Page 273 of The Edge of Darkness

And he was a shifter . . . apparently.

Most importantly, he had been willing to sacrifice himself for my mate.

I crossed the space to him and clasped him on the arm before pulling him into an embrace. “Thank you, Brother.” The words were muffled against his shoulder, but I repeated them in earnest. “Thank you.”

He tensed, taken aback by the gesture. But he embraced me as well. “I would do it over again, without question.”

I clapped a firm hand against his back. “And now you have the marks to show it. I bet Syros was wondering what the hell he’d walked into.”

“Those were almost his exact words,” Auren said, grinning.

“What was that place anyway?” Breck asked.

“That is a story for another time,” I replied as I stepped back and turned my focus to the two winged beings standing on either side of us.

“Oh!” Auren gripped the arm of the Dionach with the black wings and brown hair. “Niall, this is Weston.”

Weston. The male who had been assigned to Auren at the castle during her stay. The male who’d gotten her out when everything had gone wrong.

I extended an arm to him. “I’ve heard a lot about you, Weston. And you have my thanks as well. Not only for today, but for getting Auren out of the castle.”

“It was my honor,” he said, clasping my forearm the way Vanir and I greeted each other.

“And this . . .” Auren moved to the other side of Breck. “Is—” She halted her words as she looked back at me.

I felt the blood drain from my face. My stomach hollowed out at the sight of the Dionach.

“Niall? What’s wrong?”

“It . . . can’t be . . .” I whispered.

I didn’t understand it, but the Dionach’s face . . . the same long, auburn hair . . . I’d seen him before. Always in my nightmares. Always on the battlefield. Always in pain.

In my nightmares, he didn’t have wings. And he was never this calm or quiet. Each time, he was charging into battle, twin swords in his hands, roaring at the top of his lungs. Then, he would fall to his knees, asking my forgiveness, succumbing to his wound—a hole in his chest, a spear straight through the heart.

To see him standing in front of me in a different context was strange.

He was real. Whole.

The way he was staring at me was eerily similar to how Remic and Silas regarded Auren. Like there was a duty to uphold. A reverence . . .

I was . . . his charge.

No. It couldn’t be. I couldn’t be.

I didn’t want to believe it, nor did I want to come to terms with the fact that I’d dreamt of his death. But in my heart, I somehow knew that he was here for me. There was a link there, a gods-forged bond that I suddenly recognized. It was an intuitive knowing, a feeling of clarity. And it was becoming more prominent by the minute.

“What’s wrong?” Auren repeated as she looked back and forth between the newest Dionach and me. A moment later, she gasped, undoubtedly realizing what I was silently grappling with.

She turned to the Dionach. “Niall is your Dionam . . .” It was more of a statement than a question.

Regardless of its delivery, he didn’t answer her. He simply stared in shock for a moment longer, then dipped his chin in my direction and introduced himself. “My name is Saxon.”

I searched for the right words to say, but voices boomed outside the tent just before the guards pulled the flaps open, and Roirdan and Silas stormed through the entryway.

“Is she here?” Silas asked as he pushed past Roirdan to get a good look around the tent. The moment he spotted Auren, he bounded toward her. “Thank the gods.” He pulled her into his chest.

Roirdan went straight to Auren as well, but he spoke to all of us as he assessed her. “There’s something happening in The Wastelands. It’s got all the Dionachs on edge and it’s messing with their senses.”