I can’t allow anything to happen to the people and places I love.
Then it hits me harder than an avalanche.
I love her.
And just like that—sentiment is set in stone.
I love her.
And I will tell her that myself when I return.
Chapter 19
Alina
The Barrow
The first thing I notice is the sound.
Alaric’s boots.
Back and forth across the same stretch of stone, over and over, until I swear the floor is starting to groove itself around his path.
We’ve commandeered one of the Barrow’s larger common rooms as our waiting headquarters—the one with big arched windows that look out over the terraces and a hearth big enough to roast a dragon in.
Clarisse and a small army of servants have turned it into a war-comfort nest.
They keep bringing us things.
Steaming pots of fyrran and herbal teas.
Platters piled high with roasted meats, flatbreads still warm from the ovens, bowls of bright dipping sauces that smell like fire and herbs.
Crisp vegetables that snap between your teeth, dusted with salt and something tangy.
It would be a feast any other day.
Today, we pick.
We sip.
We push food around plates.
Because none of us are really hungry.
The hours stretch into something rubbery and thin, pulling at my nerves.
Twice now, I’ve felt it under my feet—like the Marches themselves are trying to report in to me.
Distant tremors. A low, mourning hum that curls up my spine like cold smoke.
Stone’s Edge is hurt.
I know it before the messenger stone on the wall flares to life.
I’m sitting at the big table with Jules and Phoebe, pretending to read while mostly staring at the same page, when it happens.
The stone—an oval of dark rock veined with pale light—flickers, then blooms hot.
