Staring at my clenched hands, I turn my right wrist toward the sky and study the nearly faded scar that lies across my palm in a diagonal. How many times did I pray to Thamaos in Rite Hall? Summon him from the realm of Eridan to the temple for King Gherahn?
Enough times to know that Thamaos was the only Tiressian god who required a blood sacrifice to deem someone worthy of his revered presence.
But he’s gone now. Not even the Brotherhood bleeds for him when they pray. Rite Hall is a museum. A well-kept and hallowed hall, an honor to Thamaos’s history. So why would the prince kneel in that room and spill his life’s blood for a god bound to the Shadow World?
I think back to last night. To the journal entry I was translating when Raina came to me, from day number one hundred and seventy-four. There are a handful of entries mistakenly scribed in my journal by an archivist or perhaps an assistant, though if I ever knew who, I can’t recall now. Still, I’ve rewritten those faded Elikesh words so many times that I know them by heart. They always draw my eye, the way the faded shadow of each letter is perfectly formed.
The gods may die, but they can still find you. They arrive as a whisper in the night. A chill in the wind. An ember from a flame. A wave on the shore. Listen for them always and watch your back. Because even when the worst of them is dead and buried, you will not be safe.
A whisper in the fucking night.
Thamaos certainly knew about Colden and Fia. He had a hand in Asha and Neri paying for their crimes with the Fire Queen and Frost King. He knew that the Northland king could be used as a pawn. A distraction.
Bait.
He just didn’t have time to do anything about it before Urdin stopped him. Before Urdin ended them both to see Thamaos condemned to the Shadow World.
Is Thamaos manipulating the prince from beyond? Using the prince to his own devices?
Surely, I’m wrong. Surely.
Before I can spout the litany of curses rising inside me, Callan and Helena walk up. Callan, donned in their dark green cloak and layers upon layers of beaded necklaces, takes a seat beside me, a piece of salted meat in one hand, their pack in another. Hel sneaks up behind Rhonin. Her black hair is tied in a loose weave, her golden-brown face still puffy with sleep. Trying to startle him, she jerks his hood down, revealing his braided, red mane.
Rhonin tilts his head back to peer up at her. His cheeks instantly blush, and a lovesick smile spreads wide across his face.
Hel leans over him, smiling too. “What do you say we eat and then spar a little? Swordplay while the fog clears.”
“I say I’m in. And that I’m keeping score this time. You cheat.”
She splays her hand across her chest and bats those dark lashes at him. “Me? I would never cheat. Honor and all that.”
Rhonin laughs and pushes to his feet as Helena strolls toward the tent she shares with the Bloodgood sisters, but when his gaze catches on my face, his smile falters.
After a moment of hesitation, he crosses the few steps between us and places his hand on my shoulder. “Are you all right? You look pale as me.”
My pulse picks up pace. I know what I must do, much as I don’t want to.
“I am not.” Standing, I grab my scabbard and swords and shrug them over my shoulders. “I need you to keep everyone distracted while Callan and I go for a little walk.”
From beside me, Callan says, “That sounds ominous. I try not to do ominous things this early in the morning. I haven’t even eaten yet.”
With my attention on Rhonin, I fasten the holster around my chest and waist.
Rhonin trains his voice low. “How exactly am I supposed to keep them distracted with you two missing? Have you met Hel and Nephele and Raina? They’ll murder me for answers.”
“Raina and Nephele are still sleeping. I only need an hour. We’ll be at the rocky outcropping just west of here. About a five-minute trek if you stay true west. If we don’t return by mid-morning, then I suggest you come looking for us.”
“Mid-morning?” Concern fills his eyes. “It’s what I said about the prince, isn’t it? It means something really fucking bad.”
Looking west at the misty forest, I arch a brow, praying to the Ancient Ones that I’m wrong when I say, “It means everything.”
Callan rises and sighs, tugging their hood closer around their face. “All right, Old One. What are we doing?”
“Wait, can I come?” Rhonin asks.
“No,” I answer.
“Why?”
