“Just let me fucking dismount, and I’ll explain,” I said, unlacing Ophelia’s hands and twisting to hold her steady while I slipped down.
As soon as my boots hit the sand, someone lunged for me.
“Get off!” I ripped my arm from the Soulguider’s grasp, stare intent on Ophelia as I supported her. “Can’t you see she’s not okay? She needs help.”
“What’s wrong with her?” the lead guard asked, others shifting carefully around the gryphon where Ophelia slumped along its spine. The creature, seeming to understand who was precariously perched on his back, remained docile.
“She’s Ophelia Alabath, the damn Revered of the Mystique Warriors.” It wasn’t an answer to his question, but Ididn’t knowwhat exactly was wrong with Ophelia. Besides everything Echnid had done to us.
Spirits, he’ddruggedher. Anger curled cruel and defensive in my chest at the reminder.
“Let us go!” I demanded, roaring as the memory of her admitting that slammed into me.
“How do we know that’s true?” the Soulguider challenged. Damien’s cock, these fucking guards were persistent. Good for Meridat, I supposed, but dammit, it was annoying.
“She has fucking wings, isn’t that proof enough?” Did they know? About Echnid, about Ophelia’s seraph?
One brave—idiotic—warrior jabbed his scythe toward the gryphon’s flank, and the beast released an angry, threatening squawk. It reared up, slashing its talons at the guard’s chest.
“By the fucking Angels,” I grumbled, ducking my guard and catching Ophelia as she slipped off its back.
“Malakai?” she mumbled, finally waking. Her feet met the sand, but her knees buckled, hands latching to my tunic. “Where are we?”
I slid an arm beneath her wings, so they fanned out behind both of us and slung one of hers over my shoulder.
“Somewhere in the desert,” I guessed.
The guard barked, “You’re on the estate of?—”
“Stand down!” The command sliced through his sentence, and the warriors shot to attention.
My head whipped toward the voice, shifting Ophelia behind me, but my tense muscles unknotted when I saw the owner.
“Meridat,” I sighed.
“Meridat?” Ophelia echoed, stumbling around to see her. She blinked her tired magenta eyes in the bright morning light. Dried blood still coated her arm.
The Soulguider Chancellor approached with a consoling smile, her emerald skirt drifting in the breeze and bronze-plated jewelry catching the dawn. She looked like she’d been awake for hours already, her hair tied in long braids down her back and stare alert as it swept over the gryphon.
“Ophelia. Malakai,” Meridat greeted.
I peeked around her, tightening my arm on Ophelia’s waist. About fifty yards off, across streams and through a maze of palm trees and cyphers, a sandstone manor waited, its elaborate columns and ornately carved domes and arches barely visible from here. More people were moving across the dunes toward us.
“We’re on your estate?” I asked, disbelief racing through me. Thank that fucking gryphon.
The chancellor nodded. “And I would love to hear the story of how you arrived.” She eyed the creature behind us, her guards still aiming their scythes at it.
“I have plenty to share,” Ophelia muttered with an exhale that was barely a laugh. Every breath from her was so fucking labored.
As I tried to prop her up better, a deep voice cut across the sand, “Is it them?”
“Cypherion?” I called as he raced to a stop beside Meridat, looking us over.
“Thank the fucking Spirits you’re okay.” Utter relief painted Cypherion’s words. He rushed forward, taking Ophelia’s bloodied arm and draping it across his shoulder. He eyed the gryphon but only shook his head. “Not sure I want to know.”
“It’s such a good story,” Ophelia joked limply as she patted his chest, but I barely heard the condensed explanation she gave.
My disbelieving heart pounded. Their voices melted together. If Cyph was still here, that meant…
