A cornered defiance rises, my invisible aura lashing out at Sylla. Unlike most of the Wyvernguard, I don’t mind the mysteriously powerful Death Fae and have formed something of an odd bond with Sylla Vuul, but sometimes her bizarre philosophizing is too much. “You think I fear him?” I snap. “My power equals his.”

Sylla smirks, which is a surprisingly disconcerting expression on that multi-eyed face of hers. “You forget that I can read you,” she chides, a forceful undercurrent entering her tone. “It’s not his magic you fear. It is something far more powerful.”

“All right, Sylla.” The pent-up storm of emotion surrounding this Mage breaks loose. “Go ahead and tell me,” I demand. “Tell me exactly what it is that I fear.”

Sylla narrows every last one of her eyes with the focus of the ultimate predator, her darkness pulling in around us both and sending a chill down my spine. But still, I stand firm in the face of it.

“You fear,” Sylla says, with the unflinching candor of the Death Fae, “that he’s telling the truth.”

Trystan

He likes men.

I realized this about my dragon-shifter guard, Vothendrile, straightaway.

It’s on full display right now as I watch Vothe brazenly flirt with stunningly handsome Basyl Hollen. These observations are trivial, I realize, compared with what I’m faced with. With what the East is faced with. But still, I can’t help being drawn in by these glimpses of Vothe’s private life.

Vothe and the Elfhollen soldier are reclining against a gleaming stone wall only a few handspans away from where I’m seated in the Wyvernguard’s black-walled dining chamber. Basyl’s storm-gray fingers stroke Vothe’s muscular arm, lingering a beat too long, a suggestive spark of lightning flashing in Vothe’s eyes—eyes that are locked on to Basyl’s arresting silver gaze.

Lightning forks chaotically through my lines, warmth blooming at the base of my neck. It’s stunning to witness, their sultry flirtation so recklessly out in the open—something that would have resulted in imprisonment in Gardneria.

I try not to let my gaze linger on the way Vothendrile idly fondles a long strand of Basyl’s pale slate hair. The way he looks at Basyl, the veins of white lightning that traverse Vothe’s skin forking with heated interest. I can practically feel the crackle of magic in his Wyvern gaze, and Basyl’s stare is just as thick with playful desire.

Why wouldn’t it be?

Vothe is a midnight storm come to life.

My affinity lines tighten as a melancholy longing sweeps in. Why did they have to assign me such an outrageously attractive guard? He’s so dauntingly beautiful, with his lightning-laced onyx skin, his silver-tipped black hair, and dark eyes with their dangerous Wyvern pupils. His perfect, angular features. His perfect, angular body.