Not the scholar who archived it all.
Not the rebellion that waited.
Just silence.
And the promise of war.
But I hold her to my chest like I can shield her from them.From the world.
Elarion Castle’s halls drench us in guttering candlelight. Its softness a stark contrast to the war raging inside my mind. The fury that blazes in my chest at the mother who left her to starve. To fight every day of her godsforsaken life in the fucking Virellinslums. What she did was not love. It was politics wrapped in an altruistic disguise. And I won’t fucking tolerate it.Not when it comes to her.
My boots pound against the pale floors like a soldier marching to battle. I descend the library stairs, turn corners, stalk down hallways until Seren’s ragged breathing cuts through my focus.
But I don’t slow. I won’t stop until she knows she’s safe.
I push open the chamber door with my shoulder and cross to the bed draped in blankets the hue of vanilla and cinnamon. The sunlight spilling through the lattice window catches the gold flecks in her hair, the bruised violet under her eyes. She looks both infinite and breakable.
I lower her carefully, tugging the blanket to her shoulders, but she doesn’t move. Just stares blankly ahead as if she can’t fathom her mother’s resurrection. Or maybe it’s the erasure of witches, the binding of dragons, Maldrak, the fucking Memory Orbs.All of it.
Ronyn stands in the doorway, jaw clenched. He’s never looked more like a soldier.
“Stay with her,” I tell him. “Keep her safe.”
He nods once, moving to sit by her side. “With my life,” he vows.
I press a hand to Elyssara’s hair, a wordless promise, then turn to Seren still lingering in the doorway.
“Seren,” I say quietly, “I need your help.”
Her brows knit, but she doesn’t ask.
She just follows.
There’s one more thing I need to do—because holding a secret from her is now an act of betrayal. Even if she knows I’m holding it.
The moment the door shuts, the strategy begins.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
ELYSSARA
The night comes quickly—almostas jarring as the way my mother rose from the dead.
The candles have burned low, their flames bending in the draft that slips through the lattice window. I must have drifted in and out, but I’m not sure I ever truly slept. My mind keeps replaying her face—every line and hollow, every echo of the woman I thought I’d buried two decades ago.
It should feel like a miracle.
It doesn’t.
It feels like a theft.
Because every year she breathed while I clawed through the filth of Virellin feels like something stolen from me. From the child she told to run. From the girl who learned the world didn’t come back for what it left behind.
My chest aches with too many questions and not enough air.
What else have they hidden? What else have I forgotten?
Ronyn sits near the window, boots propped against the wall, pretending to doze. I can tell by the way his hand rests near the hilt of his dagger that he’s been awake the whole time. Guarding. Watching.
