Page 125 of The Reaping Rose

“So we go to the overlord,” I say, shoving my doubts down. “And then what?”

Callum smirks, glancing at Perame. “We hand ourselves over.”

Chapter 42

Elorie

Layers of cobalt satin blow in the breeze. The first stir of the night offers some relief from a sweltering day, but I can hardly breathe with the corset hugging my ribs. Beneath it is a lace shirt that reaches my neck, hiding my hanging heart rune. Two white tendrils frame my face, while the rest is carefully braided and tucked to hide the blue ends.

The men outside Overlord Farseth’s gates step forward at my approach, eyeing me carefully.

“I come to see the overlord.” I hold my chin high, taking Perame’s advice.

In her trips to the Mortal Realm before the Arch closed, she spent a great deal of time around the royal family and lords. She coached me on what to wear. How to speak. What to expect.

Confidence is more valuable than silver.

Never glance at the ground.

Only curtsy for the highest title in the house.

Never let them see your true self.

Perame spent all day reinforcing every detail, making sure I was ready.

My hands are clasped in front of me. Shoulders relaxed and gaze unflinching as the men at the gate watch me.

“I’m here to request his presence for a meeting.”

One of his men smiles, his slimy gaze drifting to my feet before snapping to the man beside him. “I don’t recall him having any meetings.”

“This is urgent,” I press, not backing down. “Something only he can assist with. He and his companion. There are”—I glance around, pretending to check that no one else is listening—“things she can do. Are there not?”

The men both stiffen. The click of their teeth makes the hair on the back of my neck stand on end, but I don’t move.

“Please. I must see him.” My lashes bat once.

Twice.

Carefully luring their sympathy to get to their overlord.

The dark-haired man steps forward. With the renewed light of a torch nearby, I catch a cut through his eyebrow that reminds me of the mark on Greer’s.

How are she and Atlas faring?

Their mission is no less dangerous. If Malachi has caught wind of them searching for him, he’ll send the full force of his army out to get them.

I bite my tongue, reminding myself now isn’t the time to worry. If anyone can stand against Malachi, it’s Greer. And while she might not trust Atlas, I have no doubt he’ll do everything in his power to keep her safe.

“Wait here,” the man says.

He nods at his companion before turning to walk to the manor. The metal yawns as he pushes open the gates and disappears up the steps.

I stand silent, waiting for him to return. Not daring to let my gaze drift or to let an ounce of fear show. When there’s movement of his return, my shoulders pull tight. His strides are quicker now. His gaze has lost all amusement as he stops in front of me.

“He’ll meet with you” is all he says, jutting his head as they both reclaim their posts.

The moment I step past the twisted iron gate, the air stills. A quiet pulse that is all too familiar hangs in the air. Stepping stones mark the path through the overgrown shrubbery, and while the manor is grand, the greenery surrounding it is untamed and unkempt. Wildflowers scatter the pathway, an unusual splotch of color in a dying realm. Which is when I realize just how green this walkway is.