Chapter 28

Chapter 28

T he palace looked just the same as it did in Andrian’s last memories—massive, imposing, and mocking.

He had bits and pieces of other recollections, blurred images fading in and out, like remembering a dream or a nightmare. But one of the last real moments he remembered before he was woken by the silver-gold bond burning through his soul was him furiously spurring his stallion out of the palace gates and down the gold-cobbled streets. Straight to the city manor of House Laurent to confront his father.

After that … it was all darkness and shadow.

Andrian watched Feran pull his horse to a halt, Mariah seated in front of him. Watched as they both dismounted, as she took lurching steps toward the palace.

Every single instinct in his chest, in his heart, in his soul screamed at him to follow, to go to her. To be near her.

But the beats of frustration and anger and sadness flowing from her down that freshly forged bond held him firmly in place.

That new bond … it was so much. Too much. He didn’t know if she felt the same, or if this was how all the bonds felt. If this was something she was simply accustomed to. Perhaps she was still so closed off by whatever had happened to her back in that hellish castle. But all he craved was her nearness, her touch, her smell and taste and the feel of her on his skin.

He urged his horse forward with a grimace. A stableboy scampered out from the shadows, hair still mussed from sleep. The boy grabbed hold of the horse’s reins as Andrian dismounted. He had no possessions—the horse had carried nothing beyond a meager change of clothes, probably intended for one of the other Armature. He was filthy and tired and knew he smelled, but none of that mattered to him.

He’d just taken a single step after Mariah when a familiar figure blocked his path. A second stalked up to the first’s side, and Andrian could only watch in frustration and a pang of longing as Mariah disappeared around the side of the stables to the rear entrance of the palace, Feran beside her.

“Not so fast, Armature.” Sebastian’s voice was low and rigid, his posture just as tense. Quentin stood beside him, palming the knives strapped to his chest, chaos dancing in his eyes.

“What? I’m tired,” Andrian said, his defensiveness rising like hackles along with his magic.

Quentin’s fingers twitched. Sebastian’s lips pressed into a hard line.

“There are some questions you need to answer for us first. Before we can decide what to do with you.”

“Decide what to do with me?” Andrian glared at Quentin and Sebastian, before looking quickly at Drystan, who had sidled up beside Quentin. “Are you sure you have the authority to do that?”

The men stared at each other for several tense heartbeats before Sebastian rested his hand on the hilt of his sword.

Andrian didn’t miss the threat.

“Just come with us.” Sebastian turned on his heels, leaving Andrian glaring darkly, Quentin grinning, and Drystan watching Andrian with a contemplative expression. Quentin broke first, following after Sebastian.

“Put his mind at ease. Please.” Andrian glanced at Drystan. The man was always so calm, so level-headed. It often was a comfort to the group, Andrian included, especially knowing the man was a deadly warrior—the best among them—when he needed to be.

Right now, though, his words achieved nothing beside pissing Andrian off. There was only one thing Andrian wanted to do, and it was not humoring Sebastian in whatever power-play this was about to be.

But as he held Drystan’s stare, familiar doubt and self-loathing twisted in, cooling his anger. His friend was right. He’d been gone for nine weeks, taken the same night as Mariah. He would suspect himself, too, were the roles reversed.

Fuck, if he were them, he would’ve likely killed himself on sight. The fact that they had superior levels of self-control than he did was not lost on him. Besides, he’d grown up with these men. They knew him, as well as anyone.

“Fine,” he growled. With steady steps, he followed Sebastian and Quentin, trailed by Drystan as they strode into the familiar, gilded palace halls.

Sebastian led them not to their usual wing, but to an older, quieter area of the palace, one reserved for guests but hadn’t been used in years. He pushed his way into one of the many rooms lining the corridor, Quentin on his heels. Andrian went next, and Drystan closed the door behind them with a snick .

The room was clean, if not a bit stale. There was a modest dining table, a bed, and a door on the left that must lead to the bathing room. Andrian took a step toward the table, wanting to take a seat on the dark wood chair, when something cool and sharp against his neck froze him in place. He glanced at Quentin, grin back on his face, a blade that was the twin to the one against Andrian’s neck clutched in his left hand.

“Give us one gods-damned reason we shouldn’t kill you right now.” Sebastian’s cool voice rang through the small, quiet room.

Drystan stepped around Andrian. “Sebastian?—”

“No, Drystan. I need to hear his answer.”

“My answer ?” Andrian’s response was a growl. He could feel his shadows in turmoil, the blade against his throat making them beg for freedom, pushing off his shoulders and reaching desperately for Quentin and that dagger. He held them back … for now.

“What fucking answer do you want? That I remember nothing, that I was as much a prisoner there as she was? I never fucking touched her, Sebastian. The last thing I remember was riding to confront my father about my mother’s death. After that, it’s all darkness and nightmares until the bond. The end.”

“‘ The end. ’” Quentin pressed the dagger further into Andrian’s throat. “Do you honestly expect us to believe that? How is it that she’d planned to bond with you the very night you both went missing?”

Andrian blinked. “What … what the fuck are you talking about?”

Sebastian stepped forward, brows pushed together over dark eyes. “Oh, don’t pretend to be ignorant now. You returned from wherever you went after your meeting with your father and Shawth and told her you were ready to take the bond. She said as much to Ciana before she went to bed that night.” Sebastian’s voice guttered, anger hardening his hazel stare into stone. “She was so happy. And now she’s a ghost of herself.”

Andrian gaped, jaw slackening. His chin touched the cool metal of the dagger against his throat, but he didn’t care. “I … I don’t remember. I don’t remember any of that. That wasn’t me .”

“Then who the fuck was it? Because it looked and sounded enough like you that it fooled even her.”

Andrian didn’t have an answer for Sebastian. He simply stared at his friend, his brother, forcing his shadows and his rage away, burying them deep. Back into the twisted and tattered ruins of his soul, where they belonged.

Quentin must’ve seen the defeat humming off him; he pulled the dagger from Andrian’s jugular, taking a step away. He didn’t sheath it, though.

Andrian swallowed, his mouth dry, his throat dry. He was so tired, yet filled with a strange, disorganized energy, whirling and vibrating just beneath his skin. It was something new and foreign, but also welcome and familiar.

As much a conundrum as the dark-haired woman who he expected was its source.

“I don’t know,” he whispered, not bothering to hide his fear. His rage. His exhaustion and frustration. The three men raised their brows, their postures relaxing. Quentin finally slipped his dagger back into his baldric, while something like pity wrote itself across Drystan’s face.

Andrian suspected this was the first time any of them had heard—truly heard—that much raw emotion in his voice.

“I don’t know what it was. I only remember bits and pieces. Nightmares, mostly. Nightmares shrouded as memories. And a voice whispering to me everything I’ve always known that was broken with me.” He met Sebastian’s gaze. If anyone would hear him now, it was him.

“There were moments when I could glimpse the world around me, but I was so locked away that I couldn’t understand what it meant. My senses governed in those moments—smell, touch, bits and flashes of color. But beyond that, everything was shadow and darkness, a never-ending hellscape that felt a bit too much like Enfara for my liking.”

They watched him in silence as he spoke. Sebastian took a small step back as Drystan shifted on his feet.

“You’re different,” Quentin murmured. “Changed.”

Andrian scoffed. “No shit.”

“No, I mean … you’ve changed .” Quentin cocked a head, like a bird of prey working through a puzzle. “The old you would’ve never been so open about what he felt. Either Mariah has really managed to get through to you, or …” He unsheathed a new dagger and twisted it in his hand.

“Or what?” The Andrian of a few months ago would’ve been annoyed. Irate, even, at this ridiculous line of questioning.

The Andrian of today, though, was only tired.

“Or this isn’t you, and you’re still wearing the same disguise you were when you stole her from us the first time.”

That was the final straw. Shadows broke from Andrian’s shoulders, and he clenched his hands into fists as he snarled back at Quentin. “You little fucking prick ?—”

“That’s enough.” Drystan moved, placing himself firmly between Andrian and Quentin. The latter had settled into a fighting stance, an eager grin on his face as he palmed his knives. Drystan glared hard at him.

“We’re not making any decisions or accusations here tonight. None of us knows what truly happened, and it’s not for us to decide what happens next.”

“We can’t just let him go back to his rooms, Drystan.” Sebastian’s voice was quiet, controlled. It grated against Andrian’s skin, pulling his teeth further back into a snarl.

His control was waning thin, and he was craving a little blood and chaos.

“You’re right.” Drystan swung his firm golden stare to Andrian. “We can’t. But we also can’t lock him up anywhere, either. I propose he stay here, in these rooms. They’re comfortable and clean, and he can go about his days in the palace without too much risk of crossing paths with Mariah.” Drystan turned back to Sebastian and Quentin. “Since, I’m assuming, that’s what you’re both so concerned about? You just want to keep him away from her until she decides what to do with him?”

As Sebastian and Quentin shared a contemplative look, Andrian felt his chest go tight. Felt his shadows withdraw back below his skin, his rage dissipating as it was replaced with something … else. Something cold and painful and lonely.

For some stupid, self-indulgent reason, he hadn’t realized that his fate would be decided by his queen. Yes, he was bonded to her. But a part of him whispered that this bond was a means to an end for her, nothing more than a method of survival. That maybe she had no desire to be close to him, and simply needed the strength his connection would give her to escape.

That revelation stung and twisted his heart more than he knew was possible.

Especially with the last words she’d left him with, the last look she’d tossed his way.

He’d called her nio , and her response had nearly split him in two.

“ I don’t think I want to know anymore. ”

“I agree with Drystan, I’ll stay here. And … and I’ll stay out of the way. I promise to leave her be until she’s ready to decide what to do with me.” Andrian’s voice was filled with the same quiet defeat and desperation he felt.

She might not feel the same about him anymore, but he still meant every word he’d said to her that night before the Solstice.

He still loved her. She was still the reason his heart beat, the reason he felt alive. She was the answer to every one of his questions.

And if she wanted him gone, he would leave. Because he loved her far more than he would ever love himself.