The Prince's Bargain - K.M. Shea Page 0,93

word dropping from her lips. But although her throat and tongue moved, the sound that came from her mouth was warped, the magic in it twisting sound itself so the word sounded like the angry roar of fire.

The High Elf sword exploded into green flames, crackling with power and magic.

Lord Julyan screamed as the magic engulfed his hand, eating through his gloves and the sleeve of his jacket, burrowing deep into his skin.

The stench of burned flesh filled the air, and he dropped the sword, but it never touched the ground.

Myth held out her hand and spoke the second High Elf rune she recognized on the blade, the one that meant return.

Again, the magic in the command twisted the sound as it rolled off her tongue, turning it into a high-pitched keening.

The sword blinked out of existence midfall, then reappeared in her hand. The cold touch of its metal hilt was foreign and unfamiliar, but the weapon was as light as a feather. With astounding ease, Myth raised it to point at Lord Julyan’s chest.

“It seems no one warned you, Lord Julyan, about the dangers of using a High Elf blade…particularly when its directions for use are inscribed on the blade itself,” Myth said dryly. She smiled, then once again uttered the rune for fire.

Lord Julyan screamed as the sword shed green sparks that burst into more green flames.

He turned on his heel to run, and nearly impaled himself on Princess Gwendafyn’s sword. “Going somewhere?” she snarled.

“He is,” Lady Tari purred as she appeared at Lord Julyan’s open side, her giant snow cat hungrily licking his chops. “To his death.”

“No, no! You’re just elves!” Lord Julyan snarled. “Too soft to do anything!”

“I disagree, Lord Julyan.” Arvel had bridged the span between him and Myth in what felt like a blink and settled his hand on her lower back. “They’re too noble to strike first. But when they move, they’ll make sure it’s the last thing you see. Surrender. Or die.”

When Lord Julyan scoffed, Arvel pointed up.

Sometime during Lord Julyan’s tirade, Prince Benjimir and Sir Arion had brought what looked like three squads of Honor Guards onto the second-floor balcony of the hall. Each guard held a bow with an arrow—glinting in the dim light—nocked and aimed at the Calnorian lord.

“It’s over,” Arvel said.

Lord Julyan’s face became a mask of fury, and he lunged at Myth.

Arvel moved like quicksilver, flicking a dagger so it struck Lord Julyan, piercing the hand that was already burned by the High Elf sword.

Lord Julyan crumpled to the ground with a cry, and in an instant Princess Gwendafyn rested the edge of her sword on the back of his neck.

That was all Myth had the chance to see before Arvel scooped her up, hugging her from behind.

20

Myth flung the High Elf blade away so she didn’t risk injuring Arvel with it, then struggled to turn around in his grasp.

The Honor Guards were exchanging shouts as they surrounded Lord Julyan’s men, taking their weapons as their fellow guards standing in the balcony watched with their still-drawn bows.

“You’re safe,” Arvel murmured as he embraced her. “You’re not hurt.”

Myth opened her mouth with the intention of telling him that she very obviously knew she wasn’t hurt, before it dawned on her that Arvel wasn’t actually telling her that, as much as he was reassuring himself.

“Yes,” she gently said. “I’m unharmed. Everything’s fine.”

It wasn’t until he hugged her tighter, pressing her cheek against his shoulder, that something in her dislodged, and the tight ball of fear she’d been holding in shifted to something closer to shock.

Her fingers shook as she grabbed the lapels of Arvel’s favorite chocolate-brown jacket, holding tight so she remained upright.

I never dreamed I’d come to love someone as much as I love Arvel.

The thought echoed in Myth’s mind for a moment that seemed to stretch on for eternity.

What?

She…loved Arvel?

The realization was so shocking, Myth had to question it. She couldn’t—no, she didn’t.

But even in the privacy of her mind, that refusal rang false.

Her stomach rolled, and Myth allowed herself the luxury of leaning into Arvel—realizing belatedly that finding comfort in his arms probably was a more correct indicator of her true feelings.

Arvel’s chest vibrated as he spoke. “I thought…I didn’t know what I’d do if…and you can read and speak High Elvish runes? And you didn’t tell me?”

Myth was too busy mulling over her own mental discoveries to seriously listen to what he said—all she did was speak another language, anyway. Her love for Arvel was