I close my mouth into a scowl. So, I won’t clobber him. Maybe. My blood still boils with anger.

Octavia clears her throat, trying to re-steer the conversation onto safer ground. “After the match, Lincoln will join our procession to Antrum.”

Lincoln leaves tomorrow. That thought is one massive rainstorm on my angry parade. Suddenly, I no longer think about clobbering the King. Instead, I focus on how Lincoln and I will be separated, and for who knows how long? And Antrum’s locked down so tightly, I don’t even know when or how we can connect. A heavy sadness sets into my body.

My voice comes out barely above a whisper. “That’s the plan.”

Lincoln gives my hand a squeeze. “Let’s get you back home. Did you ride Nightshade here?”

“Yes.”

“Good. She’s probably outside waiting for you now, along with Bastion.” He gently kisses my cheek. “I’ll meet you there in a minute. I have to get my stuff.”

The sadness in my heart lightens a bit. At least I’ll have Lincoln nearby until it’s time for us to part.

I say my goodbyes to Connor and Octavia, giving her an extra-long hug. This may be the last time I see her for a long while. The Queen eyes me carefully, her mental gears spinning away.

“Don’t worry,” says Octavia. “We’ll meet again, my dear.”

I force a half-smile. “I’m sure we will.” However, if I’m being honest with myself, seeing any of them again is far from a sure thing.

It’s dark by the time Lincoln and I near my house. Nightshade and Bastion step in perfect rhythm down the quiet streets. Sadness seeps into the air and our hearts. The two of us haven’t spoken much since leaving the royal tent.

Without being asked, our horses stop on the stretch of sidewalk before my front porch. Lincoln and I dismount, telling Night and Bastion to return to the Ryder stables. Night stares at me, her over-large black eyes smooth and round as marbles, the look in them saying the horse equivalent of ‘no kidding, sister.’ Lincoln and I watch our mounts trot away, then stroll up to the front door, hand-in-hand. Mom opens it before we have a chance to knock.

“Myla! I’ve been worried sick.”

I inwardly groan. She has her ‘insanely overprotective and twitchy’ face on. Not that I totally blame her, but yipes. This could get ugly.

I shift my weight from foot to foot. “Hi, Mom. This is Lincoln.” I can’t help but smile.

Lincoln’s mouth warms into a shy grin. “Hello.”

Mom taps her foot. “You’re thrax?” She’s in rare form: worried and anxious with a side order of crazy. Here comes the ugly.

The Prince nods. “Yes.”

Mom eyes the heavy pack slung over Lincoln’s shoulder. “You brought armor and weapons?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Come in.”

My mother, the charmer.