“Then he may speak to me when the time comes,” she answered simply.
And that was all he needed to hear. Wickett’s shoulders fell loose, as if he’d been holding his breath, bracing for impact this entire time. Because he had. I’d heard the way his father spoke to him after our first trial. Maybe not in the exact words, but the tone through my door was clear enough. As long as someone else took responsibility, he could breathe a little easier now.
Good for him. I couldn’t. Not when the Magistrate would turn her death into a spectacle. This wasn’t grief I could sit with. It was a blade pressed to my throat, a reminder that if I let them steer this hunt, Eda Mire would become nothing more than his proof. His performance. His message. And I’d be damned before I let him write her ending for me.
Riot moved with reverent care. When his hand touched Vitoria’s blade, I drew a sharp breath. He froze, amber eyes lifting to mine, and in them I saw no judgment, no suspicion, only respect. The weight of it settled between us, steady and unflinching, and something in me finally yielded. This was real. Eda Mire was gone. No clever plan or desperate denial could undo it.
Riot bowed his head slightly, as if offering me the smallest piece of silence, a sacred pause for what I’d lost. The kindness in it cracked something inside me, and before I realized, another tear slipped free.
I couldn’t help glancing toward Wickett. I expected stone, but even he had shifted. His jaw tightened, and the corner of his mouth pulled down, a grimace that read less like disdain and more like the ache of recognition. It felt like sympathy.
Calder’s arms wrapped around me, strong and certain, pulling me into the safety of his chest. “You can look away,” he murmured against my temple.
I swallowed hard, forcing the lump down, and shook my head. “I’m okay.”
Riot pulled the blade free with one smooth motion, then placed his palm over the wound. Words in the old tongue fell from his lips like poetry.
When he turned her, I had to bite my cheek to keep from sobbing.
A rune hung around her neck on a simple leather cord. The moment Riot removed it, everything changed. Her hair softened, falling in waves, the luster she’d been hiding, restored. Lines smoothed from her face until she looked no older than thirty. Her rough merchant clothes transformed into a dress of deep crimson that pooled around her like spilled wine.
“Beautiful fury-born,” Riot murmured.
“How do you know?” Wickett asked. “That—that she’s not one of the original sisters?”
Aureth spoke, her accent a little thicker after Riot’s use of the old language. “It’s said the Fury sisters hide their wings in this world. But with no more magic to conceal them, her wings should have appeared. The fury-born have no such gifts.”
“What kind of wings?” Pip asked from behind the Oracle before she flew past and into the room. “Sorry we’re late. No one told us we were sneaking out.”
“As I told you,” the Oracle said, “we were right on time. And anyway,no oneknows what the Fury sisters’ wings look like.None of us now alive have ever seen them. Well, perhaps their dragons.”
Her attention turned to the solemn Guardian crouched on the floor.
Riot took a breath, as if he were admitting something he shouldn’t. “The dragons can no longer identify the Sisters. Their magic is strong enough now that their true identity has been pulled from our memory—a decision we would have fought against.”
The Oracle’s raven left her shoulder, hopping across the floor toward where Silas crouched in my lap. The bird tilted its head at an unnatural angle, studying my familiar. Silas made a low warning sound, snapping his beak with enough force to echo around the room. The raven stepped back, apparently deciding the grumpy griffin wasn’t worth the trouble.
“It’s raining,” Lucette announced from the doorway, water dripping from her hair. “Hard.”
“Then we need to move,” Wickett said, already standing. “The killer’s trail will wash away if we don’t follow it now.”
My chest tightened at the thought of leaving Eda Mire, but letting him get anywhere close to Vitoria was not an option. I needed to intervene. Wickett was cunning and notorious. The rumors said he was stronger and faster than any other hunter, and I was pretty sure I’d seen proof of that in the arena. There was a reason he was covered in tiny metal scars—and it wasn’t because people underestimated him.
But to my benefit, people always underestimated me.
As we filed toward the door, I took one last look over my shoulder. Riot had already begun the rites, his hands hovering above my oldest friend as he spoke more foreign words.
I leaned close to Calder, hardly daring to breathe as I said, “I’m going to need you to trust me more than ever before.”
He managed a dipped chin, solidarity in that small gesture.
Rain hit my face like cold needles as we emerged. That’s when I noticed what Wickett carried. Vitoria’s blade. But more concerning was the rune he’d pulled from his pocket. A tracking rune etched in bloodstone. I recognized the markings even through the rain.
I needed to act. Now. Before he called in his cinderhowl,beforehe used that rune.
“We hunt tonight,” Wickett announced, the rain streaming off his coat. “No rest, no delay. The Phoenix’s trail is fresh, and I intend to follow it to whatever hole she’s crawled into.”
Pip’s wings drooped. “But we’re... We’re not going to sleep? Aren’t you sleepy? We’ve already been up the whole day.”
