now.