I promise the Vaythari I will find their sister tribe, reunite what was broken. Then we ride—down the mountain, away from Skaedor’s Crest and all it awakened.
The chilling winds have calmed, as if they, too, have sighed with relief at our leaving. Despite having countless things to discuss—like Seren translating the language of the Vaythari, the gods magic, my being Skaedor’s heir, and the fact that my magic thrums through my veins with frightening tenacity—we let our horses tread carefully down the rocky, snowy descent and settle into a comfortable silence.
I’m grateful for the silence, because it gives me a moment to reorder the thoughts that whip like a tornado through my mind.
Everything has changed.
I began the ascent to Skaedor’s Crest with vengeance in one hand and uncertainty in the other. Doubt whispered in my bones. I had never feared the fight—I feared not being enough for it. Not strong enough. Not trusting enough. Not the type of powerful that bends kingdoms.
Being ruthless in the slums is different—it is survival. It is instinct. A sharpened edge that keeps you alive.
But out here? In the wide-open air of the realms, where birds still sing and people live in peace?
It is far easier to forget that the world needs changing.
But the winds did not forget.
The heavens chose me.
The Stars named me.
The skies whispered my fate.
And now, for the first time, I do not just accept it—I hunger for it.
For the first time, I do not fear what I am becoming—I crave it.
Vengeance is no longer a weight in my palm.
It is the fire in my blood, the breath in my lungs, the blade in my hand.
The echoes of the Vaythari chanting my name still reverberate across the valley as we ride, but it is Kael’s steady heartbeat and breath at my back that anchors me to reality.
This is real.
This is mine.
And finally, I am not afraid.
Ronyn bellows, “So... are we gonna talk about Seren suddenly speaking mountain-tongue, or are we all just gonna pretend that’s normal?”
Seren flushes, but before she can speak, Therion exhales sharply, as if he’s been holding this in for a while.
“I don’t sense magic on you,” he says, looking at Seren. “Not the kind I know. But that doesn’t mean it’s not there.”
Her brow furrows. “Then what does it mean?”
Therion’s jaw ticks. He weighs his words, careful, calculating. “I don’t know yet.” He looks at her then, sharp and assessing. “But when I first met you, I thought I felt something. Like... you were reading me. Testing me. Probing.”
A beat of silence.
“Maybe it was me?” I offer, though even as I say it, I know I’m wrong. “My magic was still there, even if I couldn’t use it.”
Therion shakes his head. “No. Yours was thrashing, wild. Hers was... quieter.” His gaze flickers to Seren. “Like a shadow that doesn’t want to be seen.”
Seren swallows hard.
Ronyn claps his hands together, breaking the tension. “Well, it sure as shit wasn’t me—unless my supernatural gift is my charm with the ladies.” He grins and bounces his brows.
