The snow was falling in thick, heavy flakes by the time Valera and Gatlin crested the last large hill between Olka and the royal palace.

  Gatlin’s arm curled protectively around her shoulders, his cloak drawn tight around her shivering form as wind pressed in from all directions.

  “Are you doing alright?” He gently asked, voice low. The faint stubble on his jaw tickled her cheek as he glanced down.

  Valera leaned into him, letting his warmth pull her closer. “If you count being on death’s doorstep as being alright,” she muttered, breath fogging the air around them, “then yes, I’m just sunny.”

  A violent shiver ran through her body, sudden and unexpected. She stumbled, almost falling down the hillside as her knees buckled, but Gatlin caught her.

  “Whoa, now.” He said, smile flickering as he steadied her. “Don’t go tumbling down a hill on me, Val.”

  She didn’t smile back.

  “Gatlin.” She whispered, her voice hollow and full of disbelief. “I think we found the king.”

  Below, Olka was chaos, burning with light and motion.

  Lanterns were lit in windows that should’ve been dark.

  Men in black lined the streets, too tall, too still to be local guards. Even from this distance, Valera could feel something very wrong in the rhythm of the town.

  Gatlin’s posture shifted. Subtle. Tense. His hand drifted to his sword.

  They made their way down the slope, snow crunching beneath their boots. By the time they reached the edge of the village, the shouting had grown louder, coming from a cluster in the center square.

  A crowd was gathering.

  And in the center of it stood Myrtle.

  Two cloaked soldiers gripped his arms. He was shouting, voice hoarse and raw. The dagger that normally sat securely against his rotund side was torn off and thrown into the snow, half-buried beneath boot prints.

  Valera’s chest clenched.

  “That’s Myrtle,” she breathed, hoping her eyes deceived her.

  “I know,” Gatlin muttered. His voice was grim.

  One of the soldiers turned to the crowd. “This man is being detained for aiding in the harboring of a spirit born.”

  Gasps tore through the air. One woman screamed. Someone spit.

  Myrtle’s voice cracked, sounding more insecure than Valera had ever known him to be. “I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

  “He initially allowed us to search his home earlier this morning,” another soldier said, who Valera recognized as the young man from that morning, the awkward one had stood outside her bedroom door. “When we didn’t find anything, we thought he was in the clear. But then, just before sunset, we found a new trail of residue coming from his shop. Bevrodraach residue.”

  The crowd murmured, exchanging glances and whispers.

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  Then another man stepped forward. He boasted a pair of golden eyes and skin as dark as the night, hands clenched around something small and wriggling. The man grinned wickedly, holding up the bevrodraach by the tail.

  A drake beside them let out a low growl, and mothers’ covered their children’s eyes.

  Valera’s hands balled into fists, her nails biting into her palms. “They’re using Myrtle,” she whispered. “They know I’m here. This is a trap.”

  Gatlin stepped in front of her slightly. “Then don’t walk into it.”

  “He’s going to be killed—”

  “And you will be too. He wouldn’t want you to throw your life away for his.” Gatlin protested, stepping farther in Valera’s way.

  A beat passed. Myrtle met Valera’s eyes — just once, across the crowd and firelight.

  There was no surprise there, no fear. The only thing that remained was a quiet, unshakable resolve.

  “Damn it all,” Valera said, slightly to Gatlin, but mostly to herself. “They already have the bevrodraach, they can’t have Myrtle too.”

  Gatlin’s mouth dropped open. “Val, don’t you even think about it.” Panic rose in his voice.

  But Valera was already moving, a force of nature, not something to be controlled. She darted away from Gatlin’s protection, and the wind hit her first. But the cold of the stinging air was nothing compared to standing face to face with the blood-hungry crowd.

  She reached Myrtle’s side, a hand rising to one of his shoulders. “This man is innocent.” She called out over the winter wind. “It is I, Valera Drake, who has committed the crime of theft of the highest order. I harbored the creature, the king’s property, and lied to the soldiers when asked to tell the truth.” She paused, her wild eyes finding Gatlin’s terrified ones in the sea of people.

  “Take me instead.”

  * * *

  Shocked silence spread over the town center, and no one moved, unsure of what to do next. The guards didn’t loosen their grip on Myrtle just yet, but they also kept a watchful eye on Valera.

  “What are you waiting for?” A deep, yet somehow empty male voice echoed over the people. The possessor of the voice stepped from the shadows, casually making his way into the center as the crowd parted for him, slight bows all the way around. “The girl has spoken.” The king adjusted the wickedly spiked crown atop his black curls. “Release this man and seize her. Now.”

  Within seconds, Gatlin was in front of her, sword drawn, eyes blazing. His usually calm and gentle demeanor was replaced with a ferocity that radiated off his shaking muscles.

  “You can’t have her.” He roared, daring anyone to come closer.

  The king cocked a thin eyebrow. “Oh, but I can.” He stepped closer, his power evident in his stance. “And I’d advise you to step aside, soldier, before I personally remove you from my ranks.”

  Valera felt Gatlin tense in front of her at the way the King spat the word soldier. It was true, he was a sun, therefore obligated to serve the King and his every desire.

  But he didn’t loosen, instead, he gripped his sword tighter, swinging it just inches from the King’s chest. “Ranks be damned.” He said, a quiet fury overtaking his voice. “I vowed to always protect her, so I’ll go to the grave if I must.”

  “Gatlin, stop—” Valera started, seconds before a whizzing arrow cut her off. It missed Gatlin’s head by mere centimeters, but Valera assumed that was the purpose.

  A tall man swung down from a rooftop above them, holding a massive crossbow under one arm. He stepped into the light, and a shudder of something almost akin to betrayal ran through her body.

  White, fluffy curls that framed soft green eyes and a chiseled jaw. That barley healed wound scabbing over his cheek. The man from that morning, the Jure.

  The large guild ring on her thumb that had previously gone unnoticed suddenly burned with its weight. Why was he here? Wasn’t he the one who said that if she needed a place to run, she could use the ring to find him? Not that she had planned on it, but the confusion still stung—sharp and bitter.

  “Arrest the both of them,” King Hazen commanded, yawning as if it was just another day to him. “Release the old man and take the girl to the palace throne room.” He paused, if only for dramatic effect. “And for this traitor,” he spat in Gatlin’s direction, “throw him in the dungeons. Maybe he’ll have learned his lesson by the morrow.”

  The King ran a sharp talon-like nail down the side of Gatlin’s face, and he winced, but stayed still. “That is… if he even lives until then.”