The Price of Freedom

Every other member of his family was dead. His brothers, sisters…his lifemate, Linnea. They were all gone, but Soren still lived.

Those of his loyal friends and counselors who had survived the assault thought he was crazy. There was no reason to believe the child had survived. He had been less than a year old when the revolutionaries had struck the palace. His caretakers were all slaughtered, and while the child’s body was never found, there was no reason to hope. The destruction in the nursery had been terrible; many bodies completely destroyed before they could be identified. How could a child survive something like that? Entire sections of the palace were ultimately vaporized during those tense, horrible hours…

Despite that, Logan knew in his heart Soren lived. He could hear the child’s heart beating deep within his soul, just as he had been able to hear Linnea’s heart stop beating. He had felt it the instant his lifemate had perished. Her dying screams echoed in his dreams, though they had been miles apart when the attack came. A part of him died with her and only the hope of finding his son had kept him alive. Logan leaned forward, willing himself to feel the life of the city, calling out silently to his son to answer him.

Of course, there was nothing. He was no sorcerer to reach outside his body for the truth. Even the priests and priestesses of the Goddess, many with powers beyond his ability to comprehend, believed his son was dead.

Logan sighed, closing his eyes. His son was alive. He was out there, waiting for his father to rescue him.

Logan’s grip on the railing grew tight, anger welling up within him as he made a silent promise.

When he did find whoever held his son captive, not even the Goddess would be able to stay his hand.

He or she would die slowly and terribly for their part in this revolt. He vowed it on his Linnea’s cold and lonely grave.