His father followed his gaze, squinting his eyes in a habit he’d always had, even though his eyesight was as good as any Magyki. He looked confused for a moment and the strain around his eyes increased for a split second before they flew open, and he stumbled back.

“Vaneara? No, that’s…that’s not possible.”

Veralie shuffled toward them, her anxiety grating against him. She was so used to hiding who she was that she had no idea what to do or how to act under their attention. What would she do when an entire capital was vying to get just a glimpse of her?

He clenched and unclenched his fists, ignoring the desire to rush to her side. He hated what the years on Aleron had done to her. She was the Daughter to the Throne, and those humans had taught her to feel nothing but shame. Including her mentor.

They’d crushed her self-worth, making her second guess everything she did and was. It killed him, and he was determined to change it. To see her gain it back.

Smiling encouragingly, he waited for her to look at him, but her eyes stayed pinned on his father. Her heart rate picked up exponentially, and he frowned, glancing over his shoulder.

What was his father doing to have snagged her attention so thoroughly? He’d just barely caught sight of Jaeros’s pallid face when his scent slammed into him like a fucking hammer to his senses, making his muscles instantly contract.

Fear.

Jaren gripped the pommel of his dagger, taking a step in Veralie’s direction, and frantically scanned their surroundings. He threw out his senses, but there were too many Magyki bustling around for him to pick up anything specific.

“What is it?” he asked, tightening his hold. “What do you see?”

He was seconds away from unsheathing it and sprinting to her when his father finally spoke, his words shooting pure ice through his veins.

“Gods have mercy, Jaren. What have you done?”

EITHAN

Exhaling through his nose, he braced both palms against the floor and shoved up, peeling his face from the cold surface.

He blinked to clear his vision, focusing on the nicks and scrapes in the floor to distract himself from the disgust blazing a path through the remaining sliver of his soul.

He took a slow, steady breath and held it.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five.

His body begged to give out; his head, legs, and ribs trembling under the effort of moving.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five.

The throbbing in his head punctuated each number as he counted, but he ignored it. Pain had been his constant companion for as long as he could remember. It was an old friend he recognized and understood.

It was the humiliation of it all that made him want to rage at the world. To grip it at the roots and pull, making everything around him as dead as he was.

Inhale, hold, exhale. It was nothing he couldn’t handle. He just needed to focus.