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Lily averted his gaze, shaking her head. “None at all.”

He leaned in closer, and a waft of escence soiled the air, the odor unnatural and scorching, like burnt hair laced with orange zest. “Are you sure?”

A chill ran up her spine. She’d had enough. “Time’s up,” she said, pulling away. “Why don’t you run off and find that missing cat.”

She twisted to leave, but her body went rigid—completely stiff. Move. Why can’t I move?

“You know, I was having a really horrible day until I ran into you.”

“How are you—”

“Shh,” Neir purred. “I’m not ready for you to leave. Not without your name.” Against her will, her body settled back in the stool, her hands clasped together tightly in her lap. “But I think I already know it. Want me to take a guess?”

Lily’s breathing became shallow, her heart thrumming high in her throat.

He grazed a hand over her cheek. The roughness behind his fingers gave her the sensation of flinching, but her body couldn’t react. He pinched the frame of her glasses, pulling them gently off her face.

Neir’s expression was pure excitement. Twisted and horrifying, his face shifted, bubbling softly. His brown hair morphed to a dark red, cut short on the sides of his head, pale skin now tan and smooth, a shadow of a beard clinging to his jaw. His eyes were red. Deep red, like the color of rot.

“Well, well. Look at that. You are in possession of an heirloom. If I’m not mistaken, and I never am, this belongs to the Evelians.”

Lily’s throat clamped shut, and the world faded away. A Failen Stalker.

“Which makes you, pet, Keara Evelian’s reincarnation.”

Chapter Three

The only memory that surfaced anymore was the one that haunted him the most. It returned as soon as it ended—a nightmare on repeat he couldn’t turn away from.

The golden glow of Leona Asura’s life dimmed when she collapsed in the snow, blood oozing from her parted lips. Her emerald eyes—her soul, her Flare—searched above her like a snake caught on a hook.

Draven pulled off his helmet, taking in the sour stench of death. A stampede of thousands of soldiers marched through the eastern gates of Alokya. Behind him was a bridge crossing over a chasm, one of many that led to the city’s entrances. It was dark, but he could see this side of the city in his mind—as if it sprouted from the mountain itself. Structures and towers terraced up the rockfaces in layers, the highest buildings often obscured by cloud coverage.

A bitter chill whipped through the air as he focused on the now still Imordial, who only a moment ago was a beastly shadow overwhelming him and his captain of the guard, damn near shoving them off the mountainside.

Alister Ulrich, a magic user—an Escardian—blessed by the Vulpes, moved to Draven’s side. It wasn’t often he struggled controlling someone with his telekinesis.

Alokya’s shadowy queen was such an exception. Seeing him exhausted and struggling to regain his normally stoic composure, Draven felt his nerves teetering over the edge.

All of the Dusk Flares were wicked in their own way, but Draven argued the Serpent lived up to its namesake the most. Of all of the Dusk Imordials, Leona was the only one Valen wanted to ambush at night. She could draw from whatever fearful auras she came across, but without light, she couldn’t solidify the emotion into shadowed blades.

That was the idea, anyway. To counter, her army set fires around the walls, creating their own light. And Leona was fast, nimbly able to beastshift and escape into the darkness as she pleased.

And then there were those cursed illusions.

“Praise the sun,” Alister exclaimed in a whisper.

Draven followed his gaze to Leona’s middle. The tip of a blade pierced through her belly. Alister exhaled, reaching behind him and pulling the cord free that tied back his long red hair. It spilled down his back, a few strands catching in the slurry of blood that coated his tan face.

If he was letting his hair down, then he thought the fight was over.

A lone silhouette appeared through the cloud of upturned snow across from them. Draven held fast, beckoning the last of the fallen Imordials life to his fist, squeezing it until it heated in his hand, warping the haze to a tangible substance similar to molten glass.

Without it, the light in her eyes grew dim, and her breathing stopped. Soon the Serpent would part from her body.

A heavy hand fell on his shoulder. “It’s Caine,” Alister told him.

What looked like Draven’s younger brother strode from the smoke on the other side of Leona. Alister was quick to relax, but Draven remained tense. Even if her body was incapacitated, she was still a threat. This could be an illusion—a last minute trick to get them to let their guard down, and he wouldn’t fall for it a second time.