This time, his words bite like an order. With a surge of renewed energy, I snatch the keys from Seonu’s unconscious form and unlock all four manacles. Without looking back, I rush from the room, fully consumed by only one need. To be with my prince.

Chapter 22

22

I reach the front of the mansion with its wide lawns and gravel driveway. Blackriver’s boundary wall towers over the few trees that line the garden edge. Desperate need crawls through my blood, edging me forward, but leather-clad Guardian soldiers are out in force, scattered across the grounds like chess pieces. Archers line the roof, bows aimed at the three dark figures standing on the grass. I pause at the corner of the building, muscles tight, to judge the obstacle course of armed men blocking my way.

In the distance, Flanagan stands with Zahir and Quinton on the wide stone steps leading to the mansion’s main doors. Three witches in brown huddle in a circle on the terrace behind them, holding hands, heads bowed.

On the driveway, at least sixty feet distance from the steps, the boundary wall looming behind him, stands Prince Alexei, his erect but nonchalant posture suggesting indifference to the weapons that surround him on all sides. He cuts the same stunning figure as he did at the steelworks—the black hair falling into dark eyes, the moon-pale skin, the elegant three-piece suit. Two cloaked figures in black flank his tall form, their faces shadowed by low cowls. But where are his wings?

The parley is well underway. I catch the clipped tones of Flanagan’s deep voice and the answering velvet of Alexei’s words, but my need to reach the prince distracts me from what they’re saying.

I dart along the wall of the building, using the front columns as a cover, hoping to pass by the Guardians unseen before cutting across to Alexei. Not a great plan, but options are limited.

I almost make it to the steps.

“Is that the Wielder from the Keep?” a male voice shouts.

Crap. A group of Guardian soldiers draw weapons and converge on me. Blades and sour faces surround me in the blink of an eye. I bank on the fact that they won’t harm a prisoner without Flanagan’s permission and duck beneath the swords to charge their legs. Shoving my shoulder into their hips, I topple two of them. Then, leaving a mess of leather and limbs, I scramble to a run and bolt across the grass.

“For fuck’s sake, grab the lad,” a soldier bellows.