Page 157 of Griffin Food

An innocent.

Were she a man, she would surely be condemned to death.

The king—beyond the rumors that his wealth has diminished and he is much enamored with the endless lavish life of parties and indulgence—looks broken.

He looks like a man who sees defeat.

“They cannot be allowed to return. To regroup and wield this power against us again,” Atlas says coldly. “Yet I have no stomach to suffer their life imprisonment myself.”

A young man steps forward. Barefoot, wearing naught but simple pants that look hastily borrowed and donned for decency’s sake alone. Tall. Broad-shouldered. With red hair and green eyes.

My instincts say he is a shifter, and yet I have never seen a shifter with eyes that color.

I catch a quirk of Darrion’s brow.

Lark bows his head in a way that feels like deference to the young man—a young man whose face now colors as though deeply uncomfortable with Lark’s reaction. “Please, no need for formality,” he says gruffly.

Lark clears his throat, looking unusually lost for words, before turning to Atlas. “This is King Callum. The royal shifter who united all the wolf packs.”

A muscle tightens briefly at Callum’s jaw. Then he straightens, and whatever the title costs him, he wears it.

“My intelligence brought word of a young claimant attempting to reunite the wolves. A shifter with royal blood returned from exile,” Atlas says.

“Aye, that would be me,” Callum says with a lift of his chin.

“We owe you our gratitude. Your skills undoubtedly played a great part in the swift conclusion of this war.”

“I am tempted to say it was my pleasure,” Callum says. His voice is low and has a musical lilt to it, one that makes me think of distant lands. “But pleasure’s probably not the right word. More satisfying… But if I might offer you another solution to the placement of our nefarious King and Queen⁠—”

“I would be delighted for any such suggestions,” Atlas says.

“I have some acquaintances,” Callum says, “in a distant port far from here that goes by the name of Bleakness.”

“I have heard of that place,” Darrion says. “It is under the rule of the Blighten orcs. It has a fearsome reputation for thuggery, thieving, and nefarious activity of all kinds.”

Callum’s lips curve up. “It is all that and worse. I would know. I used to live there. My father was part of the rebellion… and so was I.”

“That sounds like quite a story,” Atlas says before he turns his attention to my sister and the High King. “And one I should like to hear in detail. But I fail to see how it addresses the matter of our prisoners.”

“Well,” Callum says, “let’s just say I have connections that could ensure a certain outcome. The orcish mines are not quite a death sentence. But people do not escape. And they do not live long either. A fitting end for our warmongering king. And as for the Queen, the matter is more delicate, given the child she carries. I know of a place—warded, remote, inescapable—where she can be held until the babe is born. After that, the child need not share its mother’s fate. And the Queen herself can be sent to Bleakness, where I assure you, she will find life considerably less comfortable than she is accustomed to.”

Atlas turns to me. This is not courtesy. It is deference. He waits for my word as his Queen.

I look upon my sister, perhaps for the very last time.

“The child goes to my mother.” My voice is steady, though my hands are not. “She will raise it with love. Something you would never be capable of… I searched for you,” I say quietly. “For years. For the sister I remembered. Today, I realize she isn’t here, and perhaps she never was.”

She stares back, and for the first time, I see something crack behind her eyes. Not remorse. Fear. The fear of someone who has finally lost control over the tumultuous ruin she has wrought upon so many innocent lives.

“Do it,” I say.

Atlas nods once.

King Callum inclines his head.

A commotion among the captives draws my eye. Guards are moving men into a line, sorting those who surrendered from those who fought to the last. My gaze moves along the line without intention and then stops.

Maren is looking at the ground. The same deliberate stillness of a man who knows how to make himself invisible in a crowd.