CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
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"Amendiel?" Ignavar takes a quick intake of breath, watching his cousin's broad back as he crouches against the mud, the trees, dead wood and branches surrounding them.
For the first time, Ignavar looks doubtful, uncertain about how to speak the words aloud, but then again, he is certain that Amendiel already knows it, too. Yet the king has not spoken a word since dawn and now, it's nearly dusk.
"Looks like your mate left intentionally."
Amendiel's back muscle stiffens, and his brow knits into a brooding stare; the imprints of horseshoes on the soil end in this particular spot, the rest of it completely washed by the rain.
Slowly, he turns and meets Ignavar's gaze, he looks ready to kill. His eyes are bloodshot and red at the rim, and several wet strands of hair have fallen across his face, giving him the semblance of a deadly predator even as he blows out chill air through his nostrils.
