I know this. We all know it. Valdris is ash on a volcanic wind, but her legacy remains. Three Relics still exist, scattered across territories we’ve barely mapped. The rogues who served her have scattered too—leaderless but not harmless, regrouping in dark places, waiting for someone new to follow.
And somewhere out there, whoever was truly pulling Valdris’s strings might still be watching. Waiting. Planning.
But tonight, standing in the cold mountain air with Rurik’s claiming mark warm against my chest, it feels different. Not safe—I’ve learned better than to believe in safety. But winnable. Forthe first time since I woke screaming in an infirmary bed weeks ago, the war feels like something we can actually win.
Movement catches my attention. A shadow detaching from deeper shadow, moving along the ramparts with that unnatural silence that marks Zyphon wherever he goes.
He doesn’t acknowledge me. Doesn’t break stride. His attention is fixed on something in his hand—a scroll that seems to writhe with darkness, the letters shifting and reforming as I watch.
Shadow-script. I’ve read about it in Auren’s books. Messages written in living darkness, readable only by those cursed to see them.
“Zyphon.”
He stops. Doesn’t turn. The shadows around him pulse with agitation I’ve never seen before—not the controlled menace he usually projects, but something rawer. Something that looks almost like fear.
“What is it?” I move closer, close enough to see the tension in his shoulders, the rigid line of his spine. “What does it say?”
For a long moment, he doesn’t answer. The scroll crumbles to ash in his grip, consumed by the same shadows that delivered it.
“I have to go.”
“Go where?”
He finally turns. Those violet-shadowed eyes meet mine, and what I see there makes my breath catch. Not the cold, controlled predator I’ve grown accustomed to. Something broken. Something haunted.
“To bury something I thought was already dead.”
He walks away before I can argue, disappearing inside the fortress.
I stand frozen, staring at empty air.
Footsteps behind me. Lighter. Familiar.
“You saw that.” Selene’s voice is quiet. She moves to stand beside me, arms wrapped around herself against the cold.
“What was in that message?”
“I don’t know.” She stares at the spot where Zyphon disappeared. “But I’ve seen that look before. Once. The night before we went after Valdris—Drayke was telling me about his brothers. Preparing me for what we might face.”
“What did he say?”
Selene hesitates. The wind picks up, carrying the scent of snow from higher peaks.
“He mentioned a woman. Said it was centuries ago—before the curse, before Zyphon became what he is now.” Her voice drops. “She was the only one he ever loved.”
My stomach tightens. “What happened to her?”
“Drayke said Zyphon watched her die.” Selene’s expression is troubled. Uncertain. “But the way he said it... the way his voice changed when he talked about her...”
Silence stretches between us. The kind of silence that holds secrets too heavy to speak.
“You don’t think she stayed dead.” It’s not a question.
“I don’t know what I think.” Selene wraps her arms tighter around herself. “But Zyphon has never run from anything. Not rogues, not Relics, not Valdris herself. Whatever that message said—whoever it’s about—it’s the first time I’ve ever seen him look afraid.”
I think about the shadows that writhe around him. The curse that’s slowly consuming him from the inside. The violet cracks in his scales that pulse with power that isn’t entirely his own.
I think about the way he fought beside us against Valdris—savage, relentless, willing to die if it meant protecting the people he’d never admit he cares about.
