“Your rune,” Mirael says. “Where is it?”
“Lost,” I murmur, my veil brushing against my lips as I speak.
“We will have to make you a new one,” Saren replies. “It will take time. We need to find the right tree and have it blessed by the Souls.”
I nod, understanding the process of creating our runes of power.
“But you are home now,” Lira adds, her hand gently gripping my shoulder. “So it doesn’t matter how long it takes.”
I can barely form a smile, barely make a sound. My mind drifts elsewhere, scattered and unfocused, knowing and dreading that while this is painful, there are worse things yet to come.
“You should rest, Amara,” Mirael says gently. “The battle has taken much from you.”
“There is no time for rest,” I mutter, pulling my voice from the depths of my sorrow. “The Golden Son cannot go unpunished. He must pay for what he has done.”
I can sense my Sisters’ disapproval.
“No, Amara. We are done with this war. He tried to crush The Grove and failed. We have won,” Lira insists.
“No, we have not,” I protest, recalling Daed’s words. “We have only kepthimfrom winning. That does not mean he won't return, and now we are even weaker than before.”
“Listen to Mirael,” Saren interjects, her tone low and firm. “Go and rest. When you’re better, we can discuss this further.”
I feel their gazes piercing through their veils, their judgment hanging heavy in the air around me. I do not want to rest. I do not want to discuss. All we Tenders do is sit, talk, and wait while terrible people commit terrible crimes against the innocent, and no one takes action to stop them.
Our people are dead. Arax is dead. Someone must suffer as they suffered.
Pain for pain. More meat for the beast.
“Amara,” Mirael says, her voice sounding distant, as if a million miles separate us. “Are you alright?”
My head snaps up, the wind catching my veil. “I’m fine,” I reply blankly. I cannot share my thoughts with them; they could never understand. “You’re right. I will go and rest.”
Without uttering a word, the stag approaches, bowing so I can grip its soft ruff and pull myself onto its back. It leads me away, but I can still feel the weight of my Sisters’ gaze on me. For the first time in my life, I feel the links of our bond straining. We have always agreed on what is best for The Grove, but not today.
Not about this. I wish I could articulate it, explain it to them in a way they might accept, but those words elude me.
When we arrive at The Grove, I pause long enough to remove my veil and glance over the vine wall before whispering my thoughts to the stag who carries on through the forest. We pass by the stream and the place where the roots are large enough to walk under until the trees thin and the field beyond the borders of the forest comes into view. The massive boulders still flank either side of the forest entrance. Though they are slightly askew now, the golems not returning to exactly the same spot when they sat down.
The wind howls softly, still carrying the smell of blood and smoke, and I wrap my arms around myself, shivering despite the lingering warmth of the fading sun. The sleeve of my robe catches in the breeze, revealing the red ribbon tied around my wrist. I stare at it for a moment, memories of Arax flooding my mind, so vivid I can reach and touch him. But a bird calling out as it soars through the air snaps me back to my hard reality. Arax isn’t here anymore. I pull my sleeve down, swallowing the lump in my throat.
In the center of the field, I catch sight of Daed and Zyphoro. They have constructed a wooden pyre and the few Blades that remain swoop in from the sky, their arms bundled with branches which they stack beneath the structure.
Daed turns as if he can sense me. He steps into the void then suddenly appears beside me, his arms outstretched to lift me down from the stag. His dirty, calloused hands grip my waist and I slip down into his embrace. He holds me to him, long and silent with a firm tenderness that helps calm the anger and sadness raging within me.
When we part, I find his face marred by battle, but he is far more concerned with my face.
“Wife,” he mutters, his voice a low growl, his hand hovering above my swollen eye. “I will kill him for this.”
“It doesn’t hurt,” I say as his hand cups the side of my neck, his thumb tracing the line of my jaw.
“It hurtsme,” he replies. “But then again, you are stronger than I ever could be.”
My gaze drifts past him to the pyre, where a row of silhouettes shrouded in black Mordorin cloaks lie still. Though I know what lies beneath those cloaks, I can't bring myself to voice the truth. To do so would shatter me completely. I turn my attention to the horizon, where the sun sinks low, the sky awash in hues of red and orange, as if the world itself is bleeding alongside my heart.
“What moon is it tonight?” I ask.
Daed exhales, his face hard, his lips a straight line. “The Mourner’s Eye.”
