"Lovely melody, isn't it?"
The lilt in her voice scraped across every half-healed nerve in Mikhailis's body. She sounded like a bard reciting nursery rhymes—except every note reminded him exactly which song she was echoing: the breathy cadence of two priestesses singing his name a short hour ago.
I'm surrounded by wolves, he decided, pulse drumming behind his ears—half-terrified, half-thrilled. Outside, the dusk-blue scenery rolled by in gentle rhythm, but inside the coach felt like the tight deck of a warship in heavy seas. Velvet curtains swayed, lantern crystals swung, and five sets of eyes pinned him like crossbow bolts.
The elk picked up speed on a downhill stretch, jostling the carriage. Cerys braced a hand on the ceiling, the polished steel of her gauntlet brushing his hair. "Steady," she muttered. Even her concern sounded like an order.
