But I didn’t deserve his light.
Rhodes flinched, his breath hitching as he tried to hide the impact of my words. He stood, fists clenched at his sides, jaw set like stone. He looked down at me, into my eyes, as if he could see through the lies. Sunlight cut through the single window, illuminating the faint blue in his right eye. It took everything in me to hold my ground, praying he’d listen to my words and not the truth in my gaze.
He swallowed hard, breaking our eye contact. Rhodes ran a hand through his messy hair as he turned to leave, but stopped in the doorway.
“I’m calling your bluff.”
The door slammed behind him.
I climbed through the window to find Laney already sweeping the dusty floors. Sunlight streamed through the cracks in the boarded-up windows, painting streaks of gold across the old stone walls.
It was a bright, beautiful day in Lanorcoast. After breakfast with her parents—and more than a few mimosas—we wandered to the abandoned building Laney swore would one day become our bookstore-slash-plant-store-slash-coffee-shop.
“You know we don’t even own this place yet, right? Why are you cleaning it?” I asked, coughing as the dust swirled around me.
Her back was to me, but I could feel her joy in the light skips of her bare feet across the stone floor. Her brown curls bounced as she swept and twirled, a seamless blend of work and dance. Laney turned her head just enough for me to catch her mischievous grin—but not her eyes.
“Isn’t it obvious, Thorny-Pie? Who else is gonna clean it since I’m dead?”
I jolted upright in bed, drenched in sweat. My chest rose and fell in rapid, shallow bursts as I fought to steady myself. My eyes roamed the small, shadowed hut I had shut myself away in. The heavy stone circular walls provided only the faintest trace ofwarmth. I hadn’t stepped outside yet, but I’d felt the chill of the air on my skin whenever Rhodes visited.
The hut had as little life in it as I did. A single bed was pushed against the wall, beside an old chest of drawers and a basket of quilts. A small washroom connected to the space with a simple toilet, sink, and shallow tub. The tub didn’t have running water, but at least the toilet did—that was one less reason to leave my hole.
Someone—I assumed Rhodes—had been leaving trays of food on the chest of drawers throughout the day. Each time there was a knock, I feigned sleep, though it was hardly an act. Other than quick trips to the washroom, I hadn’t left the bed.
Restlessness clawed at me after another morbid dream of Laney. Kicking off the quilt, I swung my legs over the side and glanced out the window. Frost on the glass kissed my skin with its chill. Beyond the pane, huts like mine dotted the landscape, their round stone structures blending into the gray expanse of the mountains.
The village was already alive with movement. Smoke curled from chimneys. The rhythmic crack of axes echoed as townsfolk chopped wood. Others shuffled past with crates of supplies, while children darted at their feet, shrieking with laughter.
This was the place I had seen in my visions through Fallon’s eyes. From what I recalled, Rhodes said this was the Hollow Summit. He mentioned that he and Shayde were never allowed on trips out here. To the right, I could just make out rope bridges stretching precariously between the plateaus, swaying in the wind. But I had seen no sign of the black wolf. Or my sister.
I had too many questions, but no will to solve them.
So I crawled back under the covers and waited for sleep to take me again.
Chapter 3
Doryan’s next move was painfully predictable. He feinted left, aiming a right hook toward my ribs—but I was already a step ahead. I planted my weight and snapped my boot up, catching him square in the jaw with a satisfying crack.
He staggered back, clutching his nose. “Ah, come on, Fitzroy!” he groaned, blood trickling between his fingers. “Cheap shot.”
I smirked, rolling my shoulders. “Maybe don’t make your moves so obvious next time, D. It’s getting embarrassing.”
His eyes flashed with irritation as he straightened, already mastering his pain to gear up for another round. “You forget who taught you that,” he muttered.
He wasn’t wrong. Doryan might be twice my size, but since the day Father tossed me into the fighting ring, he had been the one to take me under his wing. Father gave me no direction, no special training—just a brutal introduction. One morning, he simply declared it was “time to learn how to be a warrior” and threw me into a group of ten young men, each one towering overme. They had the size, strength, and weight advantage—and they didn’t hold back. Father didn’t care. He said battles don’t match you up by size and that I’d need to be his secret weapon.
So I learned to be faster, sharper, and ten steps ahead of everyone in the ring. I learned to strike hard and where it hurt to make up for the strength I didn’t have. Doryan may have been my most challenging opponent, but he was also my best teacher. And he knew by now that I wouldn’t hold back just because he’d taken a hit.
I swept my leg in a tight arc, catching his ankles and sending him crashing to the ground. Doryan landed hard, his hands still pressed to his nose. He looked up at me, that familiar wide grin spreading across his face despite the bruising.
“Atta girl,” he said, his tone a mix of pride and pain.
I leaned over, bracing my hands on my knees, catching my breath. “Careful, D. You don’t want anyone seeing you get your ass kicked by a girl,” I teased, giving him a playful wink.
Doryan stood up, wiping the blood from his nose onto his leather pants. As always, he was shirtless—a sight he never seemed to mind showing off. His deep brown skin caught the sunlight, highlighting the chiseled muscles he’d earned through years of training. His left arm was a canvas of inked art, a sleeve I’d crafted over time. Yet, no matter how often I asked, he refused to let me work on his right arm.
His right arm had a horror story written in a language of burn scars.
