My rules.
The window shows my cottage kitchen first. The kettle’s on. A mug sits by the sink. Someone’s been in my space.
Then the image shifts, guided by Tabitha’s hand, and settles on BlackFen Edge’s cemetery.
It’s raining. Ireland never misses an opportunity.
Rynna stands under an oak with her hood up, blade in one hand and a stake in the other, staring down a hole in the ground like she’s deciding whether to kick something in it.
She looks… different.
Not older, exactly. But sharper around the eyes. Like she’s been forced to learn that bravery isn’t just attitude and goodtiming—it’s waking up every day and choosing to keep going anyway.
She’s wearing my old leather jacket. One that I myself hadn’t worn for years.
My throat tightens.
“Still stealing my clothes,” I mutter.
Dastian appears beside the Throne without walking, heat kissing my shoulder. “That’s sibling love. Theft and insults.”
I tilt my head to look at him. He’s sprawled on the step below the dais like he owns it, boots on ancient marble, grin lazy, hair a mess. He looks too bright for this place, like a spark that refused to be put out.
“You’re late,” I tell him.
“I was busy,” he says, and the way he says it implies he caused at least three minor disasters on the way here.
Voren arrives next—no sound, just a drop in temperature and the faint whisper of wraithlight sliding into the room. He stops at my left, as always, gaze going straight to the sightline.
Dreven is already here. I don’t see him arrive; I feel him settle behind the Throne like a shadow deciding it likes this corner.
I don’t turn. I don’t need to. His presence is a line down my spine. Steady, possessive, protective in that quiet way that makes me want to bite him and thank him at the same time.
Rynna moves into the sightline. She crouches by the hole, reaches down, and drags something up by its collar.
A vampire. Newly turned by the look of it. Still stupid enough to think fangs make you immortal.
He snarls at her, eyes glowing, claws scraping at wet earth.
Rynna headbutts him.
It’s brutal, efficient, and deeply Rynna.
“Arsehole,” she mutters, and drives the stake straight through his heart.
The vampire goes rigid, then collapses into ash.
Rynna stands, shakes ash off her hands, and looks around like she expects applause.
None comes.
She doesn’t need it.
But she takes a bow anyway.
My heart lurches.
She wipes her face with the back of her sleeve and starts walking out of the cemetery with a gait that screams exhaustion and stubborn pride.
