“She’s going to find out.” Elysian’s words weren’t warning. They were inevitability.
Ronan knew he was right. Sooner or later, Verena would learn what the prophecy demanded of him. He would tell her. Not now, not today. But he wouldn’t bury it forever.
Maybe she would kill him the moment the truth left his tongue. Maybe that would be the kindness, her blade, or her venom, sparing him from the oath’s fire, from the ash already waiting to claim his blood.
And flames burn him, if it was her hand, he almost wouldn’t mind.
Elysian’s eyes narrowed, already catching the thought before Ronan could lock it away. Softly, like a verdict, he said, “You wouldn’t stop her.”
It was an accusation, flung with the precision of a knife.
His stare held Ronan’s for a moment longer, long enough to let the truth bury. He pushed from the wall and strode toward the cave’s mouth, leaving Ronan alone, as still and damned as the dead man at his feet.
Ronan ran his fingers down the sage-colored tunic, its cotton smooth, yet suffocating against his skin.
A gift. Killian’s idea of humor forced onto him with a smirk.
So Verena doesn’t wake to your all-black and bloodied nonsense,he’d said. As if a tunic could erase or dull the memory on Ronan’s hands.
The camp lay quiet as Pixies who had been spared worked in silence to tend the broken, to bury the lost.
The aftermath of battle was always solemn. Even if you won, even if most of your soldiers survived, there was always that lingering death in the air that would never dissipate.
That’s the part that haunted you. Not the noise of battle, but the hush afterward.
The tent opening flapped against the breeze where Ronan hesitated, his hand hovering over the cloth. Before he found the courage to push through, Nezra slipped out, her palm flat against his chest.
“Wait,” she said.
He snarled, trying to shoulder past her. “Killian said she was awake—”
She shifted, planting herself in front of him again, arms raised. He could have torn through her, but her eyes held him still.
“Relax, I just need to speak with you first.”
His stare moved to the thin veil of fabric between him and the truth of Verena’s survival, then back to the Liraern blocking his path.
His arms folded, the motion stiff. “You have one minute.”
Nezra tilted her chin. “How long have you known?” Her voice dropped, low enough to blend with the hum of the camp outside.
His brow furrowed. “Known what?”
Her eyes cut to his forearm, the new mark burning beneath her stare.
Ronan’s gut twisted, a quiet admission growing. He wasn’t sure how long he had known. Perhaps from the very first moment, maybe even before she even existed in the flesh, when fate’s spite was nothing more than a mutter in his blood.
But he would never let Nezra hold that realism.
“Don’t play dull with me, Ronan.” Her voice sharpened. “You may not be the oldest in this cursed company, nor the cleverest, but you see more than you admit. So, how long have you carried the truth of who she is?”
She means the bond between you two,he told himself.The bond, nothing more.
But the gleam in her dusk-stained eyes spoke with the warning that she was hunting a deeper truth. One he hadn’t been brave enough to face.
“She doesn’t know,” Nezra continued. “And if you’re keeping it from her for your own gain, if you think you can twist this mission, twist her fate, to your advantage—” She leaned in. “I’ll make sure you regret it.”
He bent down, enough to see his reflection in her eerie eyes. “You think I’d hurt her?”
