Kael blew out a breath. “Ah. I think I saw her…”

His voice trailed off when the courtier nuzzled his neck. I smacked his shoulder, hands moving in sharp gestures. Darkwin!

“Apologies.” Kael cleared his throat. “I, uh, saw her leaving with that Myrdan nobleman. The one with a nose like a beak.”

Dammit. Tomas. Cold stacked heavy in my gut. A lone nobleman had no business tearing the melder out of sight from the court.

“Ashwood. She was tired, I’m certain she went to her chamber.” Kael’s rasp was slow and slurred when I shoved past him and his courtier.

A panic, unseen and vicious, took me from behind after I found the first corridor empty. The next was filled only with lovers sneaking away for the night, and the vise around my throat tightened.

One hand on the hilt of my seax, I quickened my step and rounded the corner.

“You refuse so swiftly, Súlka Bien. Why? You are revered as near royalty, as am I.”

My blood chilled when her firm response followed. “I would not care if you were a king, ser. A match with you, after your behavior, would be the last thing I would ever do.”

There was a harrowing pause, then…

“You little bitch.” Boots scuffed over stone. “You hold no power unless a bone is in your hand.”

“Care to test that?” Lyra’s biting retort shot back.

“I could take you here, ruin your pretty little body, maybe fill you with my heir, so your king would have no choice. Call it dues owed from the raids that killed my father.”

I moved at a near run until I skidded in front of a staircase. Panic dissolved to rage, the sort that blinded the mind, that brought the darkest edges of a soul to the surface.

Tomas, drunk and red with desire, curled his hand around Lyra’s throat. The back of her head struck the stone of the wall. She shoved against him, but he pinned her with his hips.

I took the stairs two at a time, a haze darkening my sight. A rush of cruel violence heated my blood, crackled along the scar on my throat. I could snap his neck, open his chest; I could cut him in all the places that would force him to bleed out slowly, painfully.

Lost to bloodlust and gore, I did not notice the way Lyra bent one knee, the way she tugged something free of the top of her boot. Not until she sliced the small knife over Tomas’s cheek.

He cried out, scrambling backward, and held the gash on his face.

Lyra did not let up. In his distraction, she shoved him backward, so he stumbled against the rail of the staircase. She pressed two fingers against the wound on his face.

I came to a halt, from surprise, but more to admire this moment properly.