Page 319 of Commanding Blood And Bonds

She’d be okay. She was raised to reign, whether she wanted to or not. Carr would guard her as ruthlessly as I would. They’d be fine.

Still.

The idea of leaving the three of them behind before the war…

Freya was still searching for seams, for faults, and I did the same. Dropping my pack, I climbed the nearest shelf, trusting the king had reinforced them to secure his precious relics. The vents were flush with the ceiling. Even if I could pry them open, I was way too big to fit through.

No visible mechanism to raise the hatch.

There had to be a failsafe. An emergency override. Moros wouldn’t risk condemning himself to death if the alarm were ever triggered while he was inside. So, where the fuck was it?

Too bright to cloak the entire room, but my shadows could still snake beneath each shelf.

In a violent burst, they ripped across the nearest row, scattering treasure like dry leaves in a storm.

Nothing.

I swung to the opposite wall, repeated the motion.

Still nothing.

Under the art?

I tore the mounted portraits from the glass, shredding the velvet and gilded frames, praying for something—anything—that would give. Halfway down the vault, my head was spinning again. I turned to check on Freya—and felt that hit like a punch.

She had blanketed the wall in shadows, her hands moving like a madwoman across every inch of the glass. Searching. Testing. Failing.

Concerned my effort was burning through the respirator faster, I slowed my breath, grounding myself in each inhale like a meditation. Then I made my way back toward the front of the vault.

She was already circling toward me again—pissed off, relentless, more predator than Paladin.

I drew my .45 and stepped back. Then opened fire.

The crack split the air, a sonic blade driving straight through my skull. I staggered, palms to my ears, the ringing cutting through every thought. Blood. There had to be blood. I didn’t dare look.

And the glass?

A single spiderweb fracture spread a few inches from where the bullet lodged—nothing more.

Motherfucker.

I turned, and Freya was still there, frozen, devastation written in every line of her face as she stared at the failed attempt like it had broken something in her too.

God, I was tired.

Her little device wasn’t built for someone exerting this much effort. I stumbled to the glass, and she sprinted the short distance back, fingers tapping over the spot where the bullet had struck, her eyes racing along the panel like it might yield if she just believed hard enough.

But we both knew better.

Her determination was fucking admirable though.

Freya backed up, locked onto her target, and hurled a nearby sculpture into the glass with enough force to make me flinch. I instinctively turned away, shielding my face as the marble collided with a thunderous crack—but it was the sculpture that shattered, fragments skidding across the floor in jagged defeat.

Her eyes flew wide, mouth parting in disbelief. I memorized her face in that moment. That compact frame. The blunt edge of her silky red hair. The constellation of freckles scattered over her nose, and the soft curl of pale lashes blinking back tears.

She’d made it. That was what mattered.

And she had the diadem—for the Angel of Death.