Page 70 of Bad Bunny
“Well now,” he murmurs. “What’s this?”
He bends with unhurried grace and retrieves something off the ground. He holds it out to us, lets it hang off a single fingertip.
My teeth grind.
The Amulet of Springtide.
“Pretty little trinket,” Rion says softly, watching the emerald catch the light. It flashes in the light, green and alive.
A faint curve touches his mouth.
Slowly, deliberately, he slips the necklace into his pocket. “Think I’ll hold onto this.”
Rion straightens and closes the distance between us. “It’s true,” he continues lightly, as if resuming a pleasant conversation. “I am your blood.” He smiles at Sorren, an empty gesture. “And blood,” he adds, “is difficult to wash away. It stains.”
“What do you want, Uncle?” demands Sorren.
Without looking, I slide Thornreaper into his waiting hand.
“Not much,” Rion grins. “Just your head on a plate.” His gaze swings my way, and I shiver at the coldness I see there. “I’ll take your mate too. Even though she has no magic. I’m not picky.”
Sorren’s hand tightens on Thornreaper.
“You willnottouch her,” Sorren growls, his voice lethal.
Rion throws his head back and laughs. “You show your hand too easily, Nephew. Now I know what she means to you.” He tips me a wink. “You should be angry with him, mortal,” he says lightly. “I might not have noticed you, if he hadn’t just made you worth killing.”
Sorren lifts the sword and aims it at his uncle’s heart.
“It ends here.” He says the words quietly, yet they carry across the space. “For my father. For my people. For everything you’ve destroyed.”
Rion sighs like we’re boring him. “Well,” he says, brushing invisible dust from his sleeve, “if we must.”
He removes both hands from his pockets and extends them lazily.
Without breaking eye contact with Sorren, he drags his thumb across his palm. Skin splits. Dark blood wells but does not fall.
It hangs there. Suspended.
The blood stretches downward in a thin ribbon, then thickens. Lengthens. Hardens.
Metal forms where it drips, and a blade takes shape. It’s long and elegant with a black-red surface, like steel forged in a furnace and never cooled.
Rion lifts his injured hand to his mouth and gently blows across it. Frost spreads in a lacelike pattern across his skin, then melts. The cut in his palm seals instantly. Grinning, Rion flexes his fingers, then grasps the newly formed hilt.
“There,” he murmurs. “That feels more appropriate.”
Veskar glides toward me, scales whispering over the grass. He nudges against my hip, cool and unyielding, trying to guide me away from Sorren.
I brace my feet and push back. “No,” I say, my gaze fixed on my mate. “I stand with Sorren.”
“The heirs must battle alone, human,” Veskar replies, without cruelty but also without mercy. “Nature demands balance. Spring and winter cannot coexist in the White Warren. One must prove himself worthy.”
I open my mouth to protest, to demand my right to fight next to my mate. To fall with him, if need be, but then I catch a glimpse of Sorren.
He does not tell me to move. He does not order me back.
He simply looks at me, his eyes brimming with love and trust. In a way that tells me he believes I will do what is right.
