Veronyka sagged against the bars behind her. The last time she’d really argued with Val, the night she’d run away, she’d been acting on pure rage and adrenaline. And a part of her knew—or maybe even hoped—that they’d cross paths again. But this was different. There was emotion, but Veronyka had made this decision with her head as well as her heart. Her lips trembled, and her breath turned uneven. Why did it have to be this way? Why did Val, her sister, her only family in the world, have to be the one person who hurt her the most?
Sudden footsteps sounded, and Tristan appeared at the bottom of the stairs. Veronyka lurched to her feet. Once he saw that Veronyka was alone, he flushed, dropping his gaze. Remembering that her breasts were exposed, Veronyka crossed her arms over her chest.
“Tristan, I—”
“We don’t have time for that,” he said shortly, eyes on the ground between them. He held a fresh tunic in his hand and tossed it in her direction.
She caught it and hastened to tug it over her head, turning away from him as she scrambled to poke her arms through the sleeves. The fabric was softer than what she was used to, smooth against her skin, and it was much too big—it must belong to him. She ran her hands over the expensive cotton, the smell of Tristan clinging to her fingertips.
She turned back around, adjusting the tunic before taking a step toward him.
Seeing her movement, he glanced up to make sure she was clothed before pulling his other arm from around his back. It held a bow.
“Do you still want to fight for us?” he asked. His gaze kept darting around her face, skipping from nose to lips to eyes and back again, as if trying to relearn her features.
Veronyka stared down at the bow, her heart soaring. He was giving her the chance she so desperately wanted, the opportunity to truly become a part of this world. After what had just happened, she needed it more than ever.
She took the bow from his outstretched hand, hugging it close. There was so much she needed to say, but on the brink of an attack, now was not the time.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
“I know,” he said. When he opened his mouth to say more, a bell clanged from high above. A rush of footsteps and the jangle of weapons answered the call.
The soldiers had arrived.
Sometimes to achieve what you know is right, you must do what others say is wrong.
- CHAPTER 38 -
TRISTAN
TRISTAN BARRELED UP THE steps two at a time, while Nyk—Veronyka—trailed close behind. There was too much happening for Tristan to dwell on the situation, and yet every moment his mind was idle, it screamed, Veronyka, Veronyka, Veronyka. Something had been lost to Tristan, some sense of balance or rightness torn away. In the moment, it felt a bit like grief.
Nyk had been . . . what? Somebody special to Tristan, for certain. An ally, a confidant—someone he could trust. Someone he thought he could trust. But who was this girl? Was she still Nyk, or was everything that Tristan knew about her a lie? What if she was like her sister, Val? Something strange had happened down there. One minute he was talking to Nyk—Veronyka—and the next he felt confused and disoriented, while the two of them argued about things he didn’t understand.
When Val drew her knife, Tristan had feared she was about to do something horrible, but the reality of what had happened had shocked him, if possible, even more. And why had she done it? There had to be more to the story, but for now it was enough to know that he had another fighter by his side.
Night had fallen, and the cloud cover hid the light of the moon. The flaming beacon and the lanterns that lined the wall provided the stronghold with illumination, but it soon became clear to Tristan that their glow turned all else to darkness. He ordered the lights along the wall extinguished and hoped that the burning phoenix atop the temple didn’t turn them all into easy targets for any archers that might be lurking in the tree cover below. He didn’t dare douse the beacon’s flames, in case the messenger pigeons he’d sent to his father were shot down or went astray. Though the Eyrie was well-hidden, the beacon’s glow was designed to be seen at a distance, and the Riders would know to look for it as soon as they took to the sky once again.
As the lights across the mountaintop were snuffed out, the world shrank around him. Tristan blinked, willing his vision to adjust. He thought of Rex, who could lend him superior eyesight in this darkness, and a far greater vantage point. What he wanted more than anything was to saddle his bondmate and fly out, raining arrows down upon those who would dare to threaten them. But he knew better. These soldiers came to destroy the Riders, but what they wanted to destroy most of all was their phoenixes. Without them, Riders were just animages, good with messenger pigeons and pack animals and not much else. Without them, they were ordinary people, easy to dominate and control. He had to protect the phoenixes, their future, at all costs.
Even, he thought darkly, at the cost of human lives.
Tristan took a deep breath, the night breeze rippling his tunic and causing Veronyka’s black hair to fly into her face. He looked away, back out into the night. There were some lives he couldn’t bear to lose.
The most recent scouting reports had the attackers approaching the way station from the road, which meant that at any second, the soldiers would be upon them. Bringing the fight to their enemies while they climbed the precarious steps would have been ideal, but they couldn’t risk leaving the stronghold—and the phoenixes who dwelt inside—vulnerable.
After questioning Elliot, Morra reported that he knew nothing of value about the coming attack, only that he was supposed to give them the location of the underground service entrance—and open it from the inside—but thankfully he’d never actually sent the letter. It pained Tristan to know that Elliot had been working with the empire all this time, but he also understood how hard it must have been to be put in that situation. Even now, Elliot’s failure to deliver the location of the Eyrie’s hidden entrance might very well cost his sister her life. They would have to try to help him when all this was over. No matter his betrayal, he was still a Rider.
Despite the soldiers’ plan falling through, Tristan had decided to post a contingent of guards inside the stronghold’s cellars, just in case. It was a poor attack point—their superior numbers would be forced to bottleneck and pour out of a small doorway, where Tristan’s soldiers could pick them off with ease—but he didn’t want to risk leaving it undefended. Elliot might be lying, after all. Morra could sniff out the truth better than anyone he knew, but Veronyka had tricked her, hadn’t she? Clearly the woman’s gifts weren’t infallible.
A light in the distance drew his attention. Veronyka followed his gaze, then several of the guards noticed it, and soon every head upon the wall swiveled toward the open field between the village and the steps to the way station.
Soldiers crested the lip of the plateau. It looked like a hundred, maybe a hundred and fifty, their lanterns bobbing and weapons glinting with reflected firelight. It was a smaller number than he’d expected, a manageable number . . . but Tristan’s insides clenched all the same.