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The Dark King’s head dips. “As Healer Kelaros is under mine, despite her attempt to kill him.”

Diplomatic stalemate. Neither king can yield without diminishing his own authority.

“Fine,” he says at last. “As you pointed out, no lasting harm was inflicted. We are gracious hosts, even in unusual circumstances.”

Not looking at the wildling’s body still on the floor, he signals to a new attendant. “Have Healer Moryth escorted to the suite the Silver Flame is staying in to ensure the darkling is well from her travels.”

Kelaros stiffens. “Your Majesty, I am already here. I will take her.”

“You will report to me,” Nyctarian counters, brooking no argument. “In private.”

For the first time, displeasure tightens Kelaros’s features, but he does not speak out against his king.

I guide Amalia away from the courtiers, their whispers slithering after us. She moves with wooden steps, her body present but her attention divided between this world and whatever connection she maintains with the Opal Court.

“I can still feel him,” she whispers as we follow the attendant into a side corridor. “Elionn. He’s alive, but the court took him back. He’s its anchor again.”

I should hand her over to healers or guards, but the thought of letting her out of my sight leaves me cold.

“We’ll get him back,” I promise, though I have no idea how such a feat might be accomplished. “Both of you, whole.”

She laughs, the brittle sound echoing off the stone walls. “There’s no coming back whole from that place, Silver King.” She touches the sithean stone. “But I freed him once. I’ll do it again.”

Her words send ice through my veins. Re-entering the Opal Court would be madness. Yet I recognize her resolve.

If the road forward is madness, I can either walk it with her or once again watch Amalia Wolf go alone.

25

THE SILVER THREAD

AMALIA

My rage propels me down the obsidian corridor ahead of Theron and Thalindor, each step striking the floor with enough force to send shockwaves up my legs. The walls of the Dark Sithe close in around us, their polished surfaces reflecting back distorted versions of my fury.

The Dark guards flank us at a careful distance, their faces impassive but their hands on their weapons.

The fury boils over without warning, a volcano I cannot contain, and my fist connects with the wall before I even register the decision to strike. Pain explodes across my knuckles, the impact sending a satisfying crack through the polished stone that spiderwebs out from the point of contact.

I welcome the burn and the hot slide of blood between my fingers. Physical pain is preferable to the ache of failure that threatens to swallow me whole.

“Amalia.” Theron’s fingers close around my wrist, pulling my bloody hand away from the wall. “You’re injuring yourself.”

I try to yank free, but his grip tightens just enough to hold me.

“Let go.”

“Not until you stop trying to break every bone in your hand.” His thumb brushes over my split knuckles with surprising gentleness.

“I want another shot at him,” I snarl, my battered hand curling into another fist. “Give me five minutes alone with Kelaros. There won’t be enough left for him to piece himself back together.”

Theron’s silver eyes flick toward our escorts. “Contain yourself until we reach our chambers. These walls have ears, and you’ve already created enough of a diplomatic incident.”

“Diplomatic incident?” I laugh, the sound brittle enough to cut glass. “Is that what we’re calling attempted murder now?”

A muscle twitches in his jaw, and his hand slides from my wrist to my forearm, fingers circling with unexpected tenderness. “Just breathe.”

I try to wrench away again, turning my fury on him because he’s here and Kelaros is not. “I don’t need coddling. I need vengeance.”