The Villain

The Malevolent Guard attacked without reservation, without restraint, and entirely without honor—exactly as Trystan had trained them.

Women all over the room were felling knights one by one, leveraging their surprise attack against the king’s meager numbers. Keeley, the head of his guard, was seamlessly handling three knights at once, while another guard, Min, had backed two into a corner and was pelting them with… cream puffs?

She’s getting a raise.

As was whoever had organized this: a feat of genius. Surely Becky was involved, he thought with some satisfaction. And Sage… The ballroom had descended almost instantly into beautiful chaos. Screaming nobles scattered as bodies and weapons littered the floor, food trays and wine spilled or abandoned in the servants’ efforts to get away.

He had to break free of his binds, had to get to her. Alive. Sage was alive.

She appeared then, stumbling through a litter of bodies, tripping on the hem of her dress. A wave of tenderness came over him through the fierceness igniting his bloodstream, his battling emotions of rage and relief making him feel wild as his starving eyes took her in. Rosy cheeks, bloodred lips, wild black curls.

Mine.

He’d do battle with that unruly thought later, but for now his brain would not be trifled with—he wouldn’t even try.

“What a remarkable young woman,” he heard Arthur say breathlessly.

He didn’t look away from her, just stared ahead before coolly replying, “An understatement, I assure you.”

Arthur must have heard the hitch in his voice. “Trystan, could it be that Evie is—”

A waiflike woman with a hood obscuring her face pushed onto the platform. “I don’t mean to interrupt—pixies know, you two should really have it out—but perhaps later?”

Arthur’s brows lowered as the woman pulled back her hood—part in anger and part in fatherly protectiveness. “Clarissa! You should not be here.”

Trystan’s little sister, the youngest of the Maverine siblings, was before them, dressed in Malevolent Guard armor. A sight he never thought he’d see, since, for all intents and purposes, his sister fucking hated him.

“Relax, Father. I’m hardly here to fight. I’m the locksmith of this operation.” She reached a slender hand into a pouch tied to her waist and pulled out a small vial of liquid. “Orange ink does wonders as a solvent.”

Trystan flinched away when she got close. “I’ve seen you dissolve an entire sofa with that. Are you certain it’s safe to use so close to someone’s skin?”

Clare grinned, looking a bit evil herself, in the way that little sisters do. “I’m not certain at all, actually, but you’ll be a lovely test subject.”

Clanking metal echoed as two Valiant Guards edged toward the dais, aiming arrows right at Clare’s chest. “Stop where you are, wench, or we’ll shoot you through the heart!”

Trystan heard a delicate snort and then the sound of a familiar voice. “Good luck finding it.”

He grinned. “Tatianna.”

“Mother hen.” The healer winked at him, standing behind the knights with a hand propped on her hip. Her dark braids were adorned with pink bows, matching the deep fuchsia rouge on her lips and the blush on the apples of her dark-brown cheeks.

The guards whirled on her. “Back away!”

Tatianna’s eyes flickered to Clare’s, and she relaxed slightly before looking back to the men now aiming their weapons at her. The healer gave the knights a mock pout before lifting her glowing right hand. “I’m afraid there are only two options, gentlemen—and I do use that term loosely.” Her amused expression turned lethal. “Get the deadlands away from my family or I’ll liquify your bones.”

They looked at each other, wary, but didn’t move.

Tatianna clicked her tongue. “Suit yourself!” Her left hand joined the right, but it was too late. Both men yelped, scattering into the wild mob of

fighting as quickly as their legs would carry them.

“Well done,” Trystan said gruffly, flinching as Clare made quick work of pouring the orange ink onto Arthur’s binds. The metal melted into shimmering rivulets on the ground, and thankfully, his bones stayed intact.

Clare turned to Trystan, looking more than a little evil now. “Your turn.” “Oh, good,” he said dryly, wincing as she disappeared behind him.

As she worked, Clare asked a question, trying a tad too hard to seem disinterested. “Can you really melt someone’s bones, Tati?”

Tatianna shrugged. “No. But they didn’t have to know that.”

Trystan lifted a brow, but the woman’s utter hubris was forgotten when his chains finally fell away. It wasn’t just the freedom—his wrists unshackled for the first time in what felt like ages—it was his magic. Free. Awake.

It came to life in startling waves, in righteous anger, in uncontrollable spirals as his mist moved to every corner of the room, only visible to his eye. His magic fell out more powerfully than usual after so long contained. Every body in the room had glowing weak points for him to hit, for him to kill. Injuries, fatalities, alight with vibrant color. His magic found every living soul in the room.

But he only wanted one.

“Where is—” Trystan didn’t need to finish; Tatianna knew what he was about to ask.

The healer searched the room. “She’s… Oh dear.” Her lips pulled back in a grimace.

And when Trystan looked, he saw why.

Sage was at the wall, closer than before, but this time she had a rope in her hands. A rope they all followed up the wall, across the ceiling, all the way to…the godsdamn crystal chandelier.

Clare clapped a hand over her mouth. “By the gods, she wouldn’t, would she?”

He stalked to the end of the dais, his mist twisting and curling, the magical mark across his upper arm awakening and proving Sage was well and truly alive. He could see the breath pulling through her body, the rise and fall of her chest, the freckle on her collarbone, the curl of her grin.

She was looking right at him, boldly, unabashedly, as she lifted her pinkie, glowing with gold ink, and gave him a polite mock salute.

He shook his head, grinning as he answered his sister’s question. “Evie Sage? She absolutely would.”

And she did.