Dylan’s p.o.v.
The door of my study clicked shut behind Seth as we entered my study room, both of us weary from the tense atmosphere of the royal meeting.
At first, it was a bizarre call that I had wanted to decline, yet I ended up attending.
The flickering firelight cast jagged shadows across the walls as if mimicking the dangers we now faced. Seth dropped heavily into the chair across from my desk while I leaned against the edge, staring at the ornate wood grain beneath my fingertips.
“That was…” he began but trailed off, shaking his head in disbelief.
“A trap,” I finished for him. “The king didn’t give us a task—he gave us a death sentence.”
Seth ran a hand down his face, the scar along his jaw more pronounced under the fire’s glow. “The Veiled Ravine, Dylan. No one’s ever made
