Formidable? Definitely. Deadly? Without a doubt.
But they were honorable. Not once did I fear for my life, not once was I abused or used. Instead, I was treated with respect, and I suspect there’s one person in particular to thank for that.
An army is only as good as its commanding officer.
As if my thoughts conjured him, a spiked form on the back of a black stallion breaks away from a line of soldiers and heads toward us. My ribbons coil around my waist, breath hitching at the sight of him.
Right now, Rip looks every bit the imposing commander of Fourth’s army. In full armor, missing only his helmet, he’s a reckoning come to demand retribution. He wears a fierce expression bracketed with the brooding line of his spiked brows and the sharp angles of his jaw.
His black hair is swept back as his horse rides toward us, the pale skin of his face more prominent from the scruff of his jaw and the black of his eyes. With spikes glinting on his back, jutting from perfectly melded armor, he’s making it clear that the sword at his hip isn’t the real weapon. He is.
My horse slows to a stop as Rip approaches. He nods at Osrik in greeting before stopping his horse beside mine, instantly dwarfing me on my mare. His energy is tense, like the snapping teeth of a beast, aggravated and sharp, wanting to maim.
Beside him, my nerves flip and flounder, a fish tossed on the shore. He doesn’t speak to me, offers no greeting. He simply dismisses the three guards behind us and then starts to lead Osrik and I toward Ranhold—toward a royal envoy flying a golden flag with Highbell’s emblem proudly displayed on it.
With Osrik on my left and Rip on my right, I get herded toward the line of men I don’t know, not a single familiar face in sight.
“What about the other saddles? The guards?” I ask.
“Their release is part of the negotiation. They’ll be escorted to Ranhold tonight,” Osrik answers.
I peer over at Rip, but his gaze is straight ahead, expression stone-faced. I see the muscle at his jaw tighten, like he’s clenching his teeth.
There’s definitely no pendulum swinging inside of him. He’s not wavering, not contemplative. He’s just pissed.
I know that it’s directed at me. Even after I sent the messenger hawk, his anger wasn’t like this. I don’t think he’ll ever forgive me for choosing Midas, even though I warned him time and time again that I would.
Osrik must feel the animosity too, because he keeps glancing over, as if he expects Rip to snap.
A sadness settles over me, like the soft silt of sand. It covers my skin, so many tiny particles that I know will continue to cling to me for a long time.
I hate how we’re leaving things. Even though it’s only been a short time since I’ve been with him, and even though I was technically his prisoner, I never once felt that desolate, empty discontent here that I felt back in Highbell. I wish I could tell him that.
But Midas... They don’t get it. I can’t stay. Midas won’t let me go, not ever.
I don’t care how fierce Rip is, or how powerful King Rot is. Midas will stop at nothing to get me back, and I can’t let anyone try to step between that. It wouldn’t be fair—not to Rip, not to Midas.
I couldn’t do that to Midas, either. He and I are connected. Not just through gold, but through time. Through love. I can’t abandon that, can’t abandon him. Not after everything we’ve been through together.
I open my mouth to try and explain, to try and say something, anything, to make Rip hate me less, but then we’re suddenly there, stopping in front of the envoy, and I’ve lost my chance.
My ticking pendulum ran out of time.
“Your king’s gold-touched saddle, as requested,” Rip says, his voice hard as steel, his expression even harder.
The men in the envoy approach on their shaggy white horses, and I have to try not to frown at their golden armor. I never realized before just how garish it looks.
I once thought of it as elegant, but next to Osrik and Rip, it just seems silly. Unlike Fourth’s, whose armor bears the marks of battle, their gold gleams without a single imperfection, like it’s all just for show.
“Lady Auren.” A man with white-blond hair jumps down from his horse and steps forward, the rest of the envoy stopping in a line behind him. “We are here to deliver you to King Midas.” He looks up at me expectantly, though not daring to come any closer.
“Aren’t you going to help her down?” Rip asks, and the tone of his voice could only be explained as a growl. It makes the man’s face go pale, the others shifting on their feet.
The golden soldier clears his throat. “No one is allowed to touch the king’s favored.”
Rip’s head turns slowly toward me. I can feel the judgment in it, and my cheeks burn beneath the cover of my hood. I don’t have it in me to look at him.
“Of course. How could I forget the rules of your golden king?” Rip replies with open disparagement.