She slowly released him. “Gather what you need. You're coming with me – back to Drantar.”
“Yes – thank you – yes.” He nodded frantically. Holding his bleeding wrist to his chest, he pressed a handkerchief to his wound, glanced at her, and began picking up vials.
She watched him, but her eyes were drawn to the books open on his table. One of them displayed a diagram much like Octavius had shown her. Another was bound in leather that had been painted sparkling green that matched the scales on her clawbeds. Frances placed both of them into a sack.
Books lined the walls. Her eyes caught on a title:On Kings and Emperors. She retrieved it.
It was the same book that Damon had given Castien. Her courtesan had studied art more than history. Royals were taught that kings had existed, once. That Queens had as little power as Consorts. It was dangerous knowledge.
This book shouldn't exist.
A faint rustle behind her was all the warning she had. Her wrist twitched, her arm bent back, and she shoved her hand forcefully upward. Flesh parted for her claws. Frances choked wetly.
Yanking her hand out of his chest, Anais turned and caught him as he sank to the floor. Her claws had punctured his lungs; the man wheezed and gurgled. “A pity. I might’ve spared you.”
Fear and pain were etched into his eyes as a knife clattered to the floor.
Vials spilled from a sack on the table. She stuffed them back in. The sack had better be useful. She had spent too long here as it was.
Sprinting into the servants' corridors, she found the girl still tied up. The servant shrank from her as she passed. Castien had been heading upstairs. Only the throne room and Yelena's chambers were up there. Her blood ran cold, then hot. She'd kill the bitch and save him, both at once.
A door ahead flew open, almost hitting her in the face. She pulled up against the wall.
“Search every hall! I don't care if this floor’s been cleared, clear it again! Clear every floor again!”
Competent Nadraken guards were the bane of her existence. All she had was Frances’ knife. Her leg was shaking. She wouldn't get to Castien like this.
Then she heard a commanding female voice shout:
“The Drantar bitch ran toward the west stairs! She abandoned this one and fled like a coward.”
After a brief pause, the same guard yelled, “What are you waiting for? Go, go, go! Ambassador, allow me to take that–”
“I do not require aid returning your prisoner to your dungeons. Do your duty, Captain.”
“Yes, my lady!”
Boots thundered into the distance. Anais frowned. A shadow moved to block the doorway. She lifted her knife.
Jerome stepped into the servants’ corridor.
With a sword at his neck.
Behind him walked Aurora. The woman’s eyes latched onto Anais’. Her sword pressed harder.
Anais lifted her arms up slowly. “Aurora, listen to me. Just for a minute–”
The sword sliced to the side. Air fled Anais' lungs.
Jerome stumbled forward. His neck was bare. His skin was whole. He wasn't bleeding.
Aurora spoke, “Take him and go. I am choosing to trust you, Naia. Don’t make me regret it.” She sheathed her sword. “And it’s Commander.”
Naia. The old nickname jolted through her, and she nearly forgot about her knife as she caught Jerome.
“Auror– Commander. Thank you.”
The woman had already turned, stepped out of the corridor, and closed the door.
