But I'm focused on only one thing. The pendant sits exactly where I left it—small and pink and pulsing with faint light.
I grab it, close my fist around the smooth crystal, and push my magic into it.
The response is immediate. The pendant flares bright, warm against my palm, and then tugs. Not toward the market, not toward Lora's house.
Out of the city entirely.
Toward the human villages to the west.
My blood goes cold.
She went back. Either by choice or by force, she went back to that godsdamned village where her piece of shit husband?—
The thought cuts off as rage floods in to replace the panic. Hot and vicious and absolute.
If he touched her. If he so much aslookedat her wrong?—
I'm airborne again before the thought finishes, the pendant clutched tight enough that the edges dig into my palm. It pulls me west, a steady tug that strengthens as I get closer.
The city falls away beneath me. Rolling hills, patches of forest, the dirt road that connects New Solas to the smaller settlements. I follow the pendant's pull, flying faster than I've ever flown, until my lungs burn and my wings scream in protest.
Don't care. She needs me. The bond might be silent but that doesn't mean she's not in danger, doesn't mean she's not hurt or scared or?—
The village comes into view.
Small cluster of buildings, maybe two dozen houses total, surrounded by farmland and grazing fields. I scan for her as I descend, searching for wine-red fabric or dark curls oranything?—
The pendant yanks hard to the left.
I bank, following its pull toward the edge of the village. There's a house there—small, run-down, with peeling paint and a sagging roof. The blacksmith's house. Has to be.
I land hard enough to crack the ground beneath my boots, wings flaring wide as I straighten. The pendant burns against my palm, pulsing in time with my racing heart.
She's here. Somewhere in this godsforsaken place, she's here.
And if that bastard has hurt her, if he's laid one fucking finger on what'smine?—
I'm going to paint the walls with his blood.
18
SENNA
The ground bites into my knees, cold and hard through the thin fabric of my dress. My hands are bound behind my back with coarse rope that cuts into my wrists with every slight movement.
I can't feel Lorenth.
That's the worst part. Not the bruises blooming across my ribs where Darian dragged me from the carriage. Not the raw ache in my throat from where he forced that vile liquid down, holding my jaw until I had no choice but to swallow. Not even the crowd gathering in the village square, their faces curious and judgmental andeagerfor the spectacle.
It's the silence where the bond should be.
The emptiness feels wrong. Like someone carved out part of my chest and left a hole that won't stop bleeding. I reach for Lorenth instinctively, searching for that warm pulse of his presence, but there's only void. Nothing. Just the lingering burn of whatever Darian made me drink.
"Look at her." Darian's voice carries across the square, loud and righteous. He circles me like a predator, boots crunchingon packed dirt. "Mywife. The woman I took in. Fed. Clothed. Protected."
My throat throbs where his fingers dug in earlier, holding me still while he pried my jaw open and poured that bitter liquid down. I can still taste it—metallic and wrong, coating my tongue like oil.
"And what does she do?" He stops in front of me, blocking out the afternoon sun. "Runs off to spread her legs for some xaphan. Like a common whore."
