Because if Ethos isn’t coming, it means he doesn’t need to. It means whatever’s happening here—whatever he’s doing to her—he’s already won.
Jace’s blade appears in his hand, reflecting the silver light. “How many Nightmares are we talking about?”
“Enough,” Stellan says, and there’s something hollow in his voice. Something that sounds like grief.
The hoofbeats crescendo.
Then—silence.
The kind of silence that makes your ears ring. That feels like the world is holding its breath.
The silver flames in the sconces gutter and die, plunging us into darkness lit only by the veins pulsing through the floor and the faint glow of Seth’s corrupted bond.
I feel it before I see it.
A presence. Massive. Wrong in a way that has nothing to do with magic and everything to do with instinct screaming predator.
Then the darkness moves.
Shapes emerge from the black—tall, powerful, graceful in a way that makes my skin crawl.
Nightmares.
The name fits.
They’re massive—easily seventeen hands at the shoulder. Black as the Void itself, coats so dark they seem to absorb light rather than reflect it. But when they move, silver shimmers across their flanks like moonlight on water.
Two horns curve back from each skull. Not delicate like a unicorn’s—brutal, elegant, deadly. Their eyes glow molten silver, tracking us with intelligence that’s too knowing to be animal.
Smoke curls from their hooves with each step, dissipating into silver mist that clings to the ground.
There are seven of them. Maybe more in the darkness. It’s hard to tell where one ends and the next begins.
My fire flares hot enough to make the air shimmer, but I hold my ground.
The lead Nightmare steps forward, and I get my first clear look at it.
Bigger than the others. Scars across its flanks that shimmer silver against black. Eyes that burn with something ancient and patient and terrifying.
It moves toward Stellan first, those molten silver eyes fixed on him.
When the voice comes, it bypasses sound entirely—flowing directly into my mind like cold water.
You called, Master. We answer.
Stellan’s breath catches. His hands shake.
Then the Nightmare’s gaze shifts.
Past Stellan. Past all of us.
To Bree.
The creature goes utterly still.
The Source.
It’s not a question. It’s recognition, reverence.
