“You lead Astarobane, though.”
Alden nods.
“Do you care about what people are doing to outsiders?” Maybe I have said too much, but I cannot help but think of Kassandra while I’m sitting here.
Alden runs his hands across his brow. “Of course.”
More boldness grips me as I voice another question. “Then why not remove those red circles?”
“You want me to undo something that has worked in our tribe for well over a century.”
“It doesn’t work.” Bitterness lurches from me as I continue. “It hurts good people.”
Shadows darken his eyes as he sweeps them over me. “Why do you care? You’re not one of them.”
“Because some of them are my friends.”
“I see.” Alden stands, rotates toward the door, and calls out. “Caldum, escort Sol back to the city.”
I don’t object as a young guard with no lines or wrinkles, leads me away from Alden, the room, the palace.
The guard cannot be a day over eighteen summers. I’m not sure why the realization surprises me. Maybe because most of their soldiers are older.
Caldum doesn’t speak to me. A fact I’m thankful for. The silence gives me time to think of my conversation with Alden.
Alden was trying to warn me of something. I feel it in the deepest corners of my heart.
Gabriel is brimstone and fire. He’ll burn anyone that gets in the way of his people. At least, that’s what Alden seemed to be saying.
And well, Alden clearly doesn’t trust me.
I run a hand along my cheek and frown. Should I be more invisible?
Olah, help me.
I don’t know how to be invisible and good at discovering more about the Bloodstone.
I’m a simple woman. A want-to-be healer. A brief warrior.
I am not a spy.
If only I were.
ChapterThirty-Three
The windows tremble as the door bursts open the following day. Luc and Gabriel carry a wounded Praxis between them. Blood stains Praxis’ surcoat and drips from a corner of his mouth.
My breath hitches as I rush to my feet and meet Luc’s haunted eyes. Fear burns there. It smolders from him, gripping me around the neck.
“Heal him,” he says, his tone low, guttural.
Words knot in my throat as Gabriel shoves items from the table, sending them toppling, before placing the dying man on top. I step close and place my fingers against Praxis’ neck, feeling a faint beat.
In quick, jerky movements, I cut away his surcoat and gasp at the amount of blood oozing out of the deep gouges in his chest. It looks like something with large claws sunk into his flesh and ripped. Gabriel thrusts a clean cloth into my hand, and I press it against the injury. Praxis lets out a rattling breath, but he doesn’t moan or thrash against my hold.
Olah, help us!
He’s too far gone.
