CHAPTER 2

GAURON

Aelinor guides her Elven horse through a narrow pathway between the Forest of Night’s eerie silver-veined foliage. The air is stifling. Occasionally a breeze blows, lifting locks of her blond hair from her back to reveal the Dwarven-forged sword—her favorite—sheathed between her shoulder blades. 

Sharing a saddle to her right is Rowena and the strange child, Ilearis. The girl’s head is tucked inside a large hood pulled tight over her face to hide the intricate black marking soaring up one side of her neck. My king and Kyra follow several paces behind them, while I, the other norn, and Lorien, the Winter guard’s captain, bring up the rear. 

The elf is the only one among us to have traveled to the Doors in the past, and with Princess Daenestra’s blessing, he has promised to provide passage to the cliffs since the Doors are under Forvarra’s control. Six days ago, we barely survived the first round in these infernal woods, chased by perpetual darkness, a magical mist, and a murderous group of baobhan sith. We escaped to fall prey to the norns and their illusion magic in an ambush that took me completely by surprise. 

My failure allowed the norns to capture Aelinor and Kyra, and left Rogar unprotected and vulnerable to Rowena’s whims. And if the witch hadn’t had ulterior motives of her own . . .

Shame scorches the back of my throat. 

I swallow. I can’t—I won’t—make the same mistake again. 

“I don’t need to warn you of the dangers present,” I tell the stoic elf at my side. The gloom blinds our senses. All but smell, and even that ability is blunted. “Stay vigilant.”

Lorien nods. “We are well versed in the forest’s lore.”

Good. 

Sersha slows her horse, and I immediately tense when the norn maneuvers the animal into the tight space between me and Lorien, forcing the elf captain into the area she’d previously occupied. 

Something about this female puts me on edge. 

“Some say it is the Dark One’s dead who haunt these woods.” Sitting astride her mount, she passes for a conquering queen. Her hair, a lustrous, pure white, hangs loose over a thick cloak she wears around her shoulders like a royal mantle. She’s forgone her traditional garb of loose, flowing skirts in favor of a tunic and brown leather trews a shade darker than mine.

The urge to admire the outline of those shapely legs makes me grind my teeth. 

She leans in closer. “The ancient magic draws the Andar to this place. I suppose they seek the freedom Myrkur denied them at death, poor souls.” 

An unimaginable horror. To an orc, there’s no greater punishment than to imprison one’s spirit to the physical realm when his heart no longer beats. 

“Do you not believe in such tales, orc?” 

“Whether I do or I don’t is none of your concern.”

Feigning confusion, she twists her body and views her backside in a mock examination of her rear that fuels my annoyance to another degree.

“Is it my hair? My unusual eyes?”

Yes, and yes. “I’m not interested in your wiles, norn.” 

“You do not like me, do you?” She curls her lips into an enticing smile, a mischievous glint lighting her pale eyes. “Pray tell, what is it about me that riles you so, orc?”

Suns above, everything about this female riles me. From the long tresses I yearn to touch, to the throaty voice uttering each word like a sultry blade she wields against me. Her kind can’t be trusted, but Rogar’s right. Whatever doubts I hold about her and her accomplices, now isn’t the time to act on those feelings. It behooves us to have Rowena and her triad as allies rather than enemies. At least until we reach our ancestral lands.

And then all bets are off.

“Save your games for another male. Your flattery won’t find its mark, and I’ve neither the time nor the patience for your antics.”

“I have not yet begun to play, orc.” A smile explodes across her face, and if we weren’t masked in darkness, it’d light up the thicket. “Imagine the fun we will have when I do.”

Oh, I can imagine. It’s all I’ve done for the past two days. 

I shift against the horse’s back to relieve the pressure building in my groin. “What do you want?” 

“Come now, War Master. Save the scowl for another. I am not your enemy. I care for this jaunt no more than you.”

I snort.

“We are not so different, really. Do we not share a common goal, you and I? The protection of those we treasure most?” 

She’s not wrong. “Go on.”

“Perhaps instead of wasting our energies with tit for tat, we should pool our resources and derail—”

I stiffen.

“—this quest. Temporarily. At least until my people reach your kingdom. Provided, of course, that we find a solution benefiting both our charges. No one can deny this journey to the Wastelands is beyond foolish.” 

She brushes a strand of hair from her face, and the memory of those slender fingers pressing against my chest fires without warning. 

“Surely a mighty warrior such as you can survive this paltry wound? Pfft. A vampire’s kiss? Come now, orc. Show me what you are made of.”

Ursa’s healing magic cured me, but it was Sersha’s sweet voice that broke through my delirium, luring me from death’s door. And now it’s her delicious scent that haunts my every breath. 

Mava and night bloom misted by an ocean breeze. 

Suppressing a growl, I turn my focus to the perimeter, angling my ears to catch movement beyond the deep gloom. The endless night hangs, blanketing my senses until all I smell is the sweat of horse flesh, damp soil, ivy, moss, and her.

I hate this blasted forest. I should’ve worked harder to convince Rogar against seeking the witch’s help. I can’t alter the path we’ve taken, but I can damn well ensure my king survives the portal and arrives at Balor’s Ridge unharmed. 

Norns be damned. 

“What are you suggesting?” I bark.

Before she can answer, Rogar’s laugh rumbles in the distance, drawing my attention away from the pale gaze probing mine. Wrapping his arms around Kyra’s waist, he leans left and presses a tender kiss to her cheek. His profile is relaxed, almost serene, a side to my king I’ve rarely seen. 

If ever. 

He cares deeply for this human woman. Too deeply.

Dread hits low and hard, raking a fist across my gut. This journey is about more than procuring the rare plant Rowena requires for Kyra’s potion. Rogar wants Kyra, and he may not realize it yet, but every decision he makes forges a road back to Drengskador.

With her. 

And with her scent concealed, there’ll be nothing stopping him from making her his concubine. She’ll be protected behind Silver Hill’s granite walls and defended by the greatest army in all of Alfhemir.

Ours.

I wipe sweat from my face. I like the human, I do, and I can’t deny it does my heart good to see my king happy. The last decade has been filled with constant warring and the incessant squabbling that’s part and parcel of Elven politics. It’s taken its toll. 

On both of us. 

And I’m not too proud to admit I envy my king the peace and happiness Kyra brings him. He’s earned contentment. There was a time when I thought I’d found the same as well. 

Rogmesh.

I brace myself against the pain her name always brings, reminding myself I’m no longer young, stupid, or foolish enough to believe a warrior can serve his king and his wife.

I’d been proven wrong.

As will my king. This pairing with the human was doomed before it began. The Reckoning banished her kind from Alfhemir, and although Rowena’s charm might thwart the Wild Hunt, the remedy is a short-term solution to a much larger problem. The Hunt will persevere until she’s found. And when they do, they’ll destroy everyone who stands in their way. 

Yet Rogar is blinded by this certainty. Where this woman is concerned, my coolheaded, reasonable king is feral, protective, and possessive, like an orc courting his . . .

Càirdeil.

No. 

It can’t be. 

My claws puncture the reins, and the panicked beat of my heart fans the suspicions I’d dismissed since arriving at Lithyr. 

How? 

How would Rogar know this female is his when the High Queen severed the mate bond from orckind? 

Jatta.

He won’t petition the queen to send Kyra back to the mortal plane. He’ll request she grant the human refuge. 

Here. 

The Elven kingdoms will revolt. Of that, I’ve no doubt. And all Rogar’s achieved these last three hundred years, all the dreams and hopes he spent a lifetime building, will come crumbling down. 

For her.

Is one female worth a kingdom? 

“Orc, are you listening?”

Slowly, I drag my gaze from Rogar’s dark head to the female at my side.

Sersha frowns. 

I retract my claws from the reins.

“Have you taken ill?” Wary phantom eyes pierce through my armor. “There is no need to be angered. It is a fair request. The potion is, after all, your doing and not ours.”

Our doing? 

The force of my fear morphs into a sudden rage. I laugh, the bitter sound more growl than anything capable of holding mirth. “Ah, I see. It was our doing that forced us to provide your people with refuge? Yes? And it was our doing that manipulated my king into amending a life debt owed him by your commander, who conveniently neglected to inform him that she no longer held the one ingredient needed to fulfill her part of the bargain.”

“Minor details.” I catch the faint flush of pink across her cheeks. “It does not change our current predicament.”

“No deal, norn.” I grind my teeth and scan the perimeter again. The gray fur of Rogar’s warg, Gray, is visible at the forest’s edge. The tension in my back recedes slightly. “I thank you, though.”

She startles, casting me a sideways glance. “For?”

“For reminding me of the futility in negotiating with your kind.” 

“My kind?” She draws out the first word, eyes narrowing. 

“Aye, your kind.”

“Be careful, orc. Alfhemir is no kinder to my race than yours.” Her eyes flit briefly to Rogar before landing back on my face. “And Elven alliances are weaker than the parchment they are scribed on.” She trots ahead to reclaim her spot beside Lorien, leaving me stewing in the truth of her words.

***

Hours later, we’re a half-day’s ride from Skuggar’s Edge, the last village we’ll pass before reaching the Doors. 

Rogar signals a halt. Scanning the area, he quickly dismounts from his horse and lifts his arms to help Kyra do the same. He takes her hand and then leads her to the fringe. 

I’m not alarmed. A day into our journey with the human woman, we quickly learned her body burns through food and water faster than ours, requiring frequent stops at inconvenient times. 

Like now. 

I move to the edge of the forest, but the quick shake of Rogar’s head stops me in my tracks. Clamping my jaw, I swallow my protest and withdraw. I have no physical interest in the female—if that’s what concerns him—nor do I understand her distress over modesty. To an orc, nature’s call is nature’s call. If my king wishes to honor her strange customs, so be it. 

But Rogar? 

He’s my responsibility. This cursed forest is filled with hidden dangers we’ve yet to discover, and I’ve already failed him once. I have no intention of doing so again. 

But to defy him? 

No, that I can’t do. No matter how much the urge to do so grates against my honor.

Grinding my teeth, I peer into the darkness where he’s disappeared. Glowing amber orbs shine back through the misty gloom. A measure of relief threads through me. 

Gray. The king’s warg. 

Rogar will have no better protection than the fierce beast at his heels, but still . . . his dismissal rankles. 

She must be his mate. It’s the only explanation that makes sense. 

Lorien takes watch over the southern perimeter of our camp. The norns are situated north of him. Sersha sits in the middle of a fallen log, Rowena on one side and the girl on the other. She passes Ilearis a canteen. The girl drinks greedily before passing the flacon to Rowena. 

The norn, whose pale gaze stalked me mercilessly the last two days, now avoids mine like the plague.

I grab the reins of the last two remaining horses with more force than I’d intended and stride across our makeshift camp to join Aelinor at the stream. 

I’m frowning when I reach her. We quickly tend to the horses, setting them loose to graze. Elven mounts are known for their tenacity, and these animals are no different. Burying their noses into the vegetation growing along the stream, they aren’t spooked by the forest’s magic or the gloom swathing the bank.

I envy their indifference.

Aelinor leans a shoulder against the lys trae tree, the light from the silvery leaves bouncing off her pale skin. “I have not seen you look this glum since I pulled you screeching from the Smeath.” She arches a blond eyebrow. “Tell me you do not fear this paltry current.”

“I didn’t screech,” I object, pride wounded.

“No, you did not. You were too gorged with river water to make a sound,” she teases.

I grin. “Afraid you’d have to fish me out and wet that pretty head of yours, elf?”

She snorts and gestures to the muddy water. “Fall in and let us see what I decide.”

I laugh, the sound swallowed by the gloom. Aelinor had saved my life that day. Fighting on the banks of the Smeath River, I’d slipped on a boulder, hit my head, and fallen in. The current carried me, and because I’d never learned to swim, I’d been defenseless against the raging waters. 

Aelinor pulled me from the river’s depths and later taught me to swim. Up until that point, our relationship had been rocky. She was an elf, a princess, and a member of Regnir’s royal court. And I was an orc biased against all things fae. 

I grin. Now there’s no one I trust more than her, Rogar, and Khao. I’d give my life for any one of the three without question. 

I sigh. “I didn’t foresee us back in this blasted forest so soon.”

“It is odd not to hear the rustle of leaves. Or the gurgle of the stream.” Aelinor ambles over to join me by the bank. “Thank Ulda we are not completely deprived of our senses.”

“Do you notice anything strange?”

She laughs and motions to where we are. “Define strange. I see much that boggles the mind.”

I rub the back of my neck. Sharing my concerns about Rogar and what I suspect Kyra means to him without first speaking to my king feels wrong. Yet . . .

I shrug. “I have misgivings about this mission.”

“As do I.” She twists and reaches for her pouch. “For decades, the Summer Court has attempted to lure Rogar to her shores. It would take a royal decree from the High Queen to get that orc on a ship to Glynynore, never mind attempt the Doors.” She frees the flask from the pouch and yanks the cork from its neck, raising the bronze bottle to her lips. “Yet within minutes of meeting this human, here we are.” 

I scrub a hand over my face. I know where this conversation is headed.

Squinting, she offers me the flask. “You see. That look on your face is exactly what I am talking about. She has you all fooled.”

I suck down the brew, relishing the burning path it takes to my gut. “Not fooled, no, but you can’t deny her deeds, and where humans are concerned, actions speak louder than words. Besides, I see no plausible motive. Kyra saved Rogar. The female could’ve run, or taken cover, but she nocked her bloody arrow and killed the baobhan sith who’d attacked him, then wounded the one tunneling into my chest. We owe her a debt of gratitude, not our mistrust.”

Aelinor harrumphs. “Mark my words. She has ensorcelled our king.”

“So now you’re accusing her of witchcraft?” I hand her the flask. “And how does that come to pass when humans are incapable of magic?”

She looks at the flask in my hand as if it were the cause of all our problems. “I have not figured it out yet. But I will. She could control the mist.” Her gaze narrows into the gloom. “And she has a hand in this charade with the norns. Keep those orc eyes open and alert. Even now she schemes.”

The desiccated remains we’d discovered after the baobhan sith’s attack matched those found previously in Drengskador at a location not too far from where Kyra had been discovered. 

Is it possible? 

Could Kyra somehow be involved with the mastermind behind this plot with the goblins? 

A shiver that has nothing to do with the dropping temperature passes over my back. 

“Aye, I’ll keep my eyes open.” I chug another mouthful of the brew and return the flask. “Perhaps the answer is to keep Rogar here. Delay the crossing to Argomar.” I can’t bring myself to call our ancestral lands by anything other than the name our ancestors had chosen.

Aelinor’s head jerks to mine. “Why would we do that?” She shakes her head. “No. The sooner the norn can create this potion, the sooner the human can be sent back to her world.” 

It wasn’t the answer I’d expected. “Maybe you’re right.”

“I am.” Her expression goes tight. “We do whatever it takes to get Rogar safely to the Wastelands.” She corks the flask and puts it back into the leather pouch cinched at her belt. 

“Nothing is more important than ensuring the success of this mission. Nothing.” She presses a palm against my shoulder, pivoting my body until we’re face-to-face. “The lives of fae—all fae, including you, orc—are my priority. Everything I do, I do to protect our way of life. Do you understand?” 

I step back and stretch my neck, feeling my vertebrae crack beneath my palm. There must be a way to protect Kyra without endangering Rogar, but what it is, I can’t divine.

“Gauron?” Aelinor’s voice carries a sharp edge. “Do not foil this plan.” 

Running a hand through my hair, I look back at camp. I’m not sure I could stop this mission if I tried. 

I meet her narrowed gaze. “Rogar has my loyalty. Never doubt it, elf.”

She considers me for a long moment, then grabs the reins of the three horses closest to her. “I will meet you back at camp. The king will be eager to be on his way.”

She’s already walked several feet when I call out, “Aelinor.” 

She turns slowly. 

“I have your back too, friend. Never forget.”

Her body goes still. A fleeting look, one I can’t name except to say it tugs at something inside me, crosses her perfect features before being replaced by a somber smile. “I know.”

I watch her turn away, melancholy twisting in my chest when I realize she never said the words back.