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Above the black ribs of the burned-out roof, a thin layer of stars winked through the smoke. Cedric fixed his gaze on the dark beyond them, digging down inside himself to tug on that golden cord still tied behind his ribs.

Hold on, Elle, he thought. I’m coming.

5

TOKEN OF THE PAST

ELYRIA

Elyria collapsed onto her mattress, burying her head in her pillow and releasing a long, muffled scream.

How much more of this could she possibly be expected to take?

“Are you all right, my lady?”

Elyria peeled her face out of the plush pillow to look at Petra, still standing in the doorway after playing the role of escort once more. “Is that a serious question?”

“I just mean . . .” Petra played with her hair between her fingers. “Is there anything else you need?”

“There is much that I need,” Elyria said drily, “and not a single thing you can provide. You can go.”

The girl hesitated, and for a moment Elyria wondered if there was something else she wanted to say.

Then she remembered that whatever it was, she didn’t want to hear it.

“I said, you may fuck off now, Petra.”

With a squeak of surprise, the girl scurried out of the room, closing the door behind her. It wasn’t until Elyria heard the telltale sound of a key being turned in the lock that she let her face fall back into her pillow again.

Odd.

The other cultists assigned to Elyria’s watch barely spoke to her, save for the errant “Move it, pixie” and other such pleasantries. This girl must’ve been new.

Several minutes passed, Elyria’s muscles aching from how tensely she’d coiled herself during Malakar’s experimentation. Her blood pulsed painfully under her bandage-wrapped forearms, and though she knew that were she to peel away said bandages, the wounds would already be partially healed, the torment of their infliction would last a long, long time.

The obsidian had not done what Malakar had hoped.

Or perhaps it had accomplished something, if said hope was to create a whole new kind of torture for Elyria.

The sting of darksteel drawing blood was a featherlight kiss in comparison to that obsidian shard splitting her skin. The remnants of shadow still left inside her had run screaming, like it was trying to claw even deeper into her, as if it might escape through her other side.

It was not a pleasant feeling.

With a groan, Elyria rolled onto her back, trying not to think about how quickly she’d already adapted to the feeling of nothing behind her. No longer was there the subtle flexing of muscles or the lingering presence of magic she’d always felt there, even when she kept her wings masked.

Now there was simply absence.

And it went so much farther than her back or her shoulders—it sliced down into her soul. Malakar had taken more than her wings from her, and the dark bastard knew it.

She wondered if he knew just how close she was to giving up on it all entirely. How many nights she had spent like this, staring up at the canopy of her bed, wondering whether she had it in her to end it?

Wondering if it was worth holding out just a little bit longer . . . for him.

Because that was the crux of it, really. She was too selfish to leave this world without seeing Cedric again, even if, in her darkest, loneliest moments, she wasn’t sure whether Arcanis wouldn’t be better off.

She’d almost tried it once, after all. After Evander failed to come back from the Sanctum, and she’d been so deep in the depths of her despair that she couldn’t fathom ever clawing herself back out. So she stopped trying to, for a little while. She stopped making an effort to live. She didn’t end up actively trying to die, though.

That particular thought path, it would seem, was reserved for this place.