Riven noticed.
But he didn’t speak to her.
“You don’t belong in this,” I said tightly.
“No,” he agreed. “But then again, neither do you.”
The remarkprickeda nerve, a wound too fresh for acknowledgment.
He took a slow step forward. Not down, not closer, but enough to make the ledge creak. “You’re still trying to be a sword in a world that forgot how to forge one. Noble and pointless.”
I inched closer, blade angled low but ready.
“You will not reach her,” I said.
His smile sharpened. “Oh, but I will.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Erindor
From the blackened remnants, smokeissued forth, a foul, simmering exhalation, suggesting a lingering spirit of decay.
The battlefield lay broken around us, dust drifting across the shattered stone, tents reduced to skeletal frames. The old tower still stood, blackened and cracked, casting long shadows over the courtyard that reeked of blood and heat.
Gideon lay sprawled beside a shattered column, the left side of his tunic soaked crimson with blood. Ignoring her own injury, Jasira dropped beside him, pressing a cloth fiercely against his wound, her lips a frantic murmur of pleas. Bran stood guard over both, teeth bared, tail rigid with tension.
Alaric limped across the clearing, dragging his sword, one leg bloodied from thigh to knee. His gaze flickered to me, a fleeting touch, before giving the slightest shake of his head.
We weren’t ready for another fight.
And yet the air told me it wasn’t over.
I turned toward the ridge.
Riven walked down slowly, boots nearly silent against the charred stone. Cloak trailing. Shoulders straight. No sword drawn. No urgency in his step.
Just control.
He descended like a shadow returning to its source. Something carved out of vengeance and silence, stitched together with cruelty so old it had forgotten its own shape.
My breath tightened. My blade ready for impact.
Wyn stood near the remnants of the gate. Her cloak had come loose, and she clutched a small dagger as if it were all she had left between her and the end.
Riven saw her. His mouth curved.
"So," he drawled, a smirk twisting his lips, "this is the girl they want to trade for peace." The words, barely a whisper, carried a mocking echo of a forgotten voice.
Wyn didn’t flinch, but I saw the tremble in her hand.
“Leave us,” she said, her voice too soft for fury, shaking.
He stopped a few paces away. “You’ve got her talking now,” he said to me. “Last time she stared.”
My grip tightened on the hilt of my sword.
I inched forward, every muscle tense.
