Cyrus had barely walked a little further when the sudden squeals of a horse echoed behind him. At first, he panicked—the path wasn't one often used, and that at such an hour of the night.
Slowly, he turned, and the man who dismounted the horse was none other than Blake. His long steps crunched on the gravel, and his eyes filled with unease.
"We have to talk," Blake choked out, his breath uneven.
Cyrus was tired and wanted nothing but to be on his way. "There is nothing to say," he murmured dismissively and began walking away, but Blake held his wrist.
"There is so much to be said. I want to know why. I can't keep saying nothing is wrong when deep down I know everything is wrong—and not with what I saw."
"What you saw," Cyrus scoffed bitterly.
"Last I checked, you are not one willing to be tied down by fate. You were ready to break through a mystic barrier to save the Consort of the King, and you think such loyalty to another won't interfere with us?"
