A Queen of Thieves & Chaos (Fate & Flame, #3)

Her head bobs in fervent agreement, but then she falters before throwing a pointed finger upward. “Is that really a nymph?”

I follow her aim to the stone statue in the center of the great hall, the creature at least ten feet tall, clothed in spiked armor, as if ready for battle. Its jagged wings appear designed as much to spear opponents as for flight, the claws on its hands primed to gouge enemy flesh. When I first laid eyes on it, I mistook it for a daaknar. “We think so.” There are countless versions of these winged creatures throughout Ulysede—from fearsome gargoyles to dainty, humanlike figures and a myriad of forms in between. I assumed the latter were the true ones, the nymphs who speak to me through their childlike laughter that only I can hear, but Gesine warned me to not assume anything. The seers have seen this terrifying version hovering over us just as readily, and so far, their visions have not steered us wrong.

Betsy tips her head back to study the menacing creature. “How could something so dreadful make a city so beautiful?”

Eden hushes her, stealing a guarded glance upward as if the stone can hear the harsh judgment.

Maybe it can.

While stepping through those gates has brought a sense of safety and hope, I can’t shake the spine-tingling sense that we’re not alone and that this place is not all that it seems.

I take a deep breath to calm the dash in my heartbeat that comes every time I acknowledge that looming worry and smile to hide my apprehension. “I don’t know, but I’m glad they did.” It’s the haven we so desperately need, as Zander decides the right next move to save Islor, and I embrace these newfound key caster abilities.

Footfalls sound, drawing our attention up the grand staircase where Elisaf trots lithely. No one would guess that my night guard was torn apart by a beast only a week ago, moments from closing his eyes and never reopening them. He stalls on the landing when he sees us, a slight head dip in greeting, and I know Zander must have sent for me.

“Is there anything else you require at the moment, Your Highness?” Eden asks.

“I’m good, thanks.” It doesn’t matter how many times I push her to drop formalities, she slips into them as readily as a person breathes.

“In that case, I heard Mirren found ingredients for bread pudding.”

Betsy’s face lights up with the prospect of a sweet treat.

“Your Highness.” Eden curtsies, her eyes flittering to Jarek’s briefly to add, “Commander,” before she ushers the little girl toward the hall that leads to the castle kitchen.

Jarek’s gaze trails her for a few beats before snapping back to focus.

“So … ‘Commander,’ huh?” I tease with a sultry lilt as we continue through the massive, empty space, heading for the stairs. Does Jarek have the same desire for Eden now that he no longer needs her blood? At least, not within these walls, where the two-thousand-year-old curse that created “Malachi’s demons” has vanished. None of the Islorian immortals have felt so much as a twinge of that undeniable craving since crossing through the portcullis. It’s a reality that has noticeably lifted Zander’s mood.

“That is the title you granted me, is it not?” Jarek responds dryly, not the least bit fazed.

“It is.” And only after Zander’s urging that a queen needs to surround herself with trusted advisors. I couldn’t think of a better warrior at my right hand than the lethal one who has proven his loyalties to Islor outweigh the prejudices he holds toward Ybaris and Mordain. “But why am I picturing some weird commander-and-servant role-playing thing between you two now?”

“Because you’re a pervert,” he throws back.

I mock gasp. “Is that how you talk to your queen?”

“Because you’re a pervert, Your Highness.”

I snort at his lack of deference, but I appreciate it all the same. Jarek and I have had our share of differences—the surly warrior has openly loathed, distrusted, and wished me dead on many occasions, and I’ve returned the favor in kind—but ever since the battle against the saplings and that monstrous grif, there is a current of respect and unspoken trust between us. It’s just buried beneath a thick layer of arrogance and attitude.

It’s not the only unspoken thing between us. I hinted at my truth one quiet night in a field, before the saplings crept in like shadows, merth cord dangling. Once Jarek knew it had to do with the fates, he shut me down, not wanting to hear the rest. Since arriving in Ulysede, he has stood by my side as Gesine gave me caster lessons, but he has never asked for an explanation, and I have never offered one. I’ve certainly never admitted what I am.

“Did he tell you to drag me out of bed if I wasn’t already up?” I call out as we ascend the steps.

Elisaf’s deep brown eyes crinkle with his smile. “His Highness waits in the war room for you. He insisted the queen be present to discuss pressing issues.”

The queen. Will it ever not feel like he’s talking about someone else?

“Like what? Your lordship?” It’s been a running joke between us ever since Elisaf intercepted one of Atticus’s letters that declared gold, land, and title to the person who captured the traitorous Ybarisan princess and delivered her to Cirilea. “Have you found any land in my vast realm that appeals to you?”

“In fact, I have, Your Highness. There is a quarter across the river that seems primed for agriculture. It has a few acres of cultivated land, and a pen with pigs and hens. Fearghal has taken to feeding them.”

“Sounds like you want to be a farmer.” The nymphs really did think of everything.

“Maybe he will be better at handling swine than he is a sword.” Jarek’s boots scrape against the marble as we climb. The warrior can move as quietly as a cat when he wants to.

“And yet it was you who was bested by a sapling,” Elisaf answers nonchalantly.

“Five saplings, wielding raw merth,” Jarek snaps, his hand absently rubbing his chest where I found the dagger embedded. It took all of Gesine’s healing power to keep him alive.

And if I allow this verbal sparring contest to go on, it’s liable to come to blows. “What pressing matters does Zander need to talk about?” He abandoned me in our bed hours ago, leaving with nothing more than a kiss against my forehead and a gentle goading not to sleep too long—that we have much work and not enough time.

Elisaf’s expression shifts, all traces of humor gone. “Decisions that cannot wait, I’m afraid. About what comes next.”

“So … the usual,” I mutter as we march up the stairs.