Eryndis’s hand lifted. Her fingers traced the line of my scar—down from my brow, across my lips, over my throat, towardthe center of my chest. Her hand—cool, certain—reached for mine.
“The thorns we inherit do not ask permission. They prick. They scar. They remind us that beauty was never meant to be harmless. And neither were we.”
I didn’t realize I was shaking until Lysara’s hands cupped my shoulders, grounding me.
“Rise in silence,” Eryndis said. “Remember—silence is not weakness. It is where storms begin. And when it comes, do not speak as the girl who feared the dark. Speak as the woman who learned to hunt inside it.”
She turned to leave—pausing at the door to add, “If truth eludes you, find me again. You will—when your shadow remembers blood.”
Lysara finished the braid and let her hands rest at my back for a breath before stepping back to let me dress.
I dressed slowly. My leathers were tighter at the shoulders. My boots felt snug. My balance sat lower, steadier, as if my center had shifted. In the basin’s small mirror, I almost didn’t recognize the woman looking back—less flame than ember, banked but hot.
Lysara returned and gathered my hair aside, pressing a hand mirror into my palm. I tilted it and lost my breath.
The mark bled from the top of my shoulder to the curve of my neck—just beneath the collarbone: a crescent of shadow rimmed in thin red, like the last light on a dying moon. Through it, a slender, obsidian dagger etched in tight, old sigils. Four scripts wound together: Nerissa’s tide-lines near the guard, Sylvara’s root-glyphs down the spine, Kaerani’s healing stitch along the hilt, and the Nightmother’s star-pricks scattered like points of void on the blade. Thorned vines climbed the grip, black as pitch, blooming with tiny crimson flowers the size of tears.
“All four goddesses,” Lysara whispered. “I’ve never?—”
Heat crept up my neck. I tucked the collar higher and brushed the moment off, shoving down the unease that came with her words. The mark, the meaning—it was a problem for later, one I wasn’t ready to face. Instead, I gathered my things with brisk hands, the act of moving keeping me from thinking too much.
By the time I stepped outside, the sky had begun its slow tilt toward dusk. Gabriel stood off to one side, arms folded. His gaze found me as soon as I stepped out. Something moved across his face—sorrow, then resolve.
Malachi brushed down his mare, long fingers working gentle circles along her flank. The sight tightened something deep in my chest. He looked up as I approached. Our eyes met. Something passed between us.
Are we different now? Or are we just finally honest?
“Ready?” he asked quietly.
I nodded. “As I’ll ever be.”
He handed me a waterskin and reached to help me mount. I let him. His hand lingered at my calf one heartbeat too long. Our gazes locked, and the world narrowed to that point of contact.
We didn’t speak. We didn’t need to.
51
Malachi
We leftthe village at dusk. Lysara and Santiago rode ahead, Gabriel keeping the rear.
The barrier that had once swallowed us whole thinned to a shimmer behind us. Its wards parted reluctantly, as though the forest itself resented letting us go. Then, with one final flicker, the curtain fell back into place.
Beyond it, the world shifted. The stillness of Nyxarra—the silence that had pressed into our lungs—peeled away mile by mile.
The trees sighed and rustled. Wind bent through the branches in long notes. Shadows stopped reaching for our heels. I hadn’t been outside Nyxarra in centuries, and the world’s voice nearly unmade me.
Aurelia sat straight against me, braid neat along her spine. I kept a loose hold on the reins, my palms brushing her hips when the road jolted. The warmth of her, the kind I hadn’t let myself need for centuries, broke through every layer between us.
“What’s Synnex like this time of year?” I said. My voice waslow, meant for her alone, a murmur that skimmed the shell of her ear.
Her head tilted. “It’s loud,” she said softly. “Markets open at dawn. Merchants shouting, buyers shouting louder. By midday, they’re arguing over spices or who stole whose trade stall. And music—you hear it even when there shouldn’t be any. Someone always finds a way.”
A small smile ghosted her lips, though it didn’t reach her eyes. “Our house was on the edge of town. After my parents were killed, they just left us there. Out of sight, out of mind. If no one saw us, they’d forget we existed.”
Her fingers brushed the saddle, tracing the worn stitching as if the leather could remember.
“But it didn’t feel like punishment,” she said at last. “It was… different. Quiet in the mornings. Close to the cliffs. I taught myself to climb down to the shore.” She huffed a breath, half laugh, half confession. “The sea was rough there. My mother would have hated it. She’d have said Nerissa would drag me under for being reckless, when there was a perfectly worn path that led to the same place.”