Lying on her back with a single ray of sunshine falling over her, she looked so peaceful. Far more than she had been in her life. Her pearlescent locks were perfectly curled and fell in long, loose waves around her shoulders. The stones restingatop her eyes glittered. The silk adorning her frame shone too.
She looked ethereal. Otherworldly, almost.
Tears blurred my vision. This time, I let them claw down my cheeks.
“I love you,” I rasped. Though she couldn’t hear me. She never would again.
I kissed the tips of my fingers and laid them gently against her cool brow, the final benediction of love she would ever receive. Memories of us as girls rose, unbidden. How I’d dance circles around her while she painted. How she’d flick her wet brush in my direction, dotting me with color. Then, as we grew older, sharing a bottle of wine we swiped from our parents and getting blissfully drunk beneath a full moon.
We were supposed to have more moments like that. Make more memories together.
But this would be my final one of her. One I’d make alone.
“Go in peace.”
Swallowing hard, I tipped the flame to the bundle of kindling beneath her. The dry brush caught—too soon. More herbal smoke filled the air.
I stepped back, every heartbeat a knife carving the organ to ribbons. Someone lifted the torch from my hands.
Heat licked my skin, a foreign sensation when I was so cold inside. But I couldn’t look away.
Even as Vaeron dragged me back to my seat.
I couldn’t move, even as everyone else drifted away.
Fire engulfed my friend, sending her soul onto its next journey. And as the lashes of red rose, so too did my resolve to change.
Myself.
This realm.
This war.
Because we couldn’t keep going like this.
A hand pressed into my shoulder, finally tearing my gaze away from the burning body of my sister. I blinked, mind as hazy as the fog in the forest.
Zuriel—no, Ithuriel, stood over me, ice-blue irises cradling something that looked a lot like sympathy.
“Sylaira, I am sorry for your loss,” he said, his words elegant and polished. Somehow, not a hair was out of place, despite the time that had passed with us outside. “Heraphia was sweet and kind and embodied many qualities that I should have embraced sooner. I hope you can forgive me for not welcoming her into the family as I should have.”
I opened my mouth, then shut it again. Quickly, I glanced around, realizing only Vaeron and Maelsar remained in the garden, speaking in hushed tones some distance away.
“I–” I began, unsure how to respond.
Ithuriel cleared his throat and continued. “Zuriel is my heir, as you know, and now he fights on the front lines. I fear that House Ilytharï will die out. Perhaps if I had been a better male, that would not be the case.”
Why was he confessing this to me, here of all places? Was this guilt, or was he telegraphing something to the Issaraeth, whose gaze remained on us even now?
“You have told him?” I clarified.
He nodded. “I hope that when the message reaches them, the Zahal will relieve him of duty, even temporarily, to grieve. Yet the war wages on, fierce and violent, and I am afraid there will be no time for him.”
Fear held my ribs in a vise. “Heraphia’s last words were that she saw the end of the war.”
At least that was what I had assumed she meant. What else could she have been focused on? What else would the Goddess have shown her anyway?
Ithuriel dipped his head, releasing a long sigh. “I pray that she did. And that it didn’t end with all our deaths.” His gaze drifted toward my mate. “Hold fast to those you love. Mates are the most blessed gift, even more so than your Sight. Take care, Sylaira, and may the Goddess save you.”
