A gift, she thought as she worked. It’s a gift from the gods, not a curse.
His magic rose to meet hers, coursing beneath his skin, a force of raw and potent might. Silver threads intertwined with gold, helping her work faster as his magic funneled strength and vigor into his newly mended bones, fortifying his body.
They worked well together—not speaking, but communicating in a much deeper way. A way she was positive neither of them had ever experienced before, because when he was healed, when his wings stretched to their full glory, like black ink rippling in the reflection of the flames, they both paused.
Neither of them moved for a breath. Her magic remained wrapped up in his and they held on to each other in that secret place.
The call came again, slicing through the moment, sharper than a newly forged sword. Her raven prince stepped out of reach as he spun, wings shifting with new life.
“Ana,” she said quickly, not really sure why. It just seemed unfair that she should know exactly who he was—Lysander Taetanus, born of the god Taetanos, Crown Prince of the House of Whispers—and he should have nothing of hers to remember.
Lyana Aethionus.
Born of the god Aethios.
Princess of the House of Peace.
That was what she wanted to say, to admit, but the titles stuck to her tongue, awkward and tentative. That wasn’t how she thought of herself, not really. To those who knew her well, she was Ana. Just Ana. And she wanted him to see her that way too.
“Huh?” he asked, brows drawing together.
“Ana. You asked before, and my name is Ana.”
“Ana,” he repeated, as though testing how the syllables felt on his tongue. A smile widened his lips, making his cheekbones seem more defined and the edge of his jaw more chiseled. “Ana.”
She held his gaze.
Then she turned, lifted the jug by her feet, and poured the remainder of the water over the fire. The flames came to a sizzling end. In the darkness, the barest hint of light glowed at the other end of the tunnel. Lyana took off, leading the way for her prince to follow. At the mouth of the cave, she crashed silently into her friend, placing her hand against the bow pulled tight, ready to be released. Cassi didn’t break her focus for a moment. The arrow tip remained pointed at the unknown intruder.
“Trust me,” Lyana whispered.
Cassi's impolite growl let her know exactly how the owl felt about her latest plan. She squeezed her friend’s hand until she felt her body relax a smidge.
“Trust me.”
The raven prince charged past them both, sparing a single glance back. His eyes met hers for too brief a moment, then dropped to the arrow in Cassi’s hand. Without pausing, he dove through the tight opening just as the tips of another set of onyx wings slipped into view, hovering a few feet above the entrance to the cave.
17
Xander
He couldn’t get the image of the white feather cascading over the edge of the sky bridge out of his mind, a bright spot in the midst of shadow. The picture kept playing over and over, leading Xander back to the channel, back to the cliffs, back to this spot. Rafe was here, somewhere, hidden in the rocks, waiting for his brother to find him.
Xander took a deep breath.
Before he could release another call, he was startled by motion at the edge of his vision, as though his shadow had grown and solidified by his feet. He looked down. It wasn’t his shadow, he realized as ebony wings tumbled into existence out of nowhere.
It was Rafe.
“Help,” he sputtered, gasping for air.
Xander arched his wings to drop straight down and grab his brother by the shoulders, almost incredulous. “You’re alive! You’re all right. Where the gods did you come from?”
Rafe shook his head, his gaze shifting back to the cliff face before continuing to the open sky overhead. “My wings, they can’t hold me. I need the ground. I need to land.”
Xander squinted, searching for pain on his brother’s face or for hitching in the movement of his wings. “What—”
“Now.”
Those blue eyes seemed unusually harsh and demanding. That alone would have been enough to stop Xander's questioning, but the tone of his Rafe’s voice was also laced with a panic that sounded unnatural.
“All right,” he said, nodding as he shifted his hold, placing his forearms beneath Rafe’s armpits to support some of his weight. “The others are waiting at the top. They won’t believe— They thought I was mad to even— Well, they’ll be surprised, to say the least.”
His brother snorted, and they beat their wings, fighting the current of air as they made their way back up the channel and over the edge. They landed in a heap on the flatness of the isle as Rafe’s remaining strength gave out.
“My prince,” Helen began, stepping forward.
She stopped, gasping as Xander and Rafe rolled onto their backs, separating their tangled limbs. The other nine soldiers in their party took even sharper breaths, which didn’t go unnoticed by their prince as he glanced around, noting the shocked, wary faces of his men.
“You…” Helen paused, frowning as she scrutinized Rafe’s uninjured body. “You’re alive.”
But that wasn’t what she meant, and Xander knew it.
You’re healed.
That’s what she was thinking. That’s what they were all thinking. That yet again, Rafe had miraculously escaped a dragon and lived to tell the tale. And Xander could see the question in each of their gazes—could miracles really happen to the same person twice, or was something much darker was at play?
“Yes, and I can see you’re all thrilled,” Rafe drawled, his tone casual to the untrained listener but bearing the strain of a grievance familiar to Xander. He could practically see his brother’s guard go up, as though it were a tangible suit of armor being draped over his shoulders to protect his heart. “Notify the queen immediately. I’m sure she’s been waiting with bated breath for my return.”
Helen wasn’t buying the irony. Her eyes narrowed in a suspicious gleam, a caution Xander normally appreciated in his head advisor but at the moment silently cursed. She was too shrewd by half, and he didn’t know how they’d be able to explain this miracle away.
“How exactly did you escape the beast?” she asked slowly.
Rafe opened his lips, but no sound came out.
Xander jumped in, stalling for time, subtly offering Rafe clues. “When we came back yesterday morning, there was no sign of you. We found your weapons on the ground, a handful of bloodied feathers on the bridge, scorch marks and a pool of blood. We thought the worst had happened.”
“I did, too, for a second there,” Rafe said, following his brother's cue. “When the dragon got close, I jumped into the channel to fight it, taking advantage of the narrow quarters. I got in one strike but couldn’t pierce its fiery skin, so I released my raven cry and tried to flee. But when I crested the edge of the cliffs, the dragon spewed a wave of fire that singed my feathers, making me drop my weapons to slap away the flames.”
“And did someone come to help?” Xander asked, offering up a little more missing information. Helen’s expression was inscrutable as she studied his features. “We thought we saw a footstep in the blood.”