A Court of Whispers and Song

Chapter 59

A surging rage painted Gwyn's world in vibrant waves of crimson and bronze, brimming with cobalt fire. Resolute, she stared down Eris, not caring if she hurt him. Not giving a damn. Indeed, a promise if he dared touch her again. Perhaps Gwyn would simply do it for that single disparaging comment thrown at Azriel, confirming what Gwyn had been desperate to hide.

He knew.

Eris knew. Recognized the care Azriel had for her, shown to her. Gwyn was certain.

Cauldron, damn them. They'd revealed too much. Although maybe the Mother had blessed Gwyn enough that Eris had not sensed the shadowsinger for who he truly was to her.

Thank the gods for small favors.

Despite her stubbornness, Gwyn was humble enough to critique herself. One glance at Azriel had made her reckless, unable to hide her feelings. They'd both failed miserably in that endeavor. Damn them both for not taking more care.

But now, standing before the eldest of the notorious Vanserra brood, Gwyn couldn't deny the immense pride that filled her. That she'd wiped away that twisted, confident grin from the son of the High Lord the moment her eyes flickered with the first small sign of whatever power dwelled inside.

Even now, Eris was still gaping at her, studying the swirling tendrils in her vision. Seeing what Lucien first witnessed in the Townhouse only weeks prior.

Those amber eyes thinned into narrow bands of gold like an eclipsed sun. "Who the fuck are you, really?"

Surprise quenched her anger, dousing the flames. Gwyn blinked, her vision returning to normal. What the hell was that supposed to mean?

Behind Eris's icy demeanor, his snarling carved face, Gwyn could see it. A true testament, perhaps, to how long she'd been in the shadowsinger's company now that she spotted a facade with relative ease.

And, right now, below Eris's well-crafted mask lay genuine, undiluted fear. Whether it was from her or for her, Gwyn was not sure. The rivulet of blood trickling down the length of his neck, a testament that, perhaps, he should be afraid.

Gwyn kept her chin high. For she, the Priestess-Valkyrie, stood before this powerful male, the heir-apparent of a court of flame, unafraid and unrepentant.

She would cut him again if she had to. If he dared lay his hands upon her once more without permission. Which, given winnowing as the preferred method of deceptive transport, was assured.

Their chests rose and fell rapidly as their bodies remained motionless, neither of them needing to peer down to see that his hands echoed her own. Clenched together until their pale knuckles were a stark white. Hers splattered with rust; his smooth, unmarred porcelain.

A stalemate. Tense until Eris kicked the dagger over to her with his boot. A hesitant peace offering, Gwyn realized.

With a strategic wariness trained into her, Gwyn squatted to retrieve her weapon. Never allowing his eyes to leave hers. Never allowing herself to be vulnerable. If he tried to go for a strike, she'd block. An attempted blow to the head? She'd roll to the side and spring to her feet. Never end up on your back. Always stay in control.

And if it came down to steel against steel?

Then Eris would become acquainted with her diverse weapon-handling skills. For Cassian and Azriel taught her well.

Sudden awareness perked Gwyn's ears, alerting her to the world around her. Phantom paws crunching on leaves. The snap of a fallen twig. Streams tumbling over boulders. Booted footfalls of sentries bounced off stone high above them on the upper levels of the House.