I cut him off before hope could grow roots. We’d been down this path before. “No, Hayat. Draven betrayed my family—why would anything he promises be good?” My voice was sharper than I intended, but I didn’t soften it.
“I appreciate you trying, truly. But I won’t let them mark him. We’ve seen what the vows have become—blessings twisted into bargains, offerings demanded not out of love but ownership. I remember when the goddesses gave freely, when they loved the people and places their Mother built. Now every vow feels like a transaction. Once you bleed for them, there’s always a price.”
The wind pulled at my hair, carrying the faint sound of the harbor bells. “I’d burn before I’d see that happen to him.”
The look he gave me was part resignation, part something else—an old kind of grief that didn’t belong entirely to him.
He let go of my hand.
“Elli,” he said quietly, “I know you. I know you’re probably planning something. You don’t have to chase this alone.”
I met his gaze, steady. “He is my brother. I will do anything to help him.”
His mouth pressed into a thin line, a muscle feathering just below his cheek as if the words wanted out but he bit them back.
“I know. Just remember it isn’t something you have to do alone.” He smiled, nudging my shoulder with his. “And gods help anyone who stands in your way.”
As we walked on, the streets narrowed. Pale stone gave way to moss-slick walls and low lanterns. Salt wind from the cliffs tangled my hair. Somewhere beyond the streets, the sea beat the rocks—slow, deliberate—Synnex’s heart still thudding under all its cruelty.
The path home cut through the woods, where the market noise gave way to the hush of frost-crisp branches. By the time we reached the Moirae home, night had fully fallen, and firelight glowed through the kitchen windows.
Inside, the air was warm with spice and woodsmoke. Aeryn stirred at the hearth, the leather tie in his hair losing its hold as errant curls slipped free to shadow his face.
“You’re just in time,” he said. “And I made extra bread.”
“I brought wine,” I said, setting the bottle down beside the lemons and candles I’d picked up from the last stall.
For a moment, his smile was easy.
We gathered around the long table, hand-carved by my father from dark wood, its surface scattered with cubes of yellowed bone. Each die was etched with ring-and-dot pips, the carvings worn smooth from years of play, edges imperfect from the maker’s knife. They clattered across the wood in quick, uneven tumbles, chased by cards slipping deftly between hands. Laughter wove through the scent of stew and bread.
We played two rounds. Aeryn won both.
Hayat groaned dramatically, face in his palms. “This is rigged.”
“You’ve just forgotten how to bluff,” Aeryn said, lips twitching.
Round three began. The wind howled faintly through the chimney, and the candle nearest Aeryn flickered. His fingers twitched.
“You alright?” I asked casually.
He nodded. Too fast. “I’m fine.”
But his pupils began to swallow the blue of his eyes. The cards slipped slightly from his grasp.
We kept playing. I won a hand. Then Hayat. The next round, Aeryn stared at his cards too long. The shadows behind him deepened. The air shifted.
“Aeryn?” I asked, heart skipping.
His lips parted. The sound that emerged was a rasp. A groan. Like something ancient trying to force its way through too-small lungs.
The candle beside him extinguished.
“Aeryn—hey,” Hayat said, rising. “You’re alright. You’re safe.”
Aeryn’s eyes snapped upward.
But they weren’t his.