Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

To Be Read Under Seal of Command Only

Since my last dispatch, the war has changed irrevocably.

The venin remain a scourge upon this world, yes. But the greater threat, the one that lurked at the edges of every battlefield, has been silenced. The war we could not afford to forget is over.

That war was with Orlyth.

Once, we called Eleanor Lennox unstable. Unfit. A weapon too wild to be wielded. We underestimated her. Through blood and bond, she crowned herself Eleanor Riorson-Tavis, Queen of Orlyth. And beside her stood Garrick Tavis—her chosen king, her blade, her shadow. Together, they forged a den, a kingdom older than empire, and raised the Shadewings from ash.

They were no longer rebels.

No longer cadets.

No longer mortal.

They became predators. Monsters. Reapers of death.

Every betrayal, every clash, every storm of Voidfire that scarred our skies could be traced back to them. They were the axis on which calamity spun.

But no longer.

The Battle of Draithus has ended with the fall of the Tavis family. The wild queen and her king lie slain. Their dragons, their parasite, their fox—all reduced to carrion. The den is broken. The nightmare that might have spread unchecked has been ended, here, by fire and blade.

Let this be recorded: Navarre has not only defended its borders from the venin menace—it has struck down the darker, older peril. The one that would have ended not just kingdoms, but existence itself.

Eleanor Riorson-Tavis was not a savior. She was not a ruler. She was not human.

She was Oblivion.

And she is no more.

Take pride in this victory. Learn from their ashes. Remember their threat, and remember that it was Navarre who cut it down.

– General Augustine Melgren

Commanding Officer, Navarrian High Council

Addendum: The following reports were compiled on the Tavis family and their allies before their deaths. They have since been amended for accuracy.

CONFIDENTIAL DOSSIER

Updated Following the Battle of Draithus
To Be Read Under Seal of Command Only

Subject: Eleanor Riorson-Tavis

Status: DECEASED

Cause of Death: Confirmed execution by ritual — pierced by eight blades during the Battle of Draithus.

Location of Death: Draithus.

Designations:  T he Viper. The Reaper. The Inferno. Queen of Orlyth. Commander of the Shadewings. Commander of the Veylthorn. Warrior of Malek (Death). Warrior of Myrnin (Fate). Mother of Monsters. The White Serpent. The Widowmaker. The Balance. The Serpent's Daughter. Oblivion. The Lost Flame.

Rank: Cadet, Second Squad, Flame Section, Fourth Wing (stripped). Crowned Queen of Orlyth.

Dragon: Noxarathian (White — Shadewing, apex predator). Confirmed deceased alongside rider.

Signet: Voidfire (Unclassified — apocalyptic destruction capability).

Strategic Summary: Eleanor Riorson-Tavis was Navarre's greatest paradox: the realm's most powerful ally, and its most imminent threat.

Cunning, volatile, and charismatic, she united not only the ancient Shadewing Den but also the parasitic Veylthorn horde beneath her banner. Her kill count exceeded 5,000. She survived every attempt on her life. She domesticated monsters meant to kill her. She wielded a god's fire with the loyalty of a queen.

Had she lived, the balance of the world would have tipped toward annihilation. Her death at Draithus prevented a collapse from which no kingdom could have recovered.

Navarre records this as victory: the end of a threat greater even than the venin.

The Venin threaten our borders. Eleanor Riorson-Tavis threatened existence itself.

Updated Psychological Assessment

Evaluator: Nolon

Posthumous analysis confirms: Eleanor Riorson-Tavis was fractured beyond redemption.

Her formative years included sustained torture, sexual assault, imprisonment, and familial betrayal. While such trauma should have broken her, it instead produced a paradoxical survival — one sharpened into brutality.

Observed traits:

Empathy limited to immediate circle; broader populations expendable.

Sociopathic tendencies: mass killing executed with precision, no remorse.

Chronic depression: frequently offset by recklessness and self-destruction.

Substance dependency: alcohol and churam used as compulsive numbing agents.

Anger dysregulation: escalated instantly when family threatened.

Self-sacrifice fixation: repeated disregard for personal survival when protecting her "den."

It is the conclusion of this mender that, had Eleanor survived Draithus, her fractured psyche would have led inevitably to collapse. Either madness or corruption. She was never built for peace — only for fire and ruin.

Her death was not merely necessary. It was inevitable.

Final Threat Assessment

Classification: IMMEDIATE GLOBAL THREAT (neutralized).

Conclusion: Eleanor Riorson-Tavis was both the blade and the pyre — the ally who saved Navarre countless times, and the enemy who nearly destroyed it.

Her death ensures the survival of the realm.

May she find peace in the After. 

CONFIDENTIAL DOSSIER

Updated Following the Battle of Draithus

To Be Read Under Seal of Command Only

Subject: Garrick Tavis

Status: DECEASED

Cause of Death: Confirmed burnout following the slaying of Elder Venin Aedriel.

Location of Death: Draithus.

Designations:  The Reaper. The World Walker. King of Orlyth. General of Orlyth. Warrior of Izara (Time). The Shadow of the Storm. The Hurricane of Orlyth. The Father of Monsters. The End's Blade.

Rank: Cadet, Second Squad, Flame Section, Fourth Wing (stripped). Crowned King of Orlyth.

Dragon: Chradh (Brown — apex berserker-class). Confirmed deceased alongside rider.

Signet: Aerokinesis. Expanded beyond known classification through Flamebound bond. Confirmed capacity to kill Venin — unique among Riders.

Strategic Summary: Once called the calm hand, the protector, the innocent — Garrick Tavis has shattered that illusion. Years of war, betrayal, and above all, the torture and near-execution of his wife, Eleanor, have stripped away his restraint. What remains is a general without conscience, a king forged in blood, and a reaper who leaves nothing behind.

Often dismissed as the calm hand to Eleanor Riorson-Tavis' volatility, Garrick Tavis obliterated that image on the field of Draithus.

He revealed the impossible: he could kill Venin. Not merely foot soldiers, but an Elder. Aedriel — centuries of corruption and power — fell beneath Garrick's storm. He tore the creature apart with nothing but will, wind, and fury. Witnesses confirm: nothing remained.

But the victory came at cost. Burnout consumed him. He died at Eleanor's side.

On the battlefield, his storms erased everything in their path. Flesh, bone, and stone disintegrated. He was not a shield, not a stabilizer — but a hurricane, clearing the world for his queen to burn behind him.

To mistake him for mercy was error. His silence was not grace. His storms were execution.

Had Garrick Tavis lived, the ability to end Venin would have made him indispensable. But his devotion to Eleanor meant he was never Navarre's to wield. He was her blade. Her shadow. Her storm. Nothing more.

Together, they were inevitability.

Together, they were Oblivion.

Now, they are nothing.

Updated Psychological Assessment

Subject: Garrick Tavis

For years, Garrick Tavis was assessed as steady: composed, empathetic, and measured in ways rare among Riders. He earned loyalty through loyalty. He fought with strategy. He appeared incorruptible.

Draithus stripped away that illusion.

Before his death, he exhibited:

Anger dysregulation: concealed beneath calm exterior until provoked by threats to Eleanor — then catastrophic.

Overprotectiveness: pathological devotion to Eleanor; her suffering eroded every restraint.

Strategic brilliance: tactical foresight and precision, but increasingly weaponized toward ruthless ends.

Empathy warped into rage: unusual capacity for care toward his circle, but each loss transformed empathy into uncontrolled fury.

Violent repression: where Eleanor externalized her wrath, Garrick internalized it — until Draithus, when all barriers broke.

In death, Garrick Tavis revealed the truth. His storms were not born of balance. They were born of silence, repression, and loyalty sharpened into obsession.

His restraint is gone. His storms were not control. They were the eye of Oblivion.

Threat Assessment

Classification: IMMEDIATE GLOBAL THREAT (neutralized).

Conclusion: Garrick Tavis was more than his wife's shadow. He was the blade she carried, the storm she unleashed, the reaper who tore Elder Venin apart with his bare hands.

If he had survived Draithus, his power would have rewritten the war. He was not only capable of killing Venin — he was willing.

That combination made him unstoppable. That combination made him necessary to end.

Like his queen, Garrick Tavis was not built for peace. He was built for ruin.

May he find peace in the After. 

Designation:  Son of the Great Betrayer, Former Duke of Tyrrendor, Aretia's Heir, Commander of the Aretian Revolution, Venin.

Dragon: Sgaeyl — Navy Blue

Signet: Shadowmancy

Rank: Former Commander of the Tyrrish Revolutionary Faction / Leader of the Aretian Revolution (Stripped of command following corruption.)

Summary: Once the son of Fen Riorson, the Great Betrayer, and Duke of Tyrrendor, Xaden Riorson rose to command the Aretian Revolution and led it with precision, brutality, and unshakable resolve. He was heir to a cause, wielder of shadows, and one of the most dangerous men alive.

Now, he is something worse.

During the Battle of Draithus, Riorson succumbed to Venin corruption. His shadows — once extensions of his will — now consume him, feeding on magic and blood alike. His marriage to Violet Sorrengail shortly before his fall secured her title as Duchess of Tyrrendor, and left her to rule the fractured territory in his stead.

Riorson's current whereabouts are unknown. His degree of corruption is unverified. What is certain is this: if he has not already fallen entirely, he soon will. And if he returns with full Venin strength, no army on this continent will stand against him.

He has survived every attempt on his life. He has commanded every battlefield he's touched. And should we fail to stop him, he will not merely lead an army of shadows — he will become one.

Threat Assessment:  IMMEDIATE GLOBAL THREAT.

Designation: Second in Line to the Tyrrish Throne (after Violet Sorrengail)

Rank: Section Leader, Second Squad, Flame Section, Fourth Wing (Stripped)

Dragon: Cuir — Green 

Signet: Counter-Signet (Advanced Nullification) & Mimicry (Rumoured)

Summary: For years, Bodhi Durran has been overlooked, dismissed as the lesser among the infamous heirs of the rebellion. Where Eleanor Riorson-Tavis and Xaden Riorson became weapons of fear, Durran was seen as background noise — loyal, quiet, a shadow that walked beside them.

That perception is no longer possible.

During the Battle of Draithus, Durran revealed terrifying depths of his Signet of Nullification, erasing Venin constructs and collapsing wards on a scale previously thought impossible. More disturbing are the unconfirmed reports that he wielded not only nullification but also Voidfire and Shadows, suggesting the impossible: a second Signet, or worse — a mimic's ability to wield what belongs to others. If true, Durran may not simply nullify magic, but also become it.

Though quieter than his counterparts, his violence has been no less brutal. Witnesses recall him cutting off Darius Kasten's hands with clinical precision, and executing enemies with a coldness that matches Riorson or Tavis at their worst. He is, by all accounts, a wolf in sheep's clothing — underestimated for too long, and now revealed as every bit as monstrous as his family.

Currently, Durran supports Violet Sorrengail, Duchess of Tyrrendor, as she struggles to rule in Xaden Riorson's absence. Should she fall, Bodhi Durran is next in line to lead Tyrrendor outright — a terrifying possibility, given his demonstrated capability and his growing reputation as the quietest of the Aretian Reapers.

Threat Assessment:  IMMEDIATE GLOBAL THREAT.

Designation: Leader of the Aretian Revolution, Duchess of Tyrrendor (by marriage to Xaden Riorson)

Rank: Cadet, Second Squad, Flame Section, Fourth Wing (stripped), Commander of Tyrrendor's remaining forces; co-sovereign authority recognized by Orlyth and Poromiel allies

Dragons: Tairn — Black,  Andarna — Irid 

Signet: Lightning Manipulation — capable of both precise targeted strikes and continent-spanning destruction.

Summary: Violet Sorrengail-Riorson is not to be underestimated. Highly intelligent, politically astute, and deeply dangerous, she has risen from cadet to Leader of the Aretian Revolution and Duchess of Tyrrendor. While overshadowed in raw power by Eleanor Riorson-Tavis, Violet's combination of strength, strategy, and symbolic influence makes her no less of a threat.

Like her husband, Xaden Riorson, and her sister-in-law, Eleanor, Violet is ruthless when required — but unlike them, she retains a measure of humanity and innocence they long abandoned. This morality, paradoxically, makes her more dangerous: she is not driven by destruction alone, but by an unyielding determination to save everyone — from the Venin, from Navarre, and even her husband himself.

Physically, she suffers from a chronic illness that weakens her body, but this must not be mistaken as vulnerability. Her bond with Tairn and Andarna provides staggering magical force.

Where Eleanor controlled her power with apocalyptic precision, Violet lacks the same restraint. Her lightning is wild, volatile, and unpredictable — making her battles as much storm as strategy. Yet her moral compass has rallied soldiers, Riders, and dragons under her command. She is well respected, deeply feared, and increasingly viewed as the Revolution's last unbroken leader.

To underestimate Violet Sorrengail is to mistake compassion for weakness. It would be a fatal error.

Threat Assessment: HIGH

Designation: Former Colonel of Navarre (stripped), Commander within the Aretian Revolution, Husband of Katherine Ryder, Father of Elara Nyx Ryder

Current Status: Venin (Corrupted)

Rank: Former: Colonel, Navarrean Army, Former: Senior Commander of the Aretian Revolution, Current: None — status revoked upon confirmed corruption

Dragon: Miroth - Red

Signet: Telekinesis

Summary: Once a highly respected Colonel of Navarre, Elias Ryder defected and pledged himself to the Aretian Revolution, where he quickly became one of its most trusted and beloved commanders. Both Tyrrish and Orlythian factions held him in high regard — not only for his martial skill, but for his unwavering loyalty, compassion, and fierce dedication to his family.

That loyalty, however, became his undoing.

During the Battle of Draithus, his wife, Katherine Ryder, was nearly killed at the hands of Darius Kasten. In a desperate attempt to save her, Elias surrendered himself to Venin corruption. The transformation succeeded in sparing her life — but cost him his humanity.

Since that day, Elias Ryder has vanished. He left behind Katherine and their newborn daughter, Elara Nyx Ryder, now one month old at his disappearance. Whether he has aligned himself with Xaden Riorson or wanders independently remains unconfirmed.

What is certain is this: the man once known as a father, husband, and leader is gone. What remains is Venin — and if he retains even fragments of his discipline and tactical mind, he will be as dangerous as any enemy we face.

Do not underestimate him.

Threat Assessment: HIGH

Designation: Former Strategist of Navarre (stripped), Commander of the Aretian Revolution, Wife of Elias Ryder (now Venin), Mother of Elara Nyx Ryder

Status: Whereabouts Unknown

Rank: Former: Colonel, Navarrian Army (strategist-class), Former: Senior Commander of the Aretian Revolution, Current: Missing

Dragon: Sereil — Green 

Signet: Decay Manipulation — limited ability to accelerate breakdown of organic or material matter. Considered "weaker" than her inner circle, but nonetheless dangerous in close-quarters.

Summary: Katherine Ryder has always been underestimated. That is her weapon.

Once a strategist for Navarre, she defected to the Aretian Revolution, where she became a critical mind behind its survival. Known for her intelligence, ruthlessness, and ability to see ten steps ahead, Ryder carved her place not through overwhelming magical power, but through cunning, weapons mastery, and unrelenting will.

While her Signet — decay manipulation — is comparatively weaker than those of her infamous counterparts, it would be a fatal mistake to dismiss her. Katherine Ryder does not need a Signet to win. She is a strategist, a weapons master, and a tactician without equal. Those who underestimate her rarely live long enough to repeat the mistake.

It is widely believed that she played a pivotal role in Eleanor Riorson-Tavis' survival and recovery following her torture, molding her into the weapon she has since become. If true, Ryder is as much responsible for the monster Navarre now faces as Eleanor herself.

Since the Battle of Draithus, Ryder has vanished with her infant daughter, Elara Nyx Ryder, and her dragon, Sereil. Whether she is in hiding, regrouping, or preparing a counterstrike remains unknown.

What is known is this: Katherine Ryder is unpredictable. She is patient. She is ruthless. And she remains one of the most dangerous minds alive.

Threat Assessment: HIGH

Species: Brown

Status: DECEASED — chose to die alongside his rider, Garrick Tavis-Riorson, King of Orlyth.

Bonded: Garrick Tavis-Riorson (confirmed dead, Battle of Draithus).

Alliances: Close ally and companion of Noxarathian, King of the Shadewings.

Age: Unknown — estimated middle-aged by dragon standards.

Summary: Once known among dragonkind as measured, wise, and unusually peace-minded, Chradh represented a balance rare among apex predators. He was regarded as intelligent and pragmatic, a steadying counterweight to his rider Garrick Tavis' ferocity.

That reputation no longer applies.

The repeated torture, mutilation, and attempted assassinations of Garrick and Eleanor Riorson-Tavis shattered Chradh's restraint. What was once peace evolved into wrath. Protective instinct twisted into brutality. Mercy gave way to cruelty.

Reports confirm Chradh demonstrated sadistic behaviors in his final years: crippling prey before death, prolonging Venin suffering deliberately, and even using battlefield terror as calculated strategy.

His close kinship with Noxarathian, the White Death, cemented this transformation. What began as friendship became a blood-bond of ferocity. Together, they slaughtered with purpose — Chradh the storm, Noxarathian the executioner.

On the battlefield, Chradh was devastation incarnate. Sieges ended in carnage; Venin were torn apart, their deaths dragged out with personal vengeance. He did not kill as a predator. He killed as a protector whose den had been threatened.

At Draithus, after Garrick Tavis' confirmed death, Chradh refused to retreat. He refused to live. Instead, he lowered his head beside Noxarathian and laid his massive body against his fallen rider and queen. Witnesses describe both dragons bowing their heads in mourning before deliberately stopping their hearts.

Chradh's end was not forced. It was chosen.

Threat Assessment

Classification: IMMEDIATE GLOBAL THREAT (neutralized).

Species: Shadewing (White — last of the original den, progenitor of the new den)

Status: DECEASED — chose to die alongside his bonded rider, Eleanor Riorson-Tavis, Queen of Orlyth.

Bonded: Eleanor Riorson-Tavis (confirmed dead, Battle of Draithus).

Position: King of the Shadewing Den.

Age: Unknown — estimated over 100 years.

Summary: Noxarathian was not a dragon. He was an apex predator wearing the guise of one.

The last surviving Shadewing of the ancient Den, Noxarathian became progenitor of a new brood after the hatching grounds in Aretia were reignited. Eight eggs were confirmed under his protection — proof that the most dangerous draconic bloodline in history was not extinct but returning.

Ancient, sentient, and possessed of knowledge even the Empyrean cannot catalogue, Noxarathian refused all authority and operated by his own shifting code. He slaughtered allies and enemies indiscriminately, his definition of "den" the only law he obeyed. Those within it were protected unto death. Those outside it were prey.

Historically, Noxarathian murdered every rider he ever bonded. Until Eleanor Riorson-Tavis. With her, his violence became tethered — not restrained, but directed. Together, they became a singular conduit of Voidfire and ruin, unanswerable to Navarre, Tyrrendor, or even the gods themselves.

Reports confirm: Noxarathian consumed wyverns, gryphons, dragons, and Venin alike. He killed for protection, for hunger, for pleasure. His loyalty to Eleanor was absolute, but his savagery was his own. Witnesses described him not as a mount or a companion but as a king in his own right — and a king of monsters.

At Draithus, following the death of his rider, Noxarathian refused to flee. Refused to live. Instead, he lowered himself beside Eleanor and Garrick Tavis, pressed his massive body against theirs, and deliberately stilled his heart.

His death was chosen. His legacy endures.

Threat Assessment

Classification: IMMEDIATE GLOBAL THREAT (neutralized).

Designation: Noodle

Classification: Veylthorn Parasite (Anomaly-Class)

Status: DECEASED — confirmed to have refused to flee at Draithus; died coiled beside Eleanor and Garrick Tavis, his bonded den.

Size: Default: ~1ft serpent.

Confirmed alternate forms:

Small dragon (~4ft, winged)

Wolf (~6ft, quadruped)

Other voidfire-forged aberrations (unrecorded, presumed experimental).

Abilities:

Siphoning: Capable of draining wards, signets, and Venin corruption mid-combat.

Shapeshifting: Voidfire-based morphing into serpentine, draconic, lupine, or unknown aberrations.

Possession: Mastered full control of human hosts; capable of walking, speaking, and killing while wearing another's body.

Mental Manipulation: Mimics voices, projects false commands, and destabilizes enemy morale.

Distance Wielding: Channels Voidfire via tether to Eleanor Riorson-Tavis, extending her reach through him.

Draconic Communication: Communicates fluently with dragons, parasites, and other void-born entities.

Summary: Originally released from Malek's Bay as a living weapon designed to execute Eleanor Riorson-Tavis and Noxarathian, the experiment failed catastrophically. Instead of killing its intended prey, the parasite was adopted into the Riorson-Tavis Den.

Named "Noodle" by Eleanor, the parasite's evolution from shoulder-bound oddity to battlefield horror is without precedent. Reports confirm:

He has dragged Venin corpses from the field to consume.

He has devoured Venin mid-transformation.

He has mimicked Eleanor's voice to confuse and terrorize enemy units.

He has learned full possession of humans, manipulating their flesh like puppets, speaking through their mouths, killing with their hands.

Witnesses described soldiers breaking ranks, driven to madness, as their commander's own voice ordered them into traps that ended in fire.

Despite his volatility, Noodle's loyalty to Eleanor, Garrick, Noxarathian, and Chradh was absolute. He treated them as den, as family, and would kill without hesitation to protect them.

At Draithus, following the deaths of Eleanor and Garrick, Noodle refused to flee. He coiled his body against theirs and stilled his own heart, a parasite choosing death rather than life without its den.

Threat Assessment

Classification: IMMEDIATE GLOBAL THREAT (neutralized).

Final Statement — General Augustine Melgren

History will try to erase them.

The King demands it. Tauri has ordered the names of Eleanor and Garrick Tavis stricken from record — their victories reassigned, their legacy ground into ash. He claims it is for the safety of Navarre. That to remember them is to give the enemy power.

But for the first time in my career, I will not obey.

Because I fought beside them.

I watched Eleanor Riorson-Tavis descend into the archives of Basgiath itself, searching for a cure to the Venin corruption. I stood across from her in war rooms, where her mind worked faster than any general I have ever served with. She was twelve when her own parents caged and tortured her. By twenty-three, she had outwitted gods.

She was Queen for seven months. In that time, she forged an alliance with Deverelli, hunted down relics older than our histories, struck down over 3,000 Venin and wyvern, and saved two cities from falling. And when the world thought the Shadewings extinct, she resurrected their Den.

Seven months.

Garrick Tavis was her shadow, her steel, her anchor. Where she burned, he cut. Where she roared, he commanded. He killed an Elder Venin. He wielded storms that stripped the flesh from bone. And in the end, he chose to die at her side — not as a soldier, not as a king, but as a husband.

Were they dangerous? Yes. Were they unpredictable? Always.

But Navarre molded them into weapons by trying to kill them. By turning their family into targets. By demanding submission from two people who would never kneel.

We should not be surprised they lashed out.

I do not mourn easily. But I will not lie to myself. Quietly, silently, I grieve them. Because as much as they terrified me... they also saved me. They saved us all, again and again, until there was nothing left of them to give.

Tauri will claim they were monsters. He will call them traitors. And the world will forget them, because the world is always eager to forget those who frighten it most.

But I will not forget.

The Tavis family gave everything they had and more to this war. They deserve a legacy, and I will give them one.

Navarre made a mistake calling them the enemy. A mistake that cannot be undone.

Because in the end, whether ally or adversary, whether savior or destroyer, Eleanor and Garrick Tavis were always fated to bring about one thing.

Oblivion.

— General Augustine Melgren

THE LOST GALLERY OF ARETIA

Artwork by Eleanor Riorson-Tavis and others. Recovered by Jesinia Neilwart. 

They may have been generals. They may have been kings and queens. But here, in these sketches, they were family. The Lost Gallery of Aretia is preserved so the world will remember not only what they destroyed — but what they loved.

THE OFFICIAL PLAYLIST OF THE RIORSON-TAVIS FAMILY

IN LOVING MEMORY:

Chompy Riorson-Tavis

A creature with no species, no origin, no past—only teeth and acid and a growl far too big for his tiny body.

What he did have was a family. A den. A home he carved out of shadows and laughter.

He died as he lived: feral, loyal, fearless.

A not-fox. A son. A monster. A Shadewing, in all but wings.

May he find, in the After, every bone his little heart could dream of.

May he build his hoard without end.

May he wait there, proud and snarling, until the day his family comes home.

Like a good boy.

Like a Shadewing.

Chapter Text

Some days you scream and fight me until my arms are bleeding. Some days you stare straight through me like I’m already gone. Some days you babble nonsense that makes no sense to anyone but the ghosts in your head.

And some days… some days you’re soft. Too soft. Hollow in a way that terrifies me more than fire ever could.

Gods, Len, it’s hard. Harder than any battle I’ve ever fought. Because I can’t fight this for you. I can only stand here, steady, when the storm tears you apart.

But you’re mine. And I’ve got you. Always. Even when you forget me. Even when you hate me. Even when you slip away.

One day, when you’re whole again, you’ll read this and know: I never let go.

- Journal of Garrick Tavis, written for Eleanor

TWO MONTHS AFTER THE BATTLE OF DRAITHUS

VIOLET

The sparring gym smells like sweat and steel, the air thick with the sound of fists hitting flesh, boots sliding across the training mats, the clash of practice blades. It should feel familiar. It should feel grounding.

But all it feels like is empty.

Ridoc lunges at me, blade angled low. I twist, parry, shove him back with more force than I mean to. He grunts, nearly loses his footing, and laughs. Always laughing, even in grief.

He hides it well, better than I ever could.

“Careful, Duchess,” he says, breathless. “If you break me, who’s going to keep you entertained in these training sessions?”

“Maybe Rhiannon will finally shut you up,” I shoot back, but the words feel hollow in my mouth.

Banter isn’t the same without the others.

Not without Xaden smirking from the sidelines, murmuring in my ear, every quip sharp enough to draw blood.

Not without Len’s unhinged commentary, shouted across the mats, laughing when someone hit the floor and swearing she could do it better, meaner.

Not without Garrick’s steady voice, low and calm, correcting my stance, telling me where my blade should be, never where I wanted it to be.

I miss them. All three. Three gaping holes in my chest that nothing seems to fill.

“Vi—focus.” Rhiannon’s voice cuts sharp, her blade flashing toward me. I barely block in time, the shock running up my arms. She’s faster than I remember. Stronger too. Or maybe I’m just… distracted.

We trade blows, the rhythm of combat forcing me to stay present. Sawyer calls out corrections from the edge, his tone gruff but steady, while Imogen circles in, waiting for me to slip. It’s how we train now—together, always together, pushing each other to the edge.

Because if we don’t, we’ll fall apart.

My muscles scream, my lungs burn, and for a second—just a second—I feel something like peace. The kind that comes when your body hurts too much to think about anything else.

But then Ridoc yells, “Gods, Len would’ve loved to see Vi kicking your ass,” and the memory slams into me like a blade through armor.

Len would’ve loved it. She would’ve been cheering me on.

Garrick would’ve stepped in and scolded his wife for having favourites.

Xaden would’ve smirked and whispered something in my ear that made me blush and fight harder.

But none of them are here.

And slowly, slowly, I’m learning how to live with that.

Not to move on—because how could I?—but to carry them. To train the way they would have wanted me to. To grow sharper, stronger, harder. Because they’re not here to fight my battles anymore. And if I stop… if I falter… then everything they gave will have been for nothing.

Rhiannon’s blade slips past my guard, kissing my ribs. I hiss, step back, and force myself to reset.

“Again,” I say, planting my feet.

Sawyer frowns. “Vi—”

“Again.” My voice is steel this time.

They don’t argue.

Because they know.

Because they feel it too.

The gym rings with the sound of our blades, our breath, our rage, our grief. And maybe—just maybe—that’s what healing looks like. Not peace. Not forgetting. But fighting anyway, even with the holes carved out of us.

I’m Duchess of Tyrrendor now. Xaden asked me to take his place. And I will.

But I’ll do it my way. With steel in my hand. With their ghosts at my side.

And one day, when this war is done, maybe I’ll finally be able to breathe without it hurting.

But not today.

Today, I train.

Steel meets steel again, the ring of it sharp in the air, until Imogen lowers her blade and tilts her head toward Ridoc. Her hair is sweat-slick, her chest heaving, but her eyes are clear, sharp.

“Where’s Bodhi?” she asks.

Ridoc falters. Just for a second—his swing slows, his stance loosens. Then his jaw locks tight. He doesn’t answer at first, and the silence is louder than our sparring.

Finally, he shoves his sword into its sheath with a frustrated clatter. “I don’t know.” His voice cracks like he hates admitting it. “I never know anymore.”

Imogen’s expression hardens. “Ridoc—”

“No.” He drags a hand through his hair, sweat flying, his eyes flashing with something that’s not anger so much as despair. “Every time I see him, he’s either drunk out of his mind or screaming at someone. He disappears for hours. Sometimes days. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to help him. He’s like—” His voice catches. “He’s like a ghost.”

The word settles heavy between us. Ghost. Too many of those already.

Imogen wipes her face with the back of her hand. “He lost his entire family in a day, Ridoc. You can’t expect him to be whole after that.”

Ridoc winces like she struck him. “I know,” he says, softer now. “Gods, I know. I’m grieving them too. Lenny. Garrick. Quinn. I miss them all every damned day.” His throat bobs. “But Bodhi… Bodhi’s not grieving. He’s drowning. And I can’t pull him out. I don’t know how.”

The silence after those words is worse than the clash of blades. It’s raw and exposed and it aches.

Ridoc keeps talking, almost like he can’t stop now. His voice is low, meant only for us. “Every night, I wake up to him screaming. Every godsdamned night. He relives it—their deaths, over and over. And then he just…” His hand trembles as he rakes it through his hair again. “He leaves. He leaves me there in our room, and I don’t know where he goes until morning. But every time—every time—I find him in their bed. Lenny and Garrick’s.”

The words twist like a knife in my chest.

Because I can see it. Bodhi curled in the sheets that still smell like them. Trying to hold onto scraps of them any way he can. And Ridoc—left behind, helpless, watching the person he loves come apart piece by piece.

My sword feels heavy in my hand. Too heavy. Because I know exactly what drowning feels like. I’ve been there. I still am. And the only difference between me and Bodhi is that I have family left to lean on.

I have Mira and Brennan.

But Bodhi? His family was everything. And now they’re gone.

Imogen looks at me, her eyes asking what we’re all thinking: How do we stop him from slipping under?

I don’t have the answer.

Imogen wipes her palms on her trousers, her gaze darting from Ridoc to me. “Maybe…” She hesitates, then steels herself. “Maybe you should talk to him, Vi.”

I blink at her. “Me?”

“You’re the duchess now,” Imogen says, voice quiet but firm. “And Bodhi—he still listens to you. Sometimes.”

A bitter laugh scrapes out of me before I can stop it. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. Bodhi hasn’t exactly been… friendly lately.”

Ridoc mutters something under his breath, but I press on, because they need to understand.

“Last time I tried to comfort him—just tried to get him to sit, to breathe—he threw a godsdamned ball of Len’s voidfire at me.”

That shuts them up. Even the sparring gym goes still, the echoes of training fading into silence.

I swallow hard, the memory flaring behind my eyes. The heat of it, wild and wrong, tearing across the room and nearly catching me before Bodhi collapsed against the wall, sobbing like his chest had caved in. I hadn’t known whether to hug him or draw my sword.

“He’s dangerous right now,” I say, softer this time. “Not just to himself.”

But they’re all looking at me—their eyes filled with something like hope and desperation. Like they think I can reach him. Like I’m the only one who can.

And gods help me, maybe they’re right.

I sigh, dragging a hand down my face. “Fine.”

Ridoc’s relief is almost painful to look at. His shoulders sag, the tension bleeding out of him in a way that makes my chest ache. “Thank you,” he says, voice hoarse. “But I… I don’t know where he is right now.”

Of course he doesn’t. Bodhi slips through shadows like smoke, half-alive, half-gone.

I sheath my blade, my hand lingering on the hilt. “I think I might know.”

Because there are only two places Bodhi ever seems to haunt anymore: the bottom of a bottle, or the ashes of ghosts.

And I have a sick feeling I know which one it is today.

GARRICK

The world thinks we’re dead.

And maybe that’s for the best.

Here, in the quiet halls of the Lennox estate, hidden from every eye and ear, it almost feels true. The world rages on without us. Wars are fought, councils argue, kingdoms shift. And I… I spend my days in silence, moving through rooms where dust gathers on old portraits and the air smells faintly of cedar and rot.

Taking care of her.

My wife. My Eleanor.

She sits in the chair by the window now, her head tipped to one side, watching the light bend through the glass as though it’s the most fascinating thing in existence. Her hair is tangled, falling over her shoulders like flames. Her lips are parted, her eyes glazed, and if I didn’t know better, I’d think she’d slipped away from me again.

But she breathes. She’s alive.

Barely.

The fracture runs through her soul—literal, jagged, cruel. It took her mind with it, left her drifting somewhere I can’t reach. Most days she doesn’t know who I am. Some days she doesn’t know who she is.

So I take care of her.

I feed her. Spoon by spoon, sometimes coaxing, sometimes begging. I bathe her, steadying her in the tub when her body goes slack, washing the soot from her skin, humming under my breath just so the silence doesn’t swallow us whole. I dress her in clean linen, brush the knots from her hair even when she swats me away.

It feels less like marriage and more like devotion. Less like love and more like penance.

But gods, I’d do it a thousand times over.

Because every now and then—when I least expect it—she comes back to me.

Last night, as I was pulling the blankets over her shoulders, she reached out and caught my wrist. Her eyes focused, sharp and certain, like a blade pressed to the throat. And she whispered my name. Garrick.

For a heartbeat, I forgot how to breathe.

And then it was gone. Her gaze slid away, her hand fell limp, and the empty fog swallowed her again.

But I know what I saw. I know what I heard.

She’s still in there.

That’s what keeps me alive. Not food, not sleep, not hope for the outside world. Just her. Just the flickers of her old self, sharp as sparks in the dark, reminding me that my wife is still fighting her way back.

So I keep her safe here, hidden. I keep her alive.

Because one day, she’s going to wake up and look at me with those furious, fire-bright eyes again. One day, she’ll grin at me, unhinged and reckless, and tell me I worry too much. One day she’ll stand at my side in armor and remind me what it feels like to fight as equals.

Until then… this is enough.

Her breath. Her warmth. The weight of her hand in mine, even if she doesn’t know what she’s holding.

She came back to me once. She’ll do it again.

I’ll make sure of it.

Even if it takes the rest of my life.

I approach her slowly, like I would a wounded animal. Careful, deliberate, every step a negotiation. She’s babbling softly, words running into each other, half-formed sounds that might once have been sharp commands or scathing commentary.

“Blood,” she murmurs, turning her hand in the shaft of light spilling through the window. “Blood in the cracks. It won’t wash out. Won’t—”

Her voice fades into a whisper, and she laughs—soft, eerie, nothing like her old laugh. It twists my chest.

I crouch in front of her, plate balanced in my hands. Bread, cheese, a little broth. It isn’t much, but it’s warm. It’s sustenance. “Len,” I say gently, keeping my voice low, steady. “It’s time to eat.”

No reaction. She doesn’t even look at me. Her eyes stay fixed on her hand, watching the light bend across her fingers like it’s a puzzle she’s been tasked to solve.

I try again, shifting the plate so the smell of broth drifts closer to her. “You need your strength, baby.”

Still nothing. Just that murmuring, words I can’t quite catch. Something about shadows. About teeth. About fire burning where it shouldn’t.

So. Today’s one of her bad days. Got it.

I bite back a sigh and set the plate on the floor beside me. My knees protest from crouching this long, but I stay there anyway, searching her face for a flicker—any flicker—of recognition.

“Please,” I whisper, almost to myself. “Just one bite.”

She tilts her head then, almost as if she’s heard me. For a second, hope flares in my chest. But her gaze doesn’t land on me—it drifts past me, over my shoulder, toward something only she can see.

The hope crumbles, leaving that familiar ache in its place.

I reach up anyway, brushing a strand of tangled hair from her cheek. Her skin is cool, too pale. My thumb lingers against her temple, a desperate attempt to anchor her here, to me.

But she doesn’t lean into it. Doesn’t swat me away, either. She just… drifts.

And I remind myself: she’s alive. That has to be enough.

At least for today.

BODHI

The roof creaks beneath me as I shift, knees drawn up, arms braced loosely across them. Riorson House looms silent around me, its stone walls blackened in places from fire long past, its bones as hollow as mine.

The night air cuts sharp, cool against my skin, but I don’t move. I stare out across Aretia, the sprawl of streets lit with scattered torches, the river a ribbon of silver in the dark. From up here, it almost looks peaceful. Almost.

It isn’t. Nothing is anymore.

I hear the scrape of boots on slate before I see her. Violet. The Duchess now. My duchess. Xaden’s widow in everything but name.

I don’t look at her. “Leave.”

She doesn’t. Of course she doesn’t.

Instead, she lowers herself onto the roof beside me, her movements careful, deliberate, like I might break if she’s not gentle enough. Or maybe like I might lash out. She doesn’t say a word.

Good.

The silence stretches. The night hums with crickets and the distant thrum of the city below. My throat feels tight, my chest heavier with every breath I take.

Finally, I huff a humorless laugh, dragging a hand through my hair. “Gods, Vi. I said leave.”

She doesn’t even glance at me. Just keeps staring out at the city like she belongs here, like she has the right to share this silence with me.

And for some reason—against every bone in my body screaming otherwise—I let her.

Because maybe I’m tired of being alone with the ghosts.

Because maybe sitting here, shoulder to shoulder with someone else who lost everything, doesn’t hurt quite as much as I thought it would.

So I don’t speak. And neither does she.

We just sit, two broken pieces of what’s left, watching the world move on without them.

I don’t know how long we sit there. Long enough for the city lights to blur. Long enough for my jaw to ache from clenching it.

Eventually, I risk a glance at her.

She’s staring at her hands, twisting the silver band of her wedding ring around and around her finger. Her shoulders shake, her chin trembles, and tears cut silent tracks down her cheeks.

When she finally speaks, her voice is hoarse, barely more than a whisper. “I understand how you feel.”

Something in me snaps.

“Understand?” My laugh is sharp, cruel. “Why the fuck are you crying, Violet? You still have a family. You still have Brennan. You still have Mira. And yeah, you lost Xaden when he left, but he’s still out there somewhere—alive. Breathing. You could see him again.” My voice breaks into a snarl. “I lost everyone in one day. Everyone. How is that fair?”

She flinches like I’ve struck her, recoiling, her hand freezing around the ring.

But I can’t stop. The rage is too hot, too big. “Everyone keeps saying they miss them. They grieve them. But not like me. Not like me. Don’t tell me you know what this feels like—you don’t. You don’t get it.”

Her head snaps toward me, her eyes fierce through her tears. “I do understand.”

“HOW?” The scream tears out of me, raw, ragged, echoing across the rooftop. “Tell me how you could possibly understand losing your whole godsdamned family in one day!”

She surges to her feet, fists clenched, fire in her voice. “Because they were my family too!”

The words slam into me like a blade to the chest.

For a second, everything goes quiet again. My breath saws in and out, my hands trembling on my knees, and all I can hear is the truth in her voice.

They were hers too.

Len, with her chaos. Garrick, with his steadiness. Even Noodle and Chompy. We were hers, just as much as we were mine.

But I can’t admit that. Not yet. Not tonight.

So I just look away, swallowing down the fire in my throat, wishing it could burn me whole.

Violet explodes.

Her voice cracks like thunder, sharp and trembling, but gods, it hits harder than any blade.

“Don’t you dare tell me I don’t understand, Bodhi!” she shouts, tears still streaming down her face, her chest heaving. “Len was like a sister to me! You and Garrick—you were like brothers! And Xaden—” her voice falters, then steels again, raw and bleeding—“Xaden is the love of my life. So how dare you tell me I don’t get it? How dare you make me feel like I don’t matter!”

Her fists are shaking at her sides, her whole body vibrating with the weight of her fury. And for the first time since Draithus, she looks alive.

“It matters, Bodhi,” she snarls, her voice breaking on the edges. “They mattered. Every single one of them. And don’t you dare act like your grief is the only grief that counts.”

I stare at her, stunned. My mouth is dry, my anger still boiling but suddenly uncertain, like a fire robbed of air.

She steps closer, pointing at me now, jabbing the words like daggers. “You say you’re alone. That you lost everyone. And maybe you don’t see me as your family—fine. That’s your choice. But hear me, Bodhi Durran—” Her voice drops, fierce and quiet. “I see you as mine.”

The words slam into me, heavier than anything Navarre or the council could ever throw.

Because I want to rage back. I want to scream that she doesn’t know what it’s like to hear Garrick’s last breath, to watch Nox and Chradh lay themselves down in ash, to hear Noodle screaming for his family before falling silent.

But she’s right. Godsdamn her, she’s right.

She lost them too.

I drag a hand over my face, the anger trembling into something else. Something messier. Something closer to breaking.

But I can’t. Not yet.

So I just turn away, staring out at the city lights until they blur, until the lump in my throat threatens to choke me.

And I say nothing.

Because if I open my mouth now, I’m afraid I’ll shatter.

Her breathing is ragged, her words still hanging in the night between us like sparks refusing to die out. I think maybe she’ll let it drop, let me turn away and disappear back into silence.

But Violet Sorrengail has never been the kind to back down.

I feel her hand clamp around my wrist, firm, unshaking. She yanks, hard enough that I stumble and have no choice but to look at her.

Her eyes are red and swollen, her cheeks blotched with tears, but gods, she’s fierce. Fierce in a way that makes me hate her and love her all at once, because it’s the same fury Len used to wear like armor.

“Look at me,” she demands. “Don’t you dare turn away. Not from me. Not from them.”

I wrench against her grip, but she holds on tighter, nails biting into my skin. “Stop—”

“No!” she cuts in, her voice shattering in the middle of the word. “You don’t get to drown alone, Bodhi. Not when I’m right here. Not when I’ve lost them too.”

Her tears hit the slate roof between us, darkening the stone. “You think you’re the only one who wakes up screaming? You think you’re the only one who dreams of Garrick’s voice, or Len’s laugh, or Xaden’s scowl? You think you’re the only one who feels like their chest is hollow?”

Her grip trembles now, but she doesn’t let go. “I see you. Even if you don’t want me to. Even if you hate me for it. You are not alone.”

The words gut me. Tear me wide open.

I try to hold the anger. I try to cling to it like it’s the only thing keeping me upright. But all at once it slips, crumbles, and I feel myself falling.

My chest caves, my knees buckle, and a sound rips out of me that doesn’t even feel human.

Violet’s arms catch me as I fold forward, sobs tearing through me like blades. My forehead presses into her shoulder, and for the first time since Draithus, I don’t fight it. I don’t shove it down.

I just break.

The rooftop blurs with salt and shadow, the sound of my own grief raw and unending, and she holds on. Holds me like I’m not the last one left. Like I’m not a ghost.

And for a moment—just a moment—I believe her.

The sobs don’t stop. They tear out of me like I’ve been holding them in since Draithus—since the ash, since the fire, since the moment I saw Garrick cradling Len’s body like if he held her tight enough, she might come back.

“I’m so fucking angry,” I choke out against Violet’s shoulder. My fists slam weakly against the slate roof, useless, shaking. “I’m so fucking angry, Vi. I don’t know what to do with it.”

She doesn’t flinch. She just tightens her arms around me.

“I’ve been with them since the day I was born,” I spit, words breaking apart with grief. “Every memory I have—every fucking one—Len’s in it. Garrick’s in it. Xaden’s in it. They always swore, always, that we’d stick together. That we were a family. That no matter what the world threw at us, we’d make it out together.”

I pull back just enough to look at her, my vision warped with tears, my chest heaving like it’s caving in. “And now I’m the last one left. Do you get that? I’m the last one, Vi. And it was never supposed to be me.”

My voice cracks so hard it shreds the words. I slam my palm against my chest like I could dig the truth out of me. “It was supposed to be Len. It was always supposed to be her—she was the strong one, the one who could crawl out of anything. Or Garrick—gods, Garrick—he was the anchor, the one who kept us together. Not me. Not me.”

The fury curdles into something softer, more unbearable. My shoulders shake. “I don’t know how to do this without them. I don’t want to. I never asked for this. Why am I the one left standing? Why the fuck am I the one who has to carry it?”

The words dissolve into another sob, harsher, emptier. My whole body shakes with it, like the weight of surviving is finally too much.

And Violet—she just holds me tighter, like she’s bracing both of us against the storm.

My breath hitches, and when I drop my hands, I can’t look at her straight. Shame burns in my throat.

“I’m sorry,” I rasp. “Gods, Vi, I know I’ve been a dick to you. I just—” My voice cracks, raw and broken. “I’m so fucking lost. And angry. All the time. I want to scream at them for leaving me, but I can’t… because they’re gone.”

Violet’s mouth pulls into something between a wince and a smirk. She shrugs, casual, like the weight of it doesn’t crush her too. “Doesn’t mean we can’t scream anyway.”

I blink at her, confused, still trembling. “What?”

She doesn’t answer. Just turns toward the edge of the rooftop, plants her hands on her knees, and lets out a scream that tears through the night sky. It echoes over the rooftops of Aretia, startling birds into flight, ringing off stone like a war cry and a wound all at once.

For a second I just gape at her, tears still streaking my face. Then, despite everything—despite the grief clawing my chest—I laugh. It’s wet, broken, but it’s real.

She straightens, wiping her face with the back of her hand, and turns back to me with a look that’s fierce and gentle all at once. “Your turn.”

I shake my head, half a sob, half a laugh. “You’re insane.”

“I learnt it from Lenny,” she says. “Now, you try.”

And gods help me—I want to.

I drag in a breath that shakes so hard it rattles my ribs. My throat already aches from the sobs, but maybe that’s the point. Maybe I need to burn it raw.

So I lean forward, clench my fists, and I scream.

It rips out of me like fire, like something that’s been festering for months and finally claws its way free. It tears through my chest, through my throat, through the quiet of Aretia’s night, until my voice breaks into something guttural and wild. I scream again, louder, until the slate under me vibrates, until the edges of my vision blur.

And when the last shred of sound leaves me, when my throat burns like I’ve swallowed glass, I collapse back onto my hands, panting. My chest heaves, my whole body shaking. But for the first time since Draithus—since ash and blood and silence—I feel lighter. Not healed, not whole. But lighter.

Violet’s watching me, her face streaked with tears, her lips trembling with something that isn’t quite a smile. “I think they heard that in the After,” she says.

The laugh that bursts out of me is broken, ugly, but gods, it’s real. I press the heels of my hands to my eyes again, and when I look back at her, she’s laughing too.

“Gods,” I choke out, still half-sobbing, half-laughing, “Len’s probably driving everyone insane over there.”

Violet snorts, shaking her head. “Absolutely.”

The image hits me so hard I bark out another laugh. “And Garrick’s trying—failing miserably—to rein in his unhinged wife.”

“Failing spectacularly,” Violet agrees, her voice catching as she grins through her tears. “He’s probably apologising to the dead while she’s setting something on fire.”

We’re both laughing now, wheezing through it, messy and wet and cracked. But it’s laughter all the same.

And for the first time in months, it feels like maybe—just maybe—I’m not carrying this alone.

KATHERINE

It’s been sixty-two days since Draithus.

Sixty-two days since steel tore into my side and left me bleeding into the ash, wondering if I’d ever open my eyes again.

Sixty-two days since Elias chose shadow over sun and let the venom eat him whole.

Sixty-two days since my daughter and her husband burned with their dragons.

And still, I wake.

Still, I breathe.

Still, I exist.

Barely.

Most of those days, I’ve done nothing but lie in bed, staring at the cracked ceiling of this old house in Deverelli. The walls have become my grave, the sheets a shroud, every breath a curse. I eat when Kingston puts a plate in front of me. I drink water when he presses the glass into my hand. I live because my daughter does. That is all.

Today, for reasons I don’t understand, I force myself up. My body feels brittle, like porcelain about to shatter, but I drag it through the halls anyway. If I rot, it won’t be in the same room again.

The corridors are quiet, the air stale. I trail my fingers along the wood paneling, grounding myself in the texture. Proof I’m not a ghost. Proof I’m still here, though I don’t want to be.

I stop when I reach the nursery door.

The wood is cracked open, warm lamplight spilling across the hall. And inside—inside is Kingston.

He’s in the old armchair by the window, shoulders slumped, grief carved into every line of his body. But in his arms he holds Elara, only three months old, her tiny fists curled against his shirt.

She looks exactly like Elias. Gods, exactly like him. The slope of her nose, the line of her brow, the dark eyes that seem far too knowing for someone so small. It’s a knife in my chest, sharp and cruel.

Kingston rocks her gently, his big hand cradling her head as though she might break if he lets go. His voice is low, hoarse from disuse, but steady as he speaks.

“Do you want to hear a story, El?” He pauses, brushing his thumb over her downy hair. “About your godmother?”

I grip the doorframe until my nails bite wood.

The room spins. My throat burns. I press my forehead against the frame to keep myself upright.

I miss Elias. Gods, I miss him. My husband. My other half. My anchor. I miss the weight of his hand on my back, the way his laughter filled a room, the steadiness of him when the world tilted. I miss him so much I feel it in my bones, like the marrow itself has been hollowed out.

And now here is his best friend, cradling our daughter, keeping her alive with the same quiet devotion he’s given me.

He tries to help. He cooks. He cleans. He watches me when he thinks I’m not looking, like he’s afraid I’ll disappear if he blinks. But he can’t fix this. Not when he’s grieving too. Not when he’s just as broken.

Elara gurgles softly, her tiny hand batting at Kingston’s collar. He smiles—a fleeting thing, brittle but real—and whispers, “She would’ve loved you, Elara. Gods, she would’ve spoiled you rotten.”

Something in me crumbles. My knees weaken, and for a terrifying moment I think I might slide to the floor right there in the doorway.

Because he’s right. Eleanor would have loved her niece with every ounce of her chaos and fire. Garrick would’ve been the steady hand, the strong shoulder, the shield. And Elias—my Elias—he’ll never even know her.

The grief is a tidal wave. It swallows me whole, dragging me under.

But I don’t move.

I just stand in the doorway, staring at Kingston and the baby in his arms, and let it crush me.

I don’t go in.

I can’t.

My hand stays clamped around the doorframe, but I shift back into the hallway’s shadows, unseen. My body feels brittle enough that if Kingston looks up and sees me, I might crack apart entirely.

So, I hide, pressing myself against the wall, and I listen.

Kingston’s voice drifts out of the nursery, low and steady. “Your Aunt Lenny made me promise something, El. If anything ever happened to her…” His breath catches, but he pushes through, soft and fierce. “She wanted you to grow up knowing everything about her and your Uncle Garrick. Every story, every mistake, every scar. She didn’t want to be forgotten. And she made me swear you’d have at least one terrible influence in your life.”

He laughs under his breath, the sound brittle. “Said it was her sacred duty as an aunt.”

The words hit me like a hammer. My Lenny. Always scheming, always demanding the impossible, even in the face of death. My tears fall before I can stop them, hot and unrelenting, soaking into the sleeve I press against my mouth.

Kingston shifts Elara in his arms, rocking her gently. “Want to hear a story about her?” he murmurs. “One of my favorites.”

Elara coos, a sound too pure for this broken world.

“Well,” Kingston begins, “there was this night, a few months back, when I was on patrol in Aretia with your Dad. We got a report of a bar fight—nothing new, really. Usually it’s drunk soldiers throwing fists. But when I showed up…” His voice turns wry, affectionate. “It was your Aunt Lenny.”

I bite back a sob, my chest hitching.

“She’d started a fight with Bodhi. Over the last piece of chocolate cake in the kitchens.” Kingston chuckles, the sound half-strangled. “Gods, you should’ve seen them. Two full-grown Riders brawling in the middle of a tavern like children. Three broken bones later, the innkeeper tossed them both out on the street. Lenny still swore she was in the right. Said cake was a sacred thing and she’d fight anyone who disagreed.”

Elara gurgles again, as though she understands.

Kingston’s voice grows softer, almost reverent. “That was Lenny. Wild and reckless and impossible. She burned brighter than anyone I’ve ever known. And your uncle Garrick—he loved her more for it.”

My vision blurs, the world drowning in tears. I press my fist to my mouth to stifle the sob clawing up my throat.

Because gods, I can see it. Eleanor, grinning through a bloody lip, Garrick exasperated and in love, Bodhi howling like a wounded animal while she smirked over chocolate cake.

They were chaos. They were everything. And they’re gone.

But Kingston is right—they won’t be forgotten. Not while he’s breathing. Not while I am. Not while this child carries their memory in her blood.

Still, I can’t step into that room.

I can’t let Kingston see me like this.

So I stay in the hallway, broken and hidden, and I cry silently as he tells Elara about the family she’ll never meet.

XADEN

The fire burns low in the ruin of the safehouse, shadows licking the walls like they know me better than anyone alive. I sit in them, let them cling to me, but Elias can’t sit still.

He paces the length of the room, fists in his hair, his eyes glowing faint and wrong in the dim light. Venin. Like me.

But he’s unraveling faster.

“I can’t do this.” His voice cracks, rough and frantic. “Gods, Xaden, I can’t—I left her. I left Katherine in that infirmary, and I left my baby—my baby girl—” He slams his fist into the wall hard enough to split the skin. He doesn’t even flinch at the blood. “I’m never going to watch her grow up. I’m never going to hear her say my name. What kind of father does that make me?”

I stand, cross the room, and grab his shoulders before he tears himself apart. “The kind that keeps her alive.”

His eyes snap up to mine, bright with fury and grief. “Don’t you dare—”

“I will,” I cut him off, sharp. “Because it’s the truth. If you’d stayed, if you’d tried to be what they needed while you were like this? You’d have killed them. Katherine. Elara. All of them. Walking away wasn’t failing them, Elias—it was the only way you could protect them.”

He shakes his head violently, tears streaking through the ash on his face. “I’ve already failed. I failed Lenny, I failed Garrick, and now I’m failing my daughter. What kind of father chooses to become this?” He rips at the shadows bleeding from his hands, snarling. “She’ll grow up thinking I abandoned her.”

I tighten my grip on him, force him to hear me. “No. She’ll grow up safe because of you. Because you chose to be the monster instead of letting one near her.”

He breaks then, collapsing against me, shaking like he’s coming apart. His breath hitches, ragged and uneven, the sound of a man who’s lost everything that mattered.

“I’m never going to hold her again,” he chokes. “Never going to hear her laugh. Never going to—” His voice shatters. “She’ll never know me.”

I close my eyes, jaw tight. Because he’s right. We both are. We’ve chosen damnation so they don’t have to. And it means everything we love belongs to the past.

My voice is low, steady, because one of us has to be. “Then we make sure she knows of you. Every choice we make now, every step—we make it count. So when she hears your name, Elias, it won’t be Venin. It’ll be father. Protector. The man who gave her a life you couldn’t watch, but one she got to live.”

He doesn’t answer. Just crumples to the floor, his sobs muffled against his arm. And I sink down beside him, shadows curling around us both, because gods know I can’t take away the grief.

All I can do is remind him why we bleed in the dark.

So they don’t.

GARRICK

It’s quiet tonight. Too quiet.

The estate creaks in the wind, the fire’s long gone to embers, and she’s curled on the rug with Noodle in her arms.

Not her lap. Not draped around her neck like a scarf, or coiled in the shadows waiting for her command. In her arms. Like he’s a child.

She strokes his scales with absent fingers, humming some tuneless little sound under her breath. “There’s my boy,” she whispers, pressing her cheek to his head. “So good. Always so good for Mama.”

And gods, Noodle lets her.

This creature—the same one who’s dragged men screaming into the dirt, who’s melted bone and sinew with venom that hisses like fire—lies still in her arms, eyelids half-closed, the picture of contentment.

I should be used to it by now. Len and her monsters. Len and her impossible family she stitched together out of blood and pain. But this—this looks wrong.

The old Lenny would’ve cooed at him, yes. Would’ve called him her son and scratched behind his jaw like she always does. But there would’ve been a glint in her eye, a feral little smirk, a reminder that she loved him because he was dangerous. Because he was hers.

Now?

Now she just looks… soft. Too soft. Her smile is vacant. Her shoulders sag like she can barely hold herself upright. And as I watch her cradle the parasite who has killed more men than I can count, I can’t tell if she knows it’s Noodle at all.

Or if she’s hallucinating an actual child.

The thought twists in my gut. Because she wanted this. A family. She wanted children, once, before the fire and the gods and the void chewed her up and left her in pieces. And now she sits there, rocking a nightmare like he’s flesh and blood, and I can’t tell if it’s love or madness holding him in her arms.

I crouch in the doorway, unseen, torn between stepping forward and letting her have this moment.

Because she’s alive. That’s all I wanted. But alive doesn’t mean whole.

And gods help me—I don’t know which of them I’m more afraid of losing. My wife, or the woman she used to be.

I stand there too long, watching, worrying. The silence presses in until I can’t take it anymore.

So I step forward, slow, careful, like approaching a dream I’m afraid will vanish if I breathe too loud. My boots scuff against the rug and her head tilts up, eyes glazed but smiling all the same.

I crouch beside her, the floor groaning under my weight. “Len,” I murmur, trying to keep my voice soft. “Who are you holding?”

For a beat, my chest seizes. Because I don’t know what answer I want. Don’t know if it’ll break me more if she says the truth, or if she doesn’t.

But then she giggles—an actual giggle, low and husky, her nose pressed against his scales. “I’m holding a good little murder worm.”

Noodle chitters, the sound high and pleased, his tongue flicking against her cheek like he understands every word.

I roll my eyes skyward, exhaling through my nose. “Of course,” I mutter. “The bastard’s enjoying every second of this.”

Noodle lifts his head, beady eyes fixing on me, and chitters again—louder this time, smug as any monster can be. Len coos at him, brushing a kiss over the top of his scaled head, and he curls closer into her chest like a spoiled child.

Gods.

Only my wife could turn a parasite into a pampered brat.

And only I could love them both anyway.

I sigh and lower myself onto the rug beside them, my knees popping in protest. Noodle’s slit-pupiled eyes flick toward me, smug little bastard, as if he knows exactly what he’s doing hogging all of her attention.

I stretch my arm out behind her, meaning to steady her, but she doesn’t even glance at me. She just keeps rocking him, whispering nonsense like lullabies.

“Shadows taste like metal,” she murmurs, brushing her nose against his scales. “And blood’s not red in the void, it’s blue, so blue, Noodle, did you know? You knew. You always know, clever worm.”

Her nonsense babble is sweet one moment, terrifying the next, fragments of thought that don’t belong together but tumble out of her mouth anyway.

I watch her with a knot in my chest. She’s soft now, gods, softer than I’ve ever seen her. But there’s no feral grin, no fire dancing behind her eyes. Just a tired, fractured woman crooning to the monster in her arms.

And I’ll take it. Because it’s still her.

I lean closer, shoulder brushing hers, careful not to spook her. For a second, I don’t think she’ll react at all. But then she shifts—just a fraction—and leans into me, her head tipping lightly against my arm as though she remembers what I am to her.

It’s enough to steal the breath right out of me.

Noodle chitters again, smug as ever, curling tighter against her like a child refusing to share its mother. I glare at him. “Don’t look so pleased with yourself, you little bastard.”

He flicks his tongue, the sound more like laughter than a hiss. Len giggles, too, though her words are still broken. “Murder worm likes Daddy jealous. Funny-funny, bite-bite.”

My throat tightens. She has no idea what she’s saying. Or maybe she does. With her, it’s impossible to know.

But she’s warm against me, alive in my arms even if her mind is splintered. And I’ll take that. I’ll take every broken piece if it means she’s still here.

Even if Noodle’s the one getting all the damned kisses.

I sit there for a while, just listening to her nonsense spill out in soft whispers, watching Noodle bask like he’s won the godsdamned lottery. But eventually, I can’t stand it anymore—the not knowing.

I need her. Even just a piece.

So I shift, turn slightly, and brush my hand along her cheek. Her skin is warm under my calloused palm, though too pale. Her eyes flutter, still hazy, still lost somewhere far away.

“Len,” I murmur, keeping my voice steady, coaxing. “Do you remember me?”

Her gaze drifts over me at first, unfocused, like I’m just another shadow in the room. My chest aches with the familiar sting of disappointment. But then—gods—her eyes sharpen. For the first time in weeks, she sees me.

“Garrick?” she whispers, her voice fragile as glass.

My throat closes. I can’t speak. All I can do is nod, blinking hard as her hand comes up, trembling, to cup my face. Her thumb brushes my jaw, clumsy but deliberate, and I lean into it like a starving man.

She pulls me closer, presses her lips to mine in the softest, sweetest kiss, and for a heartbeat it’s like she’s back. My wife. My Len.

“I love you,” I choke against her mouth, desperate, terrified she’ll slip again.

But then her gaze clouds over. Her hand falls from my cheek. And she’s gone. Just like that.

Her head tips back against Noodle, and she starts murmuring again—something about wings and teeth, about shadows eating the sun.

The light in her eyes is gone, replaced by that hollow haze.

I close my eyes, press my forehead to hers, and let the tears slip free. Because I had her. Just for a moment.

And gods help me—I’ll keep holding on, through every fracture, through every lost day, until the moment she comes back for good.

It’s been one of those days.

The kind that leaves me wrung out, hollow, and one bad breath away from putting my fist through a wall. Len started the morning scratching at her own face, clawing until blood welled under her nails. By midday she was screaming—long, ragged, gut-splitting howls that wouldn’t stop until I sedated her, my hands shaking as I pressed the draught to her lips.

I hate myself for how relieved I felt when she went quiet.

So when I drag myself downstairs hours later, bone-tired and still smelling faintly of blood and sweat, the last thing I expect to see is him.

Myrnin. The bloody God of Fate. Standing in my kitchen.

And cooking.

There’s a pan on the stove, herbs on the counter, something sizzling that smells… suspiciously good.

I stop dead in the doorway, too tired to even summon proper outrage. “…What the fuck are you doing?”

He glances over his shoulder, smirking like he owns the place. “Making dinner.”

I blink at him. “You’re the God of Fate.”

“Yes,” he says mildly, turning back to whatever he’s stirring. “And you’re the husband of a woman whose soul is fractured in seven different directions. You’ve been carrying her, carrying yourself, and by the looks of you, carrying the entire household. I thought I’d give you a break.”

My jaw works. No words come out. Finally, I manage, “You thought you’d cook dinner.”

“Yes.”

I drag a hand down my face. “Do you even know how to cook?”

He arches an eyebrow, affronted. “Better than you.”

That jolts me awake. “Excuse me? There’s nothing wrong with my cooking.”

Myrnin snorts, actually snorts, and flicks his wrist like he’s shooing a child. “Garrick, I’ve had dinner with you several times recently. Half the time, the food’s been burnt.”

My mouth drops open. “It was one loaf of bread—”

“Three loaves of bread,” he corrects without missing a beat. “Two stews, one pie, and an omelette so blackened I thought you were trying to feed me charcoal.”

I glare at him, heat prickling my ears. “It’s not easy, cooking while making sure my wife doesn’t set herself on fire, or bite me, or collapse in the next room.”

Myrnin finally turns to face me, spoon in hand like a sceptre, eyes glinting with something infuriatingly smug. “Which is why I am cooking tonight. Consider it divine intervention.”

I want to be furious. I should be furious. But gods help me, the pan actually smells good.

I pinch the bridge of my nose and mutter, “If this kills me, Len’s going to laugh herself sick.”

Myrnin smiles like that’s the point.

By the time I drag myself to the table, the kitchen looks like something out of a dream. Not a single pan scorched, no smoke, no blackened edges. Myrnin moves with an ease that makes me want to strangle him—like he’s done this a thousand times, all while barely looking at what he’s chopping or stirring.

And the food… gods, the food smells good.

I sit heavily, watching as he sets a plate in front of me like some smug, immortal waiter. Roast chicken, roasted root vegetables cut neat as soldiers, gravy that glistens like silk.

I eye it suspiciously. “You didn’t poison this, did you?”

He smirks. “If I wanted you dead, Garrick, I wouldn’t use poultry.”

I glare at him but take a bite anyway. The flavor nearly knocks me out of my chair. Perfect seasoning, tender meat, not a single burnt edge. I chew slowly, scowling, because I hate how good it is.

“…Alright,” I mutter. “Maybe you can cook.”

Myrnin’s grin is insufferable. “Better than you.”

I grumble something incoherent and shovel another forkful into my mouth.

For a while, the only sound is cutlery against plates. Peaceful. Almost normal. And then, because he can’t help himself, Myrnin says, “I could stay, you know. Help you with Eleanor.”

The words hit like cold water. I put my fork down, jaw tightening. “No.”

He tilts his head, watching me too closely. “Garrick—”

“She’s my wife.” My voice is firm, steady, even though my insides twist. “This is my job. My choice. She’s mine to care for.”

Myrnin sighs, leaning back in his chair, hands folding neatly in his lap. “It’s not weakness to admit you’re struggling. Her soul was shattered into eight pieces. She’s mending… but it’s hard. Not just for her.”

I glance down at my arms, the scratches stark against my skin, half-healed scabs from where she clawed at me earlier. “Doesn’t feel like mending,” I admit hoarsely. “Feels like she’s breaking more every day.”

Myrnin’s expression softens, rare and unsettling. “She is mending. I can feel it, whenever I visit. Six of the eight fragments are back in place.”

I swallow hard. “…And the other two?”

He smirks faintly, like the memory amuses him. “They’re stubborn. Like her.”

Despite myself, a huff of laughter escapes me. “Of course they are.”

Myrnin nods once, eyes glinting with something like certainty. “It won’t be long, Garrick. She’ll come back.”

I close my eyes, let the words sink into me like warmth I don’t dare believe in. My fingers flex against the table, aching for the day I won’t flinch every time she screams.

I open them again, meet his gaze across the table. “Then I’ll keep holding on. Until she does.”

Myrnin inclines his head, like he knew I’d say it. “Good. Because she’s going to need you whole when she returns.”

I don’t answer. Just stab another bite of chicken and chew like it’s the only thing tethering me to this world.

Because maybe it is.

I’m halfway through another forkful when I hear the creak of the stairwell. My stomach drops—because usually, when she wanders at night, it ends in scratches, screaming, or worse.

But this time, it’s worse in an entirely different way.

Len shuffles into the kitchen stark naked, hair wild, eyes hazy with that fractured glaze. Before I can so much as set my fork down, she pads across the floor, climbs into my lap, and kisses me.

My brain short-circuits. “What the—Len—?”

Her mouth is warm, insistent, and gods help me, my hands go automatically to her waist, steadying her before she topples us both to the floor.

Across the table, I hear a sharp intake of breath and then a very pointed cough.

I snap my head up. “Myrnin. Look away.”

To his credit, the God of Fate actually does. He tips his chair back, eyes fixed on the ceiling with the most exaggerated disinterest I’ve ever seen. “Mortals,” he mutters, like we’re inconveniencing him by existing.

I pull back, framing her face in my hands. Her lips are swollen from the kiss, her pupils blown wide, but her eyes… gods, her eyes are so lost. “Len,” I whisper, my voice shaking. “Hey, baby, are you okay? What’s going on?”

She blinks at me, tilts her head, and then buries her face against my throat, babbling in a broken stream.

“Mine. My husband. My love.”

My heart fucking melts.

I press my forehead to hers, ignoring the heat rising in my cheeks, ignoring Myrnin’s theatrical sigh from across the room. All I can hear is her voice, fractured and slurred though it is. Mine. My husband. My love.

For the first time in days, I don’t care if she’s naked, if she’s babbling, if she doesn’t even fully know where she is. Because for this moment, she remembers me. She remembers us.

I close my eyes and hold her tighter, whispering back, “Yours. Always yours.”

Even if she’s only here for seconds. Even if the world thinks we’re gone.

She’s mine, and I’m hers.

Her mouth trails along my jaw, her hands clumsy but determined as they tug at the hem of my shirt. For a second I don’t register what she’s doing—until the buttons start popping and I realise she’s trying to undress me.

“Len,” I rasp, catching her wrists. “Wait—”

She makes a frustrated little sound in her throat, wriggling in my lap, nails scraping against my chest. “Mine,” she insists, louder now, eyes unfocused but fierce.

Gods above.

Across the table, Myrnin actually laughs. Laughs. A low, infuriating chuckle, like he’s watching a play performed solely for his amusement.

Before I can snarl at him, Noodle chitters from his corner, tail thumping against the floorboards like he’s in on the joke. The little bastard.

“Not helping,” I snap at both of them, tightening my grip on Len’s wrists before she manages to strip me bare. Panic spikes hot and sharp through my chest. Not just because we have an audience—though gods, that’s bad enough—but because this isn’t her. Not really. She’s fractured, drifting. She doesn’t know what she’s doing.

“Len, stop,” I plead, cupping her face to force her eyes to mine. “You’re not yourself right now. This isn’t you.”

She blinks, confused, then tries again to tug at my shirt. “You’re mine.”

“I am,” I whisper, my throat tight. “Always. But not like this. Not when you’re not all here.”

Myrnin hums thoughtfully, like this is all some fascinating experiment. “Fascinating. Even fractured, desire wins out over reason. Truly mortal love is the most—”

“Myrnin, shut the fuck up!” I roar, holding Len tight against me as she squirms, torn between heartbreak and fury.

He only smirks, and Noodle chitters louder, the parasite’s scales vibrating with what I swear is laughter.

And me? I sit there on the kitchen chair, half-undressed, my wife naked and babbling in my lap, while a god and a murder worm find the whole thing hilarious.

Gods help me.

Eventually, the fight drains out of her. Her breath evens, her body slackening against me. One moment she’s murmuring nonsense into my throat, the next she’s gone—dead asleep in my arms.

Naked.

I let out a long, strangled sigh and glance at the ceiling like maybe the gods will strike me down and put me out of my misery. No such luck.

Across the table, Myrnin raises an eyebrow, smirk firmly in place. “Charming. She’s very… comfortable with you.”

I glare at him, shifting to gather her more securely against me. “She’s my wife, Myrnin. Of course she’s comfortable. That doesn’t make this less of a nightmare.”

Noodle chitters from the corner, curling into himself like he’s laughing so hard he can’t breathe. The little shit.

I tug my cloak from the back of the chair and wrap it clumsily around Len’s body, muttering under my breath the entire time. “Godsdamn woman. Can’t keep clothes on when she’s sane, and now she’s batshit she’s stripping in the kitchen.”

She stirs faintly at my grumbling, mumbling something incoherent—“mine, mine, my husband”—before settling again, her cheek pressed to my chest.

And my heart twists. Because she doesn’t know where she is, doesn’t know what she’s doing. But even broken, even fractured, she still reaches for me.

I press a kiss into her hair, my jaw aching from how hard I’m clenching it. “Yeah, fireheart. Yours. Always yours.”

When I glance up, Myrnin’s watching me with something softer than smugness, though it vanishes the second our eyes meet. He lifts his wine glass—where the hell did that come from?—and says dryly, “You’re in over your head, Garrick.”

I look down at my sleeping, naked, babbling wife bundled in my cloak, and then at the god sipping wine in my kitchen while a parasite laughs at me.

“Yeah,” I mutter. “No shit.”

Chapter Text

Sometimes, I swear I feel her watching me. In the crackle of the fire, in the weight of silence where her laughter should be. It’s nothing—grief, shadows, madness. But when the air shifts, when the hairs rise on my arms, when my chest aches like she’s screaming right into it—I almost believe she never left at all.

— From the private journals of Xaden Riorson

TWO DAYS AFTER THE BATTLE OF DRAITHUS

ELEANOR

At first, I think it’s another strategy session. Another godsdamned council meeting.

The chamber is the same—stone walls, banners heavy in the stale air, that oversized map of Orlyth sprawled across the table like it can save anyone. People shift in their seats, whispering. Torches sputter, smoke curling like restless fingers.

But something is wrong.

Everyone looks… broken. Their faces are pale, drawn tight. Katherine’s eyes are red, wet, her hand clutching a kerchief like it’s the only thing tethering her. Brennan looks older, shoulders bowed. Even Violet, fierce and sharp as iron, sits stiff and silent, her jaw clenched like she’ll split her teeth if she lets go.

Why does she look like someone’s died?

“Hey,” I say, stepping closer, brushing past Mira’s chair. “What’s going on? What did I miss?”

No one answers.

My voice bounces off the walls, too loud, too sharp. “Where’s Xaden? Where’s Elias? Where’s—” my throat catches, sudden and raw, “—where’s Garrick?”

I scan the chamber. Empty seats. His should be here. Always beside me. Always.

But it’s not. He’s not.

A chill slides down my spine.

“Seriously,” I snap, louder now, panic bleeding into my voice. “Why the fuck is everyone looking at each other like that? Garrick? Where are you?”

Still nothing.

They don’t even blink at me. It’s like I’m not here at all.

My skin prickles, cold and clammy. I grab the edge of the table, shake it hard enough that the map crumples and ink bottles wobble—nothing. Not even a glance.

My chest squeezes tight, dread coiling hot and thick in my gut. Something is terribly, terribly wrong.

I’m screaming now, pounding my fists on the wood, and not a single one of them reacts.

Then—Aaric clears his throat.

The sound cuts through the tension like a blade, and the room stills. Everyone turns to him.

He looks pale, uneasy, but his voice is steady. “My signet manifested a few months ago. Foresight.”

The silence that follows is heavy, suffocating.

“I told two people,” Aaric continues. His gaze drops, guilty. “Len. And Xaden.”

My stomach lurches.

Violet sucks in a sharp breath. “So… Xaden knew—”

“Only pieces.” Aaric sighs, rubbing his temple. “You don’t understand. Most people, when I look ahead, their paths are fixed. Steady. I can see where they’ll walk. But Eleanor…” He shakes his head. “Her path was always too fluid. Too changeable. Every time she made a choice, the future shifted. I could only prepare her for fragments. For shadows of what might be.”

No one speaks.

The air feels too thin, pressing in on me, crushing me. Because if Aaric’s right, then I knew. I knew something was coming.

So why can’t anyone hear me now? Why isn’t Garrick here, holding my hand, steadying me? Why isn’t Xaden smirking at the edge of the table, or Elias quietly watching over us all?

Why am I the only one screaming in a room that can’t see me bleed?

The dread in my gut spreads, icy and choking. I can’t breathe.

Because this isn’t a council meeting.
This is a reckoning.

And the one seat I need filled—my husband’s—is still empty.

The room tilts. I grip the edge of the table so hard my knuckles ache, but no one notices. No one even flinches.

Because they can’t.

Because they don’t see me.

Aaric shifts in his chair, his hands clasped tight in front of him. His voice is thin, ragged. “I never saw the truth of what would happen. Not clearly. It was shadowed. But I saw… snippets. Flashes. Enough to know something terrible was coming.”

My pulse hammers in my ears. Something terrible?

“I tried to warn her,” he continues, his gaze dropping to the map. “I warned Lenny. But she was determined to make her own path. Said she could change things—not for herself, because I could never see her fate—but for everyone else.”

The words twist in my stomach. I open my mouth to speak, to shout I’m right here, but the air rips it away.

“So we planned,” Aaric says. His shoulders sag. “As best we could. But something… something changed. I don’t know what. She did something, or decided something, and it threw fate’s path into chaos. A new one formed in its place, and I couldn’t follow it.”

The chamber is silent. Oppressive. My friends look like statues, carved from grief.

Violet swallows, her voice trembling as she finally asks, “So… did she know?”

Aaric looks up. His eyes shine with guilt.

“Did she know what was going to happen to her?”

The silence that follows is suffocating. My stomach lurches, twisting tighter and tighter. What are they talking about? What happened to me?

I glance around the table, searching for Garrick, for Xaden, for Elias. My chest hollows when I don’t find them.

“What the fuck do they mean?” I whisper, but no one turns.

Aaric drags a hand through his hair, sighing like he’s aged decades. “I’m not sure,” he admits. “She was so fucking cryptic. I never knew if she knew more than me… considering she kept speaking with Myrnin too. And obviously the God of Fate knows more than I do.”

My throat closes. Myrnin? I—what did I—

Aaric leans forward, voice hoarse. “So no. I don’t know if she knew exactly what was coming. But she did something. She set some things in place, and I think… I think she had some idea.”

The air feels razor-sharp in my lungs.

And then Bodhi speaks. Cold. Flat. Unforgiving.

“Spit it out, Aaric.”

I freeze, my heartbeat roaring in my ears.

“I think… I think she knew there was a chance she’d die out there.”

The words hit me like a blade through the ribs.

Die?

I pause, blinking, my breath stuttering in my chest.

I died? No. No. No—I’m right here. I’m standing right fucking here.

I take a step back, shaking my head, my palms pressed to my temples as if I can shove the thought out. The room spins. Katherine’s face crumples, Mira buries hers in her hands, Ridoc stares at the table like it might split open. Violet’s shoulders heave as she sucks in a breath that sounds more like a sob.

And I’m screaming. Gods, I must be screaming, because my throat feels raw and torn, but no one flinches. No one looks at me.

“I’m not dead!” I slam my fist against the table, hard enough the map jolts. “I’m here! Don’t you see me? I’m right here!”

But they don’t.

Bodhi’s voice cuts through again, sharp as shattered glass. “So she knew.”

Aaric winces. “I don’t—maybe. I told you, she was cryptic. Always half a step ahead of me. She spoke with Myrnin more than she ever admitted. Maybe he told her more than I could. Maybe she already knew where the path ended. But she… she still went.”

The sound in my ears is a roar.

Because if they’re right—if I really died—then what am I?

Bodhi’s voice slices through the chamber, colder than I’ve ever heard it.
“Did she know about Garrick? About Xaden and Elias?”

I freeze. The world tilts under my feet. What about Garrick? What about my husband?

My mouth goes dry, my pulse crashing in my ears. I search the room frantically, desperate for his broad shoulders, his steady presence—anything—but his chair is still empty. Cold. Waiting.

Aaric shakes his head slowly. “No. I don’t think she knew about Garrick or Elias.” His voice falters, the words dragging like lead. “But Xaden… yeah. The two of them planned for it. Contingencies. For the day he became fully Venin and would have to flee.”

The silence after that is suffocating.

Violet jerks upright, her chair scraping violently against the floor. Her face is pale, her eyes blazing. “All these months?” Her voice is sharp enough to draw blood. “All these godsdamned months of fighting it, pretending we could hold it back—and they were planning for him to leave?”

Aaric winces, his gaze dropping to the map. “They didn’t want anyone else to know. It was about survival. About buying time.”

Violet slams her hand down on the table, the sound echoing like thunder. “They lied to us. He lied to me.”

The room brims with fury, confusion, grief. Everyone is talking, voices overlapping, but I don’t hear them.

I can’t.

Because I’m still frozen, my body trembling, my nails digging into the wood hard enough to split skin.

Xaden’s Venin. Fine. I’ll deal with that later. But Elias? Garrick?

Where the fuck is my husband?

I turn in circles, wild, searching corners, shadows, doorways. “Where is he?” I shout, voice breaking. “Where the fuck is Garrick?”

No one looks up. No one answers.

The dread in my gut curdles into pure terror.

Then Aaric shifts in his chair. His hand slips into his leathers and comes out clutching something folded, sealed. My breath catches sharp in my throat.

A letter.

And I know that parchment. I know that handwriting. Because it’s mine.

I freeze, every part of me turning cold. No. No, no, no—

I wrote that letter as a contingency. If I fell in Draithus. If I died.

I told Aaric to read it to the others. Only then. Only if I was gone.

Which means…

I’m really dead.

My vision tunnels, black creeping at the edges, the chamber narrowing around me like a coffin.

“What’s that?” Mira frowns, her voice sharp, suspicious.

“Another fucking letter,” Bodhi snarls before Aaric can answer. His hands tremble as he slams his fists down on the table. The sound reverberates through my bones.

I flinch, watching grief rip him open in real time.

His face twists, raw and vicious, and the sight carves into me worse than any blade. Because that’s my Bodhi. My cousin. My brother in all but blood. And he’s tearing apart in front of me.

Because I’m gone.

And he knows it.

And gods, I think I finally do too.

Aaric breaks the seal. My stomach drops.

“No—don’t—” My voice cracks, desperate, but of course no one hears. My hands shake as he unfolds the parchment, my handwriting staring back at me like a noose.

And then he begins to read.

“If you’re hearing this, it means the prophecy caught me. Or my own arrogance did. I thought I could change it. I always thought I could change it. I’ve never bowed to anyone, and I refused to bow to fate. But if this letter is being read… then something went wrong.”

The words lance through me, cruel and merciless. I wrote this. I said this. But I’m standing right here.

“Don’t grieve. The war isn’t over. Not yet. The following things need to happen.”

The chamber is silent but for his voice. Everyone leans forward, pale and hollow, drinking in each word like water in a desert.

“I secured an allyship with King Courtlyn in Deverelli. With Katherine and Elias living there, the squad has somewhere safe to fall back to if they need—and they do need. Use it.”

Katherine bows her head, hands trembling in her lap. The sight twists my chest.

“Xaden and I worked with Aaric. There are six dragon eggs hidden, waiting to be taken first to Deverelli, then on to Unnbriel. Courtlyn will take two. Queen Marlis of Unnbriel will take four. In exchange, we secure their armies. This sacrifice is necessary.”

Gasps ripple through the chamber. Bodhi stiffens, fury etched in every line of him, but he says nothing.

“Bodhi, Aaric—you are to go to the Southern Isles to negotiate. Bodhi, as Duke of Tyrrendor in Xaden’s absence. Aaric, as Prince of Navarre. Use your names. Use your power.”

Bodhi’s fists clench white-knuckled against the table. Aaric can’t even meet his eyes.

“Chradh will guard the Shadewing eggs. Nox would have followed me into the After, but Garrick and Chradh know the Shadewing traditions. They will decide their fate. No one else.”

My throat closes. Garrick. Where is Garrick? Why isn’t he here?

“Garrick also knows the locations of the three artifacts we gathered from the gods. Use them if you must. And Noodle… Noodle is King of Veylthorn now. He has an army, and together with Garrick, he can use them as spies and soldiers. Feed them with voidfire—Bodhi, your mimicry will sustain their loyalty. I gave you a conduit imbued with my power before Draithus, but if it broke… there’s a box under our bed full of imbued weapons and jewellery. Use them. But don’t touch Noodle’s bone collection. He’ll bite you.”

Ridoc makes a strangled sound that might almost be a laugh before he presses both hands over his face.

“That’s the immediate plan. Garrick knows the rest. Trust him. Trust Aaric. If I’m dead, it’s so you don’t have to be.”

My nails scrape against the table, useless, desperate. Where are you, Garrick? Why aren’t you here to explain the rest?

“Vi—Xaden knew this was coming. Deep down, you did too. He’s safe. I made sure of it. He has a list of places to run, places no one will find him.”

Violet makes a strangled sound—half sob, half fury. Her chair shakes as she grips the table edge.

“Bodhi—I’m sorry the throne has fallen to you. But you’ll make a great duke. Remember your promises to me.”

Bodhi doesn’t move. His eyes glisten, but his face is stone.

“And Garrick… thank you for staying. I’ll be waiting for you. Take your time. I’ll see you in the After.”

The letter trembles in Aaric’s hands as he reads the final line.

“Always yours—Lenny.”

The words echo, final, ringing through the chamber like a death knell.

I stagger back, breath tearing out of me. My chest feels hollow, like someone carved me open and scooped out everything inside.

I wrote those words. I signed them. But I’m here. I’m here, godsdamn it.

And yet… no one looks. No one hears.

Because to them, Eleanor Tavis is already gone.

The words hang in the chamber like smoke, thick and choking.

“Always yours—Lenny.”

And then the room erupts.

Mira slams her hand against the table, tears streaking her face. “She planned for this—like she always did! Like every insane gamble she ever pulled—she knew—”

Violet’s shaking, her voice breaking as she snaps, “She wrote a battle plan into her own fucking death letter.”

Imogen curses under her breath, shoving her chair back so hard it clatters against the stone wall. “Godsdamn her. Godsdamn her for thinking one step ahead of us even when she knew she was—” She cuts off, choking.

Bodhi doesn’t move at first. He sits rigid, his fists pressed to the table so hard I hear the wood crack. Then his voice cuts through the chaos, jagged and raw. “She made that plan… thinking Garrick would be here.”

The words slice me open.

No. No, no, no—

“She died thinking Garrick would live.”

My chest collapses. My breath tears out of me. What do they mean?

“What are you talking about?” I scream, but it comes out soundless, hollow, rattling in my throat. I whirl on them, desperate, wild. “Is he dead? Is Garrick dead? ANSWER ME!”

No one turns. No one even flinches.

Bodhi’s voice drops to a whisper, his jaw trembling, his eyes red-rimmed. “She thought he’d survive her. That he’d lead us. Gods, she believed it right until the end.”

The chamber falls silent, the truth a blade no one wants to touch.

And me? I lose it.

My nails rake at my skin, my throat raw from screaming at ghosts who can’t hear me. “NO. He’s not dead. He can’t be. He’s my husband. He’s—he promised—he PROMISED!”

The map blurs, the faces blur, my vision swimming with panic.

If Garrick is gone—if Garrick died with me—then what am I?

What’s left of me at all?

The room is still. Breathless. Every eye turned toward Aaric like he holds the knife they don’t want to see drawn.

He exhales slowly, and when he speaks, his voice is low, almost pitying. “Len was a fool, thinking Garrick would ever choose to live without her.”

The words slice through me.

“No.” My voice shatters out of me, desperate, breaking. “No, no, no—don’t you dare say that—”

But Violet speaks next, her hands trembling where they grip the edge of the table. “The second he saw her body hit the floor… I knew. Gods, I knew.” Her voice cracks, but she presses on. “The second he cut Aedriel down. The second he ripped Kasten apart with his bare hands. We all knew.”

My heart pounds so hard I think it might split open. Kasten? Aedriel? What—what are you saying—

“He didn’t even fight it,” Violet whispers, tears streaking her face. “He didn’t even try. He just… let it take him. The burnout. He let it eat him.”

The room goes silent. Heavy.

And then Katherine speaks.

Her voice is cold. Hollow. Final. “Garrick burnt himself out purposely. He died holding Len’s body.”

The floor tilts beneath me. My lungs seize, my scream caught in my chest like broken glass.

No. No, no, no, no.

I stumble back, shaking my head, every inch of me unraveling. He wouldn’t. He couldn’t. He PROMISED—

But the look on their faces tells me the truth.

And gods, it’s worse than death.

Because Garrick didn’t just die.
He chose to.

For me.

ONE WEEK AFTER THE BATTLE OF DRAITHUS

The fortress is cold. Empty stone halls, dust thick on the floors, windows cracked and broken. No banners, no warmth, no life. A carcass of a stronghold, forgotten by the world.

But it shelters them.

Xaden sits hunched over a table, his shadows coiling aimlessly around his boots, sluggish and dull as though they share his grief. Elias is across from him, face pale, jaw tight, hands raking through his hair again and again like he can scrub away the memories.

They don’t speak. Not for a long time. Just sit there, two men hollowed out, drowning in silence.

And I sit with them.

Silent. Invisible. Crying so hard it feels like my chest should break.

Xaden’s hand curls into a fist on the table. His shoulders tremble, but he doesn’t let it show, not fully. He never did. But I know him too well. He thinks he failed me. He thinks all his clever plans, all his impossible schemes, weren’t enough.

Elias… gods, Elias. He looks like a ghost himself. His eyes are red, his breath shallow, his body still marked with the shadows that burned into him when the venom took root. He stares at the wall like he’s watching something no one else can see. My face, maybe. My death.

I want to tell them they didn’t fail me. That I don’t blame them. That I’d do it all again if it meant they lived.

But they can’t hear me.

They never hear me.

For a week I’ve screamed myself hoarse, torn my throat bloody trying to make someone—anyone—see me. I’ve clawed at doors, thrown myself at tables, begged until I collapsed on the floor. I’ve searched the battlefield, the ash, the After. I’ve begged the gods.

But Garrick’s not here.

My husband’s ghost isn’t waiting for me.

And that’s when it finally sank in.

This is it.

This is my punishment.

Not peace, not reunion, not rest. Just… this. Stuck in the quiet between breaths, watching everyone I love break under the weight of me.

Xaden lowers his head into his hands, his shadows curling tight around him like a shroud. Elias leans back, dragging his palms over his face, his whole body shaking.

I press a hand to my mouth, sobbing soundlessly. Because I love them both. Because I’m sorry. Because I thought I could beat fate, and I couldn’t.

And now…

Now I’m alone.

Forever.

This is my afterlife.

THREE WEEKS AFTER DRAITHUS

Deverelli should feel safe. It doesn’t.

The house smells like damp wood and sorrow, curtains drawn so tight the daylight can’t get in. The silence is suffocating, broken only by the faint cry of a baby down the hall.

And Katherine doesn’t move.

She lies curled in the bed, hair tangled, skin pale, eyes open but staring at nothing. Her chest rises and falls, but it looks like effort. Like even breathing is too much.

Kingston kneels beside her, his hand gripping hers, his voice hoarse with pleading. “Kat, please. Just get up. Just for a little while. Elara needs you.”

Her mouth doesn’t even twitch.

“She’s three months old,” Kingston pushes, his voice cracking. “She needs her mother. Please.”

I’m at the foot of the bed, fists clenched, screaming.

“Get up, Kat! Please, godsdamn it, GET UP. She needs you. Don’t you see? She’s all you have left. She’s all we have left!”

But my voice doesn’t reach her. It never does.

I scream until my throat burns, until my chest heaves like I could break myself apart. But Katherine doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink. She just lies there, hollow, as if part of her died in Draithus with me.

Kingston bows his head, pressing his forehead to her hand. His shoulders shake with quiet, broken sobs. “I can’t lose you too,” he whispers.

And still, nothing.

The baby cries again, louder this time, a thin, desperate wail that slices through the house.

I sob with her. “Kat, please. Don’t do this. Don’t leave her. I can’t— I can’t watch this.”

But I do.

Because that’s all I can do.

Watch.

Watch my best friend rot alive. Watch her daughter grow up in silence. Watch Kingston beg for a friend who’s no longer there.

Three weeks, and I’ve stopped pretending I’m anything more than a ghost.

And gods help me—maybe this is worse than death.

ONE MONTH AFTER DRAITHUS

I’ve watched a lot of things since Draithus.

Watched Katherine rot in her bed. Watched Violet spar until her knuckles bled. Watched Xaden and Elias sit hollow-eyed in a fortress of dust and silence.

But this? Watching Bodhi break is worse.

The council chamber is heavy with smoke and ink, voices scratching like knives. They call me and Garrick “casualties.” “Losses.” “A victory.”

And Bodhi—my cousin, my brother, my partner in crime—sits there vibrating with rage, his knee bouncing, his jaw tight. I can feel the storm rising in him before it hits.

The general reads the words: Proud to confirm the deaths of Eleanor and Garrick Tavis.

Proud.

I scream. Gods, I scream until my throat is raw. I’m not gone! I’m right here!

But Bodhi doesn’t hear me.

He slams his fist against the table, cracks the wood, spits fire in his voice about how we weren’t casualties, how we saved them all. Imogen backs him, fierce and trembling, her voice breaking. And still the generals prattle. Still they reduce us to neat lines of ink.

And then Bodhi snaps. His words tear through the chamber, grief flayed raw. He tells them what I already know: how Garrick died holding me. How Nox and Chradh chose to lay down beside us. How Noodle screamed like the world was ending.

I clutch my head, choking on sobs no one hears. “Stop. Stop, please, I don’t want to hear this again.”

But Bodhi keeps going. His voice breaks, rage folding into grief. “They weren’t casualties. They were family. And without them, we’re already lost.”

And gods, I’ve never wanted to touch someone so badly in my life. To put my hand on his shoulder, to tell him I’m here, to tell him he’s not the last one left.

But I can’t. My fingers pass through him like smoke.

He storms out, boots pounding the floor, Violet’s voice calling after him, desperate. He doesn’t turn back.

I follow, because I can’t not. He shoves the doors open, slams into the hall, slides down the wall with his hands in his hair. His chest heaves, his grief a storm so big I swear I can feel it rattling through my bones.

I crouch in front of him, tears spilling uselessly. “You’re not alone, Bodhi. You’re not. I’m still here.”

But he doesn’t hear me. He never does.

His eyes are fixed on the stones, unfocused, his lips moving soundlessly like he’s begging some god to give him back what he’s lost. His fists tremble against his knees, bloody from splinters.

I sink down beside him, pressing my shoulder to his even though it passes through, and I start talking. Whispering. Pretending my words can reach him.

“I’m sorry. Gods, I’m so sorry. This is my fault. I wasn’t strong enough. If I’d been better, smarter, stronger—none of this would’ve happened.”

My voice shakes, but I keep going, pouring everything out like maybe, somehow, it’ll soak into him. “You were always my family, Bodhi. You were my brother. I should’ve stayed. I should’ve lived for you.”

But his lips move too, and the words that fall from him nearly stop my heart.

“I hope… wherever you are… you can hear me.” His voice is broken, raw, but steady enough to cut. “Because gods, Len, I hate you for this. I hate you and Garrick both.”

I flinch, my hands curling uselessly in my lap.

“It’s not fair,” he whispers, tears dripping down his cheeks. “You’re at peace now, wherever you are. With him. With the dragons. And I’m still here. Suffering. Alone. Carrying everything you left behind.” His jaw clenches. “I hate you. I hate you for leaving me like this.”

He surges to his feet, wiping at his face furiously, and storms down the hall, boots pounding against the stone.

I don’t follow this time.

I just sit there, crumpled against the wall where his warmth never touched me, silent tears slipping down my face.

“I hate me too,” I whisper into the empty corridor.

And the silence swallows me whole.

The sparring gym reeks of iron, sweat, and grief.

Imogen’s fists are a blur, blood spraying with every strike. Dain just stands there, broken and still, his body absorbing every blow without flinching, without lifting a hand to stop her.

I stand in the corner, useless, my ghost-body trembling as I watch her fall apart.

“Stop, Imogen!” I scream, my voice raw, echoing only for me. “Please, gods, stop before you kill him!”

But she can’t hear me. None of them can.

Her screams tear through the gym, sharp and brutal. “I loved her! She was mine!”

Every punch lands with the force of a sob, a wound that won’t close. And gods, I feel it in my bones. Quinn’s death is still a wound inside all of us, but for Imogen it’s a void.

I sink down against the wall, watching her fists split open, blood streaking her arms. I whisper, “I know. I know, Imogen. I loved her too.”

But my words vanish in the haze of her grief.

Ridoc and Aaric grab her, dragging her back as she thrashes and screams. Dain crumples to the mat, his face wrecked, his chest heaving—but he still doesn’t defend himself. He just takes it.

I stagger forward, tears blurring my vision. “Why are you doing this, Dain? Why won’t you fight back?”

Then Imogen collapses. Her knees give out, her body trembling, her throat raw from screams. “They’re all dead,” she croaks, rocking herself like a child. “All of them. Gone. Fucking gone.”

Her words gut me.

Because it’s not just Quinn. She means me. She means Garrick. She means everyone we lost in Draithus.

The door slams open, and Emetterio storms in, thunder in his steps. His gaze slices through the gym like a blade, fixing on the ruin of Dain bleeding on the mat. “Enough,” he barks, his voice ringing like judgment.

And then he says the words that still me where I stand.

“You couldn’t have saved them.”

The silence after is heavy. Deadly.

I stare at Dain, broken and bowed, and for the first time, I see it too. He isn’t letting Imogen punish him for no reason. He’s letting her tear him apart because he believes it’s what he deserves. Because he was there. Because he couldn’t stop what happened.

Imogen whispers, broken, “It’s not your fault.”

And for just a moment, I swear Dain’s swollen eyes flick to her. Then close again.

My chest caves. I press my hand to my mouth, sobbing soundlessly.

Because for the first time, I truly see how much they’re grieving me. How much my death isn’t just mine to carry. It’s theirs too.

And I can’t take it back.

I can’t fix it.

I can only watch as the people I love bleed out in ways worse than death.

The gym reeks of sweat and blood and rage. Imogen’s knuckles drip red, her throat is raw from screaming, and still she thrashes against Ridoc and Aaric as though she can break herself into pieces and scatter them across the floor.

And I’m here.

I’m always here.

I press my palms to my ears, my chest convulsing, whispering, shouting, begging. “Stop. Please, stop. I’m right here.”

But she can’t hear me.

None of them can.

Emetterio kneels, his hand braced on the bloody floor, his gaze sharp enough to slice bone.

“Nobody is to blame for the Tavis’ deaths but themselves.”

I stagger back, gasping. Ourselves?

“No,” I whisper, shaking my head. “No, that’s not fair. We didn’t choose this—”

But his words roll over me, steel wrapped in fire. “If you want to be angry, curse them. Scream at them. They’re at peace in the After now. They can take a little shit from the people they left behind.”

Something inside me cracks wide open.

“Peace?” I scream, throwing my voice into the rafters. “I’m not at peace! I’m not in the After! I’m right here, godsdammit, RIGHT HERE!”

No one flinches. Not a single head turns.

He speaks of Quinn, his voice softening, steady. He reminds Imogen of the girl she loved, of the fire she carried, of how she wouldn’t want this for her. And gods, I want to reach out, to wrap my arms around Imi’s shaking shoulders and tell her he’s right. But all I can do is stand there, useless, watching her shatter.

And then Emetterio’s voice rises, his grief sharpening into steel. “Eleanor and Garrick Tavis never stopped fighting. Not once. They fought when it was hopeless. They fought when it meant bleeding themselves dry. They fought until the end.”

The words knock the air out of me.

I fall to my knees, sobbing soundlessly, clutching my chest. “Yes. I’m still fighting. Gods, I’m still fucking fighting. Can’t you see? Can’t you hear me?”

He keeps going, voice steady, relentless. “And I’m willing to bet—right now—Lenny is probably threatening Malek himself. Demanding he send her back. Because there is no way in all the hells that woman would ever actually choose peace.”

Ridoc barks out a broken laugh, Rhiannon hides her tears behind her hand, even Dain’s ruined face twitches like he knows it too. They see me the way I used to be. Ferocious. Impossible. Feral enough to scream at gods until they bent.

And I’m here. I am that woman. But they can’t see me.

“She wasn’t built for peace,” Emetterio says, voice like a hammer. “None of them were.”

The squad holds each other together with shaking hands, cracked laughter, hollow eyes. They believe I’m gone. They believe Garrick’s gone. They believe we’re at peace, somewhere beyond their reach.

And I’m on the floor of the sparring gym, screaming, sobbing, clawing at the stone, begging them to look at me.

“I’m not at peace,” I choke. “I’m not gone. I’m right here. I’m right here.”

But the silence swallows me whole.

The night is so quiet it hurts. Wind whistles through cracks in the old stone, and Sygael shifts restlessly on the battlements above.

And Xaden sits cross-legged in the cold, my journal in his lap. My journal.

I crouch beside him, close enough to see the way his fingers tremble when he traces my handwriting, close enough to catch the sharp hitch in his breath when he stumbles over my words.

He laughs once—half a sob, half a snort—when he finds the entry about Noodle and Chompy. His laugh is so raw it feels like a wound opening in my own chest.

“Gods, you sound pathetic,” I taunt him, grinning the way I always would. “Crying over my domestic chronicles? You know I was right about the demon thing. It would’ve been fucking cool.”

No response.

There never is anymore.

He flips through more pages, his shadows twitching, feeding on his grief. I sit beside him, reading over his shoulder, teasing him the way I always did. “Oh, come on, Xaden, you loved being called the Duke of Depression. Admit it. That nickname was gold.”

Nothing. Just the scrape of his breath, the tightening of his jaw.

And then he closes my journal and opens a blank one. For a moment, I can’t breathe. Because the pen shakes in his hand like he doesn’t know if he’s allowed.

I lean in, whispering, “Don’t you dare write something nice about me. I’ll haunt the shit out of you if you do.”

But then the ink scratches across the page, his voice muttering low as he writes words I don’t deserve to hear.

How he misses me. How he misses Garrick. How the silence is killing him.

I freeze, my smirk faltering, because the ache in his voice isn’t something I can joke away. Not this time.

He tells me not to be at peace. That peace means I’ve given up. That he needs to believe I’m still fighting, wherever I am.

My throat burns.

“Of course I’m still fighting, you idiot,” I whisper fiercely, pressing my forehead to his shoulder even though it passes right through. “I’m right here. Screaming in your fucking ear. But you can’t hear me. You never do.”

He closes the journal and rests his hand on it, shadows curling around his wrist like claws. His face is a mask of silence, but his eyes—gods, his eyes are bleeding.

I want to shake him. To grab him and scream I’m here, I’m here, I’m still here.

But the night stays quiet.

And I stay alone.

The fortress is cold stone and silence.

Violet curls into Xaden’s side of the bed, his pillow clutched tight to her chest. Her hair spills across the blanket, her shoulders trembling with each muffled sob. She buries her face deeper into the fabric like she can wring the last of him from the scent, the shadows that used to cling to him.

I sit on the edge of the mattress, my knees pulled up, watching her fall apart.

“Vi,” I whisper, my voice breaking. “Oh, Vi. I’m here.”

But she doesn’t hear me.

She never does.

Her hands fist into the pillow, knuckles white, and another sob tears out of her throat. “Why did you leave me?” she chokes into the fabric. “Why did you all leave me?”

The sound guts me.

I slide down beside her, close enough that if I were alive, my shoulder would press against hers. Close enough that I could hook my arm through hers and whisper something reckless and stupid until she laughed again.

“I didn’t leave you,” I murmur, pressing my forehead to her back. “I’m right fucking here. You think I’d ever leave you with the brooding bastard unsupervised?” I try to grin, to lighten the weight the way I always did. But the smile falls apart in my mouth.

Because she doesn’t laugh. She just sobs harder.

“Gods, Vi,” I say, softer now, tears spilling down my ghost-cheeks. “I never wanted this. I never wanted you to hurt like this.”

She trembles, whispering Xaden’s name like a prayer, her voice so small I almost miss it.

I close my eyes, my chest splitting wide. I want to scream. I want to break the walls. I want to drag the gods down by their throats and make them let her hear me. Just once.

But the silence doesn’t break.

It never does.

So I lie there, curled against her like I used to on sleepless nights at Basgiath, when we whispered in the dark and pretended we weren’t afraid of the morning. I stay until her sobs fade into shallow breaths, until her body stills with exhausted sleep.

And I whisper the promise I can’t keep.

“I’ll always be here, Vi. Always.”

Even if she never knows it.

The fire spits, shadows crawling the walls, and I sit right there on the cold stone floor between them. Elias on one side, staring hollow into the flames. Xaden on the other, wrapped in darkness, his jaw locked like if he lets go he’ll shatter.

And I scream.

“I’m right here!”

But they don’t hear me. They never fucking hear me.

Elias’ voice is flat, broken, like ashes in the wind. “She’s dead.”

Xaden’s reply is sharp enough to cut me in half. “So’s Garrick.”

My chest caves, my stomach lurching. My nails rake uselessly at the floor. “Don’t you dare say that! Don’t you fucking dare! He’s not gone—he can’t be—where is he? Where is my husband?”

The fire crackles. Shadows coil tighter. And neither of them look at me.

They sit there, grieving me, grieving Garrick, and all I can do is claw at the silence between us like an animal in a trap.

“Why can’t you hear me?” My voice cracks, rising higher, shriller, until it’s nothing but a sob. “Why the fuck am I here if you can’t even hear me? Why can’t I find him? Where is Garrick? Where the fuck is he?”

But the only answer is Elias’ ragged breathing and the hiss of shadows trembling around Xaden’s shoulders.

And gods… I miss him. I miss Garrick so much it’s a wound inside me, raw and festering. His laugh. His steady hands. The way he always stood at my side, no matter how far I fell. My anchor. My heart.

But I can’t find him. Not in the ash. Not in the After. Not anywhere.

And the terror of that—the possibility that he’s truly gone while I’m stuck here—burns worse than any prophecy ever could.

Elias and Xaden sit in silence, staring at the flames, their grief a mirror of mine.

But I am here.

And they can’t see me.

And that is the cruelest punishment of all.

It starts like a dream.

After a month of silence, of screaming into nothing, of watching everyone else crumble under my absence—I finally see him.

Garrick.

He’s in the old Lennox estate, the firelight painting him gold, his broad shoulders bent as he kneels on the rug. His hands are steady, careful, a plate of food in them.

My chest seizes. My breath fractures. I found him.

I stumble closer, my voice tearing out of me. “Garrick! Oh gods, Garrick—it’s me, I’m here, I’m—”

But then I see who he’s feeding.

And my body goes cold.

It’s me.
But it’s not me.

The figure on the chair has my hair, my scars, my shape. But her eyes are wrong—glassy, vacant, darting to shadows that aren’t there. Her mouth twists with incoherent babble, words tumbling out about fire and blood and demons that don’t exist. She giggles at nothing, her fingers twitching in the air like she’s pulling strings no one else can see.

A husk. Hollow. Broken.

Not me.

What the fuck is this?

I stagger closer, clutching my chest, bile rising in my throat. “Garrick, look at me! It’s not me—she’s not me!”

But he doesn’t hear me. He just smiles, nodding, coaxing her to take another bite of bread like this is all perfectly normal. Like this is his wife.

“No!” I scream, my nails digging into my palms hard enough I should bleed. “That’s not me! I’m right here! Garrick, please—look at me!”

The husk tilts her head, mumbling about shadows crawling in her veins, about the taste of blood in the rain. And Garrick—my Garrick—just listens. Just strokes her hair back from her face and presses a kiss to her temple.

Like she’s me.

Like I’m not standing three feet away, screaming myself raw.

I stumble forward, desperate, until I’m inches from him. “It’s me! Garrick, gods, it’s me—I’ve been here all along! Please, just look—”

And then the husk moves.

Her head jerks, too sharp, too fast, her glassy eyes snapping straight to me.

I freeze.

Her lips part, and for the first time, the babble stops.

Her voice comes out clear. Cold. Wrong.
“You’re not supposed to be here.”

My stomach drops through the floor.

I shake my head violently, tears streaking down my face. “Yes I am! This is my life, my husband, my family—you don’t get to take it—you don’t get to—”

I’m screaming again, clawing at the air, begging Garrick to see me, to save me, to choose me.

But he only looks at her.

And the husk keeps staring at me, her smile too wide, too broken.

And I understand, with a sick twist of horror, that maybe I’m not the ghost.

Maybe she is.

The husk stares at me, glassy eyes gleaming, smile warped.
You’re not supposed to be here.

And Garrick—gods, Garrick—doesn’t even look up. He just presses another piece of bread to her lips, nodding as she babbles about shadows, about blood dripping from ceilings that don’t exist.

My scream rips through the room. “Garrick! That’s not me! I’m right here, look at me!”

But he doesn’t.

He can’t.

Because to him, that broken thing in the chair is me.

The truth hits like a blade twisting through my ribs. My knees buckle, the floor rushing up to meet me.

The husk twitches, giggles, then mutters something about fire licking her skin, about the void whispering promises. Garrick just hums, smoothing her hair back, murmuring quiet comfort.

And that’s when I see it.

The way her hands move, jerking toward the light, the same way mine always did when I played with shadowfire. The way her mouth shapes words, nonsense strung together with threads of memory only I would know. The way Garrick touches her—gentle, steady, like he’s holding what’s left of his world together with sheer will.

Because he is.

Because that husk really is me.

My body. My mind. Shattered, hollow, lost.

And I—this screaming, unseen shadow clawing at the world—I’m just a fragment. A piece of my fractured soul.

I stagger back, clutching at my chest, sobbing so hard it feels like my ribs will break. “No. No, no, no—this can’t be it. I’m not a ghost. I’m not—I can’t be—”

But the husk tilts her head, staring at Garrick with that vacant, broken smile, and then at me again.

And the horror crystallises into certainty.

That thing is me.
And so am I.

Two halves torn apart. One trapped in a ruined body Garrick refuses to give up on. The other screaming, unseen, begging to be remembered.

I press my shaking hands over my face, my tears useless.

Because now I know the truth.

And Garrick—my steady, loyal, stubborn husband—is trying to mend the pieces of me back together.

Garrick kneels on the rug, steady as stone, his hand cradling the husk’s jaw. His voice is low, coaxing, the same tone he used to use with me when my fire raged too hot.

“There you go,” he murmurs as she swallows a bite of bread. “That’s it. You’re doing so well.”

The husk babbles something about blood dripping from the ceiling. Garrick only nods, smoothing her tangled hair back from her face. His eyes are tired, bruised with sleeplessness, but his voice stays soft. Steady.

“I love you,” he whispers, pressing his forehead to hers. “And it won’t be long, okay? You’ll be yourself again soon. Myrnin says he can feel it—you’re healing.”

My knees hit the floor.

“No,” I choke, my hands trembling as I claw at the air. “No, I’m not healing. I’m right here, Garrick, I’m right here!”

He doesn’t look at me. He never looks at me. His whole world is fixed on her—the hollow thing in his arms, drooling nonsense and smiling at ghosts only she can see.

And I scream. I sob until I collapse against the wall, until my throat feels shredded raw. “She’s not me! I’m me! Gods, please, just look at me—please, Garrick, please—”

But he only kisses the husk’s temple, his voice breaking as he promises again.

“You’ll come back to me. I know you will.”

And it’s then, in the pit of my gut, that I feel the cruel truth coil tight like a knife twisting deeper.

That husk is me.
And so am I.
Two broken pieces of a soul that used to be whole.

Garrick believes the husk will mend. Believes I’ll return to him.

But I know better.

Because I’m here. Sobbing. Screaming. Splintering.

And no matter how many times he says it, no matter how tightly he clings to her…

I’m not healing.

I’m right here.

And he can’t see me.

TWO MONTHS AFTER DRAITHUS

Two months.

Two months of screaming into silence until my throat tore, of clawing at doors that never opened, of begging for Garrick to look at me—just once.

I don’t scream anymore.

I don’t beg.

I just watch.

From afar.

Garrick spends his days with her. The husk. The hollow, broken thing that wears my face and babbles about shadows crawling under the floorboards. He feeds her. Bathes her. Murmurs words I ache to hear. You’re healing. You’ll come back to me. I love you.

And gods, it kills me. Because he’s right, and he’s wrong. That husk really is me, just not the part that matters. I’m the shard that slipped free, the one left wandering in this half-existence, and he’ll never know it.

When he collapses from exhaustion, Myrnin comes. The God of Fate in my kitchen, sleeves rolled up, cooking soup or cleaning floors, giving Garrick a few hours to rest. Sometimes he talks while he works, voice calm, steady, even kind. She’s mending, Garrick. Slowly. Eight pieces take time to stitch. But six are in place. She’s still fighting.

And Garrick nods, hollow-eyed, clinging to that thread of hope.

Bodhi is worse.

Most nights he doesn’t even make it to his own bed. He drinks until his voice is gone, until his grief spills out in anger that drives everyone away. Ridoc tries. Imogen and Violet too. But Bodhi just snarls, screams, shoves. And more often than not, he ends up passed out in my bed, clutching my old cloak like it still holds me.

Katherine hasn’t left hers.

She’s a ghost too, only worse—because at least I can walk the halls. Kat lies in the dark, staring at walls, ignoring the cries of her daughter until Kingston picks her up, his voice breaking as he begs his friend to come back.

And Elias. Gods, Elias. He and Xaden sit together in that broken fortress, shadows curling around their chairs, fire burning low. They don’t talk about hope. They don’t talk about plans.

They talk about death and grief, about how the gods can go fuck themselves. Dark humor is the only language they speak now. A twisted friendship born from the same wound: losing me, losing Garrick.

Violet… she’s trying.

Duchess of Tyrrendor. Sitting in that council chamber, her back straight, her eyes sharp. But when the meetings end, when the papers scatter and the generals leave, she folds in on herself. She cries in Xaden’s empty bed, clutching his pillow, whispering into the dark like she thinks he might answer.

And I watch.

Always watching.

And gods help me, I finally see the truth.

All this pain. All this ruin. All these fractures ripping through the people I loved most—

It’s all my fault.

Because I wasn’t strong enough. Because I thought I could outwit fate. Because I believed I could carry it all, and I broke instead.

Now Garrick is chained to a ghost of me. Bodhi drowns. Kat rots. Elias and Xaden burn. Violet bleeds in silence.

And it’s all because of me.

I thought I was a weapon. A savior.

But maybe I was only ever a curse.

The days bleed together now.

I don’t keep track anymore. I just drift. Watching from corners, from doorways, from shadows where no one looks.

But the longer I stay, the more I crack.

It starts as whispers. My own voice, echoing back at me, but wrong—thin, stretched, warped. Sometimes it sounds like Garrick. Sometimes like Bodhi. Sometimes like the gods themselves.

And the husk—that broken, empty version of me Garrick clings to—sometimes she stares. Like she knows I’m there. Like she’s watching me just as I watch her.

I press my hands to my ears, curling into myself, but the voices crawl inside anyway.

You failed.

This is your punishment.

Watch them suffer. Watch them break.

My chest caves, my voice cracking raw as I beg the silence.

“Please. Don’t make me stay here anymore. Don’t make me watch this. Please, I can’t—please—”

But no one answers.

Not Garrick, not the gods, not even the husk with my face.

Just the same silence. Just the same walls.

Every sob feels like it splinters me smaller, shards breaking off into the dark.

And still—still—I’m forced to watch Garrick’s soft words to her, Bodhi drowning in wine, Katherine wasting away in bed, Violet crying into Xaden’s pillow, Elias and Xaden laughing too hard at things that aren’t funny.

All of them suffering.

All of it because of me.

And the silence doesn’t break.

It never breaks.

Chapter Text

Today, love, you bit Noodle.

I don’t know why. I don’t think you know why. One moment you were humming to yourself, twirling your hair like the world was made of shadows and lullabies, and the next—you leaned down and sank your teeth right into our parasite’s scales.

He screamed so loud I thought the walls would come down. You just blinked at him like he’d insulted your cooking.

It took me an hour—an hour—to calm him down. He wrapped himself around my neck, trembling and keening like I’d betrayed him personally. He wouldn’t even look at you. And gods, if I didn’t know better, I’d say he was sulking.

So congratulations, Eleanor. You’ve officially lost your status as his favourite parent. He’s mine now.

Not that you’d remember, anyway. But still. I thought you should know.

And for what it’s worth—I can’t tell if I should be horrified or proud that the woman I love decided to bite a monster snake with venomous fangs and call it a day.

You’re still you, in some ways. I’m holding onto that.

- Garrick 

GARRICK

Her limbs are dead weight as I lower her into the tin tub. The metal groans, the water sloshes, and for a moment I’m terrified I’ll drop her. That she’ll slip beneath and not come back up.

The water’s warm—steam curling in the air—but she shivers anyway, her lips trembling as broken words slip out of her mouth, fractured and slurred, like glass grinding together. Words I can’t piece into sense, no matter how hard I try.

I kneel at her side, sleeves rolled to my elbows, knees bruised from nights like this. My hands are steady, though my heart never is.

“Easy, love,” I murmur, sliding my arm around her shoulders to keep her upright. “I’ve got you.”

Her head tilts against me, eyes unfocused, pupils blown wide. She blinks at the wall like she’s seeing something I can’t.

“Serpent—serp…” Her voice is a broken rasp.

I nod like I understand, because sometimes lies are kinder than truth. “Yeah, baby. The serpent. It’s all right. You’re safe.”

I dip the jug into the water and pour it slowly over her hair. Red strands, tangled and dull, plaster to her shoulders, streaking down like blood in the lamplight. Gods, how I love that hair. Even now. Even when it doesn’t shine the way it used to.

I work the soap in gently, fingertips massaging her scalp, nails scraping lightly the way she always liked. Her body relaxes just a little, her lashes lowering. She sighs—a soft, shaky sound that feels like a blessing.

For one second, she looks almost peaceful.

“You always liked me playing with your hair,” I tell her, my voice catching in my throat. “Still do, huh?”

Her hand drifts out of the water, slow and clumsy. Wet fingers press weakly to my cheek, barely there but enough to stop my breath.

My throat tightens. I catch her hand, kiss her knuckles, hold them against my lips like they’re the most sacred thing I’ll ever touch.

And then her hand falls limp again, sinking into the water with a dull splash.

I cup her jaw in my palm, thumb stroking her cheekbone, ignoring the sting in my eyes. “I’m still here, Len. I’m not going anywhere.”

Her gaze flickers for a heartbeat, pupils narrowing, like she almost sees me. Like she almost knows.

But then the light’s gone again, her mouth shaping broken syllables I can’t follow.

I keep washing her hair anyway. Because it’s something I can do. Because caring for her is the only fight I have left.

And because I have to believe—no matter how long it takes—that one day, she’ll come back to me.

Getting her out of the bath takes every ounce of patience I have. Her body is all slack weight and trembling muscles, her head lolling against my shoulder as I wrap her in a towel. She murmurs something under her breath—nonsense again, fragments of words that scrape like broken glass. I shush her softly, pressing a kiss to her damp temple.

“Almost done, love. Just a little more.”

I dry her as best I can, clumsy hands working carefully over skin that feels too fragile, too thin. Then I dress her—an old nightshirt, the fabric worn soft. It swallows her now, hanging loose on a frame that’s smaller than it should be.

When she’s clothed and her hair’s still dripping, I scoop her into my arms and carry her to our bedroom.

I set her down gently, propping her against the pillows, and grab the brush from the nightstand.

Her hair falls in damp waves, heavy with knots. I work through them slowly, careful not to pull too hard. She hums under her breath, a tuneless sound, her eyes half-closed.

I try to braid the strands, though my fingers are clumsy, not nimble enough. I never was as good at this as Xaden.

I huff a shaky laugh, speaking low, even though I don’t know if she hears me. “Remember when you were eight? When you broke your wrist punching that soldier who called Bodhi pathetic?”

She hums, head tilted, no recognition in her glassy eyes.

I keep going anyway. “You couldn’t braid your own hair after that. You were furious. Swore you’d shave your head bald rather than let anyone touch it.”

My hands tremble as I weave the strands together. “So… Xaden asked Talia to teach him. Do you remember? He braided your hair for weeks until it healed. He was terrible at first. Too tight. Too crooked. You mocked him every day, but you let him keep doing it. Gods, you always did.”

Her lips move, but it’s just humming. Not words. Not her.

My throat tightens. I blink hard, vision blurring.

I sit there, fingers buried in her damp hair, missing them all.

Len, because the woman in front of me isn’t my wife. Not really.

Bodhi, because he’s drowning in his own grief, unreachable even to me.

Xaden, because even Venin and hunted, he was still family. Still ours.

But all of them are gone.

And I’m left here, braiding broken strands into something that barely holds together—like everything else in my life.

My fingers fumble halfway through the braid. The strands slip loose, damp and heavy, and I let them fall back over her shoulder.

“Fuck.” The word slips out raw, sharper than I mean. My hand presses to my face, and I drag it down over my mouth, trying to hold myself together.

She hums again, soft and tuneless, like the sound is meant to soothe me. But it’s not her. It’s never really her.

I stare at her—at the woman who is my wife and isn’t, at the hollow shell humming nonsense while her fire rots somewhere I can’t reach—and my chest caves in.

“I don’t know how to do this without you, Len,” I whisper. My voice is thick, strangled. “I don’t. I can fight armies. I can hold a line until my bones break. But this?” My throat closes, tears burning hot in my eyes. “I can’t fight this. I don’t know how.”

She blinks, eyes glassy, head tilting toward me. Her lips part, and I hold my breath—praying for a word, a flicker, something.

“Blood…” she slurs, barely more than a sigh. “Serpent… fire.”

My hand shakes as I press it to her cheek, thumb brushing her wet skin. “Yeah, baby. Blood, serpent, fire. I’ve got you.”

The tears spill, hot and helpless, running into my stubble.

“I’ve always had you. But gods, Len… I don’t know if I can keep doing this alone.” My voice cracks. “I need you to come back. I need my wife. Not just pieces. Not just fragments. You.”

She leans into my palm, humming again, her eyes slipping closed.

And I sit there, breaking mid-braid, with her head heavy in my hands and the weight of silence pressing down until it feels like it might crush me whole.

BODHI

The first thing I feel is the pounding in my skull. The second is the dry taste of rot in my mouth. The third is the weight in my chest that never fucking leaves.

I crack an eye open. The room is dim, shutters drawn, the air stale with dust and memory. My head throbs so hard I think it might split, but I know where I am before my sight clears.

Len and Garrick’s bed.

Again.

It’s where I sleep most nights now. Not my own room, not the one I shared with Ridoc. This one. Theirs. Because it’s all I have left of them.

I roll onto my back, groaning, my ribs tight like I drank poison instead of wine. Maybe I did. Maybe that’d be easier.

The room hasn’t changed since the day they left Riorson House after the massacre. After they went into hiding, and then into Draithus, and then—gone.

Their weapons are still stacked against the wall. Strategy books scattered open on the desk, pages creased from nights Len spent bent over them, muttering plans I barely understood. Garrick’s boots under the chair. Len’s jacket still hanging off the bedpost, the cuff frayed where she gnawed at it when she was restless.

I sit there, breathing it all in. The last dying scent of them. Leather. Ash. Her fire, his steel.

It’s fading.

And that’s what kills me most of all.

The door opens. My head jerks up, fury spiking—but it’s only Ridoc. He doesn’t say a word. Just looks at me with that quiet grief that never really leaves his face anymore.

And then he climbs into the bed.

He doesn’t ask. He doesn’t explain. Just pulls me into his arms like I’m not fighting to keep from falling apart every second of every day.

My chest caves in, and for the first time in weeks, I don’t shove him away.

We just lie there. Silent. Breathing in the ghosts of this room.

And together, we grieve.

The bedroom door is cracked open. I should close it. Gods, I should. This is their room, not a mausoleum, not some open shrine where people can file in and stare at what’s left.

But my body’s too heavy, my throat too thick. I just… stay there, half-curled in Ridoc’s arms, watching shadows stretch across the hall.

And then—

Violet.

She pauses in the doorway, eyes wide, her hand still on the frame. For a heartbeat I think she’ll turn back. That she’ll let me keep this room to myself.

But she doesn’t.

She walks in slow, her face pale, her shoulders trembling under the weight she never lets anyone see. She doesn’t speak. Doesn’t even meet my eyes. She just crosses the room and climbs into the bed with us, curling into the tangle of limbs like she belongs there too.

I don’t protest. Can’t.

Next is Imogen.

Her jaw’s tight, her eyes bloodshot, her mouth a thin, hard line. But she doesn’t crack a joke or spit a curse. She just comes to the edge of the bed, looks at me, looks at Violet, then lowers herself down on the other side. One hand clenches the sheet like it’s the only thing tethering her.

Then Sawyer and Rhiannon. They don’t crawl into the bed, don’t force themselves into the mess of us. Instead, they perch on the couch by the window, their bodies pressed together, their hands locked tight. Their eyes scan the room—the weapons, the jacket, the boots. Everything untouched. Everything still theirs.

Dain’s shadow fills the door next. He lingers, guilt carved deep in his face. For once, he doesn’t look like a commander, doesn’t look like someone holding himself apart. He steps inside, slow and careful, and Sloane trails behind him, eyes darting like she’s not sure if she’s allowed here.

But she comes. They both do.

And soon—there’s more of us in the room than I ever expected.

Nobody speaks. Nobody dares.

We just sit there, silent, breathing the same stale air, looking at the weapons and the books and the clothes like if we stare hard enough, Len and Garrick might walk in. Like they’ll laugh at us for moping, tell us to get our asses up, remind us there’s a war to win.

But they don’t.

They never do.

And the silence presses heavier than any scream.

The silence gnaws at me until I can’t breathe. The weight of them—Vi pressed into my side, Ridoc’s arm still wrapped around me, Imogen’s hand clenched in the sheet, Sawyer and Rhi stiff on the couch, Dain and Sloane in the doorway—it’s too much.

The words scrape raw from my throat before I even mean to speak.

“I keep waiting for them to walk through that door.”

Every head shifts. Not much—just enough that I know they heard me.

Rhiannon’s lips tremble. She swallows hard. “Me too.”

Sawyer nods, staring down at his hands. “Every time it creaks, every time footsteps echo in the hall, I think… maybe.”

Violet presses her face deeper into Xaden’s old pillow, her voice muffled but clear enough. “I hear her laugh sometimes. In my dreams. It feels real enough that when I wake, I reach for her.”

Imogen lets out a harsh, shaky breath. “I can’t stop looking at the sparring gym doors. Every day. Like she’ll be there, cursing me out for being slow on my footwork again.”

Ridoc’s grip tightens around me, his voice low and wrecked. “It’s been almost three months.”

The words hang heavy in the room.

Three months.

Three months of waiting. Three months of hoping. Three months of being gutted over and over by silence.

And the grief hasn’t eased. Not for any of us. It just sits heavier. Sharper. Like the wound is refusing to scab.

Dain’s voice cracks when he finally speaks. “It’s not supposed to be like this. By now… by now it’s supposed to hurt less.”

But it doesn’t.

No one disagrees. No one argues. Because the truth is etched into every face, every slumped shoulder.

The pain hasn’t dulled.

If anything, it’s carved deeper.

We sit there, all of us, crammed into a room that smells like ash and leather and ghosts, and we admit it without saying another word.

They’re gone.

And the grief isn’t going anywhere.

Sloane shifts in the corner of my eye. At first, I think she’s just restless, overwhelmed by the silence. But then I see her frown, her head tilted toward the desk.

She steps away from the doorway, her boots careful against the floorboards, and reaches for something half-buried under a pile of papers.

Her breath catches. Loud. Sharp. Enough that every head lifts.

“What is it?” Violet’s voice is hoarse, raw from crying.

Sloane turns slowly. Her hands are trembling. Her eyes already glassy with tears.

She swallows hard, then reads aloud, voice breaking over the words.

“The Viper’s Reign. The life and legacy of Eleanor Lennox Riorson-Tavis: the last Shadewing, Voidfire wielder, Godsworn warrior, Commander of Orlyth, and the woman who burned empires to ash.”

The air goes dead still.

No one breathes.

The title hits like a blade to the gut, sharper than any grief we’ve spoken aloud.

Sloane lowers herself into Garrick’s chair, her fingers white-knuckled around the book as if it might vanish. She flicks through the pages, and her voice is barely more than a whisper. “It’s… it’s the story of her life. Her childhood. The war college. The rebellion. All of it. Every step. Every battle. Every insane, brilliant, terrifying thing she ever did.”

My chest is too tight. My stomach churns. The idea of Len written down—of her entire life catalogued like a history lesson—makes me want to vomit.

“And the second half?” Sloane’s voice wavers as she turns the pages faster. “It’s blank.”

She freezes, staring at something tucked inside.

Imogen leans forward, her voice sharp. “What is it?”

Sloane pulls out a folded note, yellowed at the edges, and reads. Her voice is shaking, tears streaking down her cheeks.

“Happy birthday, love. Nox and Chradh wanted you to have this. A reminder of the story so far, and the ending you haven’t written yet. We’re with you, Len. And we’re going to help you get that happy ending. Always. — Garrick.”

The words crush the air from the room.

Vi presses her hand to her mouth, shoulders trembling. Ridoc swears softly under his breath. Sawyer and Rhi cling tighter to each other. Imogen turns away, blinking hard, as though if she doesn’t look at us we won’t see the tears burning in her eyes.

I can’t move.

Because godsdamn him. Even in a note, even in something so simple, Garrick still manages to break me apart and stitch me back together in the same breath.

The book lies heavy in Sloane’s lap, half-written, half-empty, waiting.

And all I can think is—Len never got to finish it.

And maybe we’re the ones left to try.

The room sinks into silence again.

The book lies open on Sloane’s lap, the last pages empty, the ink of Garrick’s note still staining the air between us. None of us speak. Because we all know what it means.

Her story ended.

And it wasn’t happy.

Imogen stares at the ceiling like she’s daring herself not to break. Violet’s curled tighter into herself, her shoulders shaking. Ridoc’s hand clenches over my arm, grounding himself as much as me. Rhiannon and Sawyer hold each other so hard I can see the blood drain from their knuckles. Even Dain and Sloane just stand there, hollow-eyed, like the weight of it all has finally smothered the air out of them.

It feels like a grave.

And then—

A sound.

Soft. Sharp.

The picture on the wall slips. Falls. Crashes against the floor.

Every head jerks up.

It’s the family portrait Noodle had drawn for her last birthday. Gods, it’s stupid and crooked and messy, Len’s chaotic scrawl of hair all over her face, Garrick’s smile too big for his head, Noodle and Chompy squashed together like idiots, the whole family inked in shaky, uneven lines. She’d cried when he gave it to her, swore it was the best thing she’d ever been given.

And now it lies face-down on the floor.

No breeze.

No draft.

Nothing.

The air goes razor-sharp.

My mouth moves before I can stop it. “Len? Garrick?”

The word cracks. My chest heaves.

But nothing answers. Nothing shifts. Just silence, thick and suffocating.

Everyone looks at me.

Like I’ve lost it.

Like I’m crazy.

Maybe I am.

But I swear—gods, I swear—for a second, the room didn’t feel empty.

ELEANOR

The first thing I notice is Bodhi.

He looks like hell—eyes bloodshot, skin pale, hair sticking out in wild angles. He reeks of booze, sweat, and grief, but what breaks me isn’t the smell or the shaking in his hands.

It’s where he is.

In my bed.

In our bed.

The sheets I used to tangle myself in when Garrick came back late from drills. The blanket we fought over, laughing, until he finally gave up and dragged me into his arms. The pillows that still—barely—smell of ash and steel and the faintest ghost of leather soap.

Bodhi sleeps here now. Like he belongs here. Like it’s all he has left.

And gods, maybe it is.

I stand at the foot of the bed, silent, watching him groan and press his palms into his face like if he pushes hard enough he’ll hold himself together. Watching him breathe me in, breathe Garrick in, like he’s terrified the scent will fade completely.

It’s already fading.

That thought claws at my chest until I want to scream.

The door opens. Bodhi’s head jerks up, his jaw tight, ready to bite whoever dares intrude. But it’s only Ridoc. Quiet, grief carved deep into his face.

I want to tell him to leave Bodhi alone, that Bodhi needs the space to fall apart, but then—he just climbs into the bed. Doesn’t say a word. Just pulls Bodhi into his arms like he’s afraid if he lets go, Bodhi will disappear too.

And Bodhi doesn’t shove him off. Not this time.

I press my fist to my mouth, swallowing sobs that can’t make a sound. Gods, they’re both so broken.

Then the door creaks wider. Violet.

She stands there, pale, trembling, her hand on the frame. For a heartbeat I think she’ll back away. That she’ll let the boys have this moment.

But she doesn’t.

She walks in. Doesn’t look at anyone. Just climbs into the bed and curls into the mess of limbs like she belongs there too.

And my chest caves, because she does.

Imogen follows. Her face is a battlefield of anger and grief, her eyes bloodshot, jaw set hard enough to crack. She doesn’t curse. Doesn’t spit. She just lowers herself onto the other side, gripping the sheet like it’s her last tether.

Sawyer and Rhiannon slip in next, quiet as ghosts themselves. They don’t climb in. They just take the couch, holding hands so tight their knuckles blanch, their eyes fixed on the room like they can still see me standing there, muttering plans at Garrick until he rolled his eyes and kissed me quiet.

Then Dain. Then Sloane. Hesitant. Hollow-eyed. But they come.

And suddenly my room—our room—is full.

Of my squad. My family.

All of them. Silent.

Breathing in the ghosts.

And gods, the ache is so sharp I almost collapse. Because they’re staring at my boots, my jacket, the open books, the blades lined up like soldiers—like if they look hard enough, I’ll walk in with Garrick right behind me, laughing at them for brooding in the dark.

But I don’t.

We don’t.

And the silence is heavier than any scream.

I sink down by the wall, curling my knees to my chest, and whisper into the space that used to be mine.

“I’m here. I’m right here.”

But none of them hear me.

And the silence swallows me whole.

The silence gnaws at me until I can’t breathe.

All of them—Vi pressed into Bodhi’s side, Ridoc’s arm still wrapped around him, Imogen’s hand fisted in the sheet like she’ll drown without it, Sawyer and Rhi pale and stiff on the couch, Dain and Sloane hollow in the doorway—they’re breaking.

Breaking over me.

Over Garrick.

And I can’t stand it.

I’m right here.

I’m fucking right here.

“I keep waiting for them to walk through that door,” Bodhi whispers, voice so ragged it carves me open.

Every head shifts.

Rhi’s voice trembles. “Me too.”
Sawyer nods, broken. “Every time it creaks… I think, maybe.”
Violet buries her face in Xaden’s pillow, voice muffled. “I hear her laugh sometimes. In my dreams. When I wake, I reach for her.”

Imogen curses under her breath, eyes wet. “I can’t stop looking at the sparring gym doors. Like she’ll be there, telling me I’m slow on my footwork again.”

Ridoc’s voice breaks. “It’s been almost three months.”

And Dain—godsdamn him, even he—croaks, “It’s not supposed to be like this. By now… it’s supposed to hurt less.”

My nails scrape uselessly against the floor. The rage coils in my gut until I want to rip the walls down around us.

“It should hurt less?” I snarl, screaming at them even though they’ll never hear me. “You think I wanted this for you? That I chose this? You think I’d just leave you to drown?”

I stumble to my feet, trembling. “I’m here!” I roar, voice cracking. “I’m still fucking here! Why can’t you hear me? Why can’t you see me?”

The silence swallows my words.

None of them flinch.

None of them look.

They just sit there, drowning in grief, whispering my name like it belongs to the dead.

I want to rip the book out of Sloane’s hands the moment she picks it up.

The Viper’s Reign. The life and legacy of Eleanor Lennox Riorson-Tavis.

Like I’m some relic. Some name to be carved into history and nothing more.

Her voice shakes as she reads it aloud, and the others fall silent, hanging on every word, as if this book matters more than the fact that I’m standing right here—screaming, begging, clawing at the air.

It’s my life. My battles. My chaos. Every scar, every drop of blood I ever spilled—flattened into ink.

And the second half? Blank.

Because apparently my story ended at Draithus.

Because apparently I don’t get an ending.

Not me. Not Garrick. Not Nox. Not Chradh. Not Noodle. Not Chompy.

We’re just gone.

And gods, the rage tears through me until I think it’ll split me apart.

Sloane pulls out Garrick’s note, and his words slice through me like a blade.

My hands shake, nails raking at my skin though I can’t feel it.

Because he was wrong.

Because there’s no happy ending.

Because I died. He died. The dragons died. Our monsters died.

And still they sit here—my family—crying over empty pages, whispering about how my story ended.

Like I can’t hear them. Like I can’t see them falling apart.

“I’M NOT DONE!” I roar, slamming my fists into the wall hard enough the picture frames rattle. “Do you hear me? I’M NOT FUCKING DONE!”

But they don’t even flinch.

Violet curls tighter into herself, shaking. Imogen blinks back tears, staring at the ceiling like if she looks down, she’ll shatter. Ridoc holds Bodhi like he’s trying to keep him breathing. Rhiannon and Sawyer cling until their hands turn white. Dain and Sloane look like corpses themselves, carved hollow by guilt.

And I stand in the middle of it all—screaming, raging, alive—and they mourn me like I’ve been buried in the dirt.

The book lies open. The pages wait.

But they’ll never be mine to write.

And I have never hated silence more.

And then something inside me snaps.

The scream rips out of me like fire through glass. Rage, grief, fury—all the jagged edges I’ve swallowed for months tear free at once.

“LOOK AT ME!” I roar, slamming my fists into the desk, into the wall, into anything. “I’M RIGHT FUCKING HERE!”

The air shudders.

The mage lights gutter, flames sputtering. Pages scatter from the desk like they’ve been punched by an invisible hand.

And then—

CRASH.

The family portrait hits the floor. Glass explodes across the boards.

Every head jerks up.

They stare at the picture, mouths parted, wide-eyed. No one moves. No one breathes.

Except Bodhi.

His voice is a broken gasp. “Len? Garrick?”

My chest seizes. For a heartbeat I think he knows. That he can hear me. That finally—finally—someone sees.

But then the others turn.

They look at him like he’s lost his mind. Like he’s drunk, or mad, or both.

And I snap again.

“YES! IT’S ME!” I shriek, throwing myself at the desk, the wall, the shattered frame. “IT’S ME, BODHI! I’M HERE! PLEASE—PLEASE—”

Nothing.

No sound, no answer, no shift in their eyes.

Just Bodhi shrinking under their stares, shaking his head like maybe he is insane.

I tear at the air, desperate, my throat raw with screams that don’t exist.

“WHY CAN’T YOU HEAR ME?” My voice rips higher, splintered and useless. “WHY WON’T YOU SEE ME? I’M HERE! I’M FUCKING HERE!”

The room doesn’t move.

The silence doesn’t break.

And gods, the weight of it is worse than death.

GARRICK

Lenny sits curled in the armchair, knees tucked up, sketchbook balanced across them. Her red hair hangs in tangled waves, shadows curling in the hollows of her face. The charcoal moves fast, scratch after scratch, smearing black across her hands, across the page.

It’s the only sound in the room. The relentless rasp of charcoal against paper.

I lean against the wall, bone-tired, eyes burning. I haven’t slept in two days. Neither has she. Not properly. Because she can’t be left alone—not even for a second.

I’ve learned that lesson the hard way.

My head tips back, lids heavy, and I almost—almost—let them close. Then I hear it.

The shift.

Her sketching changes. Faster. Louder. The lines harsher, the sound more frantic. Like claws on stone.

My stomach knots. The first glimpse of it. The spiral.

I drag myself upright. Across the room, Noodle uncoils from his perch on the dresser, his black eyes unblinking as he watches her. Waiting. Always waiting.

“Len,” I murmur, crossing toward her. My voice is soft, careful. Like approaching a wild animal. “Easy, love. Breathe.”

She doesn’t hear me.

Her lips move, murmurs spilling out, low and jagged. Words I can’t string together. Fragments. Broken things.

“Death… blood… the fire won’t stop… pain… pain—”

My pulse stutters. I kneel in front of her, reaching for the sketchbook.

“Len. Look at me. Put it down.”

The murmurs rise into screams.

Her eyes go wide, glassy, unfocused. She claws at her own face, nails raking down her skin as she sobs through the screams.

“STOP IT! GET IT OUT!”

I grab her wrists, gentle but firm, trying not to hurt her while she thrashes, her strength frightening in its wildness.

“Len! It’s me! It’s Garrick!” My voice cracks, desperation clawing at my throat.

Noodle chitters sharply, a hiss reverberating through the room like a warning.

Her screams tear through me like knives.

And all I can think is: gods, how much longer can either of us survive this?

Her screams are so raw they don’t sound human anymore. She thrashes in my arms, nails tearing at my forearms, teeth snapping like she’d bite through me if she could.

“Len!” My voice breaks. I’ve got her wrists pinned, my chest pressed to hers, but gods, she’s strong when she’s like this. Wild. Feral. My heart is breaking as I fight her. “It’s me! It’s Garrick! Stop—please—”

She doesn’t stop. She doesn’t even hear me. Her sobs shred her throat, her body twisting, desperate to destroy itself.

I hold on tighter, praying I don’t hurt her in the process. My arms tremble from the effort, from the fear.

And then—

A rush of air. A ripple through the room.

Myrnin appears, shadows bending around him like the world makes space for his arrival. His eyes take in the chaos in a single glance—Len thrashing, me straining to hold her still—and his face cracks, grief etched deep in his features.

He raises his hand, murmurs something low and sharp in a tongue older than the earth itself.

And Len goes still.

Her body slumps against me, her breath hitching once, then evening out into shallow, broken sleep.

I collapse with her in my arms, panting, clutching her close, my chest heaving against her slack form. Sweat drips down my temple. My arms shake from the effort of holding her down.

Myrnin kneels opposite me, his expression hollow. His voice is quieter than I’ve ever heard it. “How often has she been lost like that?”

My throat feels like sandpaper. I force the words out anyway. “Almost every day.”

Something flickers in his eyes. Heartbreak. Fury. Regret.

“You should have told me,” he says, voice sharp, almost accusing. “I can help.”

I look down at her face, slack with exhaustion, skin streaked with angry scratches she left on herself. My jaw tightens. “I don’t know how many times I have to tell you no.”

His expression hardens. “You’re exactly the same as her. Stubborn. Reckless. Untrustworthy. And look where it got her.”

The words hit like a blade. I lift my head and glare at him, every muscle in my body taut.

We lock eyes. Neither of us yield.

Finally, Myrnin exhales sharply, frustration radiating off him. “Go get some rest. She’s asleep. I’ll sit with her for a while.”

I clutch her tighter, reluctant. Myrnin sees it, his eyes narrowing.

“She’s safe with me. You know that. Go.” He tilts his head, a bitter kind of softness creeping into his voice. “Why not fly with the dragons? Let me carry the weight for a while.”

The thought burns—walking away, even for a moment—but my body is breaking. My bones ache, my eyes blur, my hands tremble from exhaustion.

I can’t deny it. I need the break.

I press a kiss to her damp hair, whispering against her temple, “I’ll be back soon, love. I promise.”

And for the first time in weeks, I let her go.

ELEANOR

Myrnin settles into Garrick’s chair beside the armchair where my husk sleeps, her face slack, tearstains dried on her cheeks. He leans forward, elbows on his knees, watching her like she’s a puzzle he hasn’t solved yet.

And I’m there, right there, pacing the room, my voice breaking against the silence.

“Look at me! Please—just look! You’re the God of Fate. You see everything. Why can’t you see me?”

He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t even twitch.

The rage flares sharp, white-hot.

“YOU MADE ME THIS!” I scream. “YOU PUT ME HERE! LOOK AT ME, YOU BASTARD!”

I whirl toward the mirror on the wall, Garrick’s reflectionless sentinel, and slam my fist into it.

CRACK.

Glass spiders out. Shards rain to the floor.

Myrnin stills. Slowly, he tilts his head, eyes narrowing. His mouth curls into a smirk that makes my stomach flip.

“…Eleanor?” His voice is low, dangerous, amused. “Is it you?”

“Yes!” I scream, throwing myself toward him, hands outstretched. “YES, I’M HERE, I’M RIGHT FUCKING HERE!”

But he doesn’t hear me. He never does.

Still—he feels something. His gaze drifts to the shards, then back to the husk. “If you really are here…” His voice is measured, coaxing, like he’s talking to a feral animal. “Stay calm. Listen to me. Your soul is still fractured, still healing slowly. But this? This is good. It means you’re tethering yourself back to the people you love.”

He leans forward, dark eyes glinting. “It means you’re finding your way home. Be patient. Be calm.”

“Calm?” I howl, voice tearing. “CALM? You think I can be calm while Garrick breaks himself to keep me alive, while Bodhi drinks himself to death, while Violet drowns in silence, while Nox and Chradh—” My throat splits on the words. “While they all died with me?”

The fire hisses and spits, devouring the hearthstones in violet-black tongues. The shadows twitch like they’re alive, crawling up the walls, reaching for the ceiling.

Myrnin leans back in Garrick’s chair, utterly unbothered by the voidfire consuming the room. His lips curl, teeth flashing in the glow. “Ah, there she is.”

I freeze.

He can’t see me. I know he can’t. But he feels me.

That’s worse.

His gaze slides toward the flames, dark eyes glinting with mirth. “What else can you do, Eleanor? Hm? Come now. Don’t be shy. You’ve never been shy a day in your life.”

“I’m not your fucking pet trick,” I snarl, my voice tearing, unheard. “I’m not—”

The fire surges higher, lashing out in a whip that scorches the stone floor.

Myrnin laughs. A sharp, delighted sound. “Oh, yes. There’s the temper. You’ve always been at your best when you’re angry.”

“Stop it!” I scream, punching at the air, at him, at the walls. Glass rattles in the shattered mirror, shards skittering across the floor as though dragged by invisible claws.

“Good,” he murmurs, eyes narrowing. “Push harder.”

Noodle writhes on the dresser, his tail smashing bottles to the floor, hissing so loud it rattles my bones. His excitement pulses in the air like lightning—mother, mother, mother.

Myrnin tilts his head, watching the parasite like he’s a barometer of my fury. “You feel her too, don’t you?” His voice is low, coaxing, wicked. “Your mother, fighting her way back.”

I lunge at him, nails raking across the desk. Papers fly, ink spills, the wooden legs screech across the floor.

“Yes,” Myrnin breathes, his smirk widening. “That’s it. Show me.”

My chest heaves, my fury boiling, the walls groaning under the weight of it. “I’m here!” I roar, tearing at the room until the flames spiral higher, voidfire filling the air with choking heat.

Myrnin only leans forward, eyes shining like he’s watching the most fascinating play in history.

“Then come home, Eleanor,” he whispers, voice edged in hunger and delight. “Come all the way back.”

And gods, I want to.

GARRICK

The wind cuts across my face, sharp and cold, and for the first time in weeks I can actually breathe.

Chradh’s massive body surges beneath me, every beat of his wings shaking the air. Nox flies alongside us, pale and terrible against the sky, shadows streaming from his wings like smoke.

The clouds break open above the ridge, sunlight striking against white scales, and I close my eyes, just for a second, and pretend I’m free.

And then guilt slices through me, sharper than any blade.

Because godsdamn it—I love my wife. I love her more than I love the air in my lungs, more than I love this world. But this? Caring for her shattered soul, watching her scream herself raw, holding her back from tearing herself apart every night—it’s been hell.

And I hate myself for the part of me that needed this break.

Chradh’s voice rumbles through me, deep and steady. “Do not torment yourself for breathing,”

“I left her,” I mutter, fingers clenching tight on the harness. “I put her in Myrnin’s hands. I—”

“—Did what you had to,” Chradh cuts in. His molten eyes flick back toward me. “You cannot carry her if you are already broken. This is not weakness. It is survival. Do not mistake the two.”

I bite down hard, jaw aching. The words scrape against the guilt in my chest.

Nox’s voice is quieter, colder. “I can still feel her.”

My head jerks up. “What?”

His massive wings stretch, shadowfire burning faint along his veins. “Our bond. It hasn’t snapped. She is alive. But what I feel from her…” He goes silent for a long moment, the wind whistling through his jagged wings. “She is broken. Insane. Lost in herself.”

My stomach drops.

Nox’s voice is steady, but even he sounds tired. “Sometimes… rarely… she flickers whole again. Just for moments. Then she’s gone back into the madness.”

I swallow hard, the words like knives. “So what do we do?”

Chradh’s growl rumbles through the air. “What we’ve always done. We hold on.”

Nox’s black eyes glint as he dips closer, his voice sharp with something that almost sounds like grief. “We are still a family. We lost the Fox. We will not lose my Viper.”

The wind rips past me, the horizon endless. I press a shaking hand over my chest, the ache of her absence heavy and sharp.

“Hold on,” I whisper into the air. “We’ll hold on.”

The wind should clear me. Should scour the ache from my chest, rip the weight from my shoulders. But it doesn’t.

It only makes it worse.

Because up here, there’s no door to bar, no chair to hold her down in, no broken whisper to soothe. There’s only sky, and the truth I’ve been choking on for weeks.

The air rushes past, crisp and endless, the horizon stretching wider than my grief. Chradh banks hard, tilting me into the wind, and for a moment the world feels wide enough to hold me. Wide enough to hold the ache.

Nox glides alongside, his great body silent as a blade, wings slicing through cloud. His shadows stretch long in the sunlight, black ribbons against the pale sky.

I let them fly. Let them carry me further and further from the house, from the suffocating weight of four walls and sleepless nights and screams that don’t stop.

And I think of her.

Of my wife.

Of the woman she was.

Eleanor Lennox Riorson-Tavis. All sharp edges and wicked schemes, always plotting ten steps ahead and smirking like she’d already won. Trouble in human form. Chaos wrapped in red hair and green eyes, laughter sharp as knives, kisses sweeter than sin.

The kind of woman who would walk into a council chamber with blood still dripping from her sword, grin at me across the table, and whisper a plan that sounded more like madness until it worked.

That was my Len. My chaos. My heart.

And now—

Now she can’t walk on her own.

Now I feed her, bathe her, coax her to eat like she’s a child.

Now she spends hours humming to herself, lost in shadows only she can see, forgetting my name one moment, clutching my hand the next like I’m the only anchor left in a storm that never ends.

Some days she looks at me, and for one heartbeat I swear it’s her. My wife. My Len.

But most days… most days she doesn’t.

My throat burns, the sting of wind not enough to hide the ache in my chest. I press my forehead to Chradh’s warm scales, let the salt of my tears bleed into the sky.

The woman I love still breathes. Still hums and whispers and claws her way through every day.

But gods, she’s not herself.

Not yet.

And the worst part is—I don’t know if she ever will be again.

By the time I circle back, the sun’s dipped low. My arms ache from holding Chradh’s scales, my eyes sting from the wind and from everything else, and all I want is to see her breathing. To remind myself she’s still here, even if it’s only in pieces.

Chradh lands heavy outside the Lennox estate, the earth trembling beneath him. Nox settles with more silence, his fire curling protectively close as if to shield us from the world itself.

I climb down slow, legs stiff, heart already pulling me toward the door.

When I step inside and make my way to the lounge, I stop dead.

The air smells of ash and smoke. The room is a wreck—pages scattered across the floor, ink spilled like blood, the mirror on the far wall shattered into teeth of glass. The fire in the hearth glows low, but wrong—black char clinging to the stone, faint traces of violet like veins of rot through the embers.

And in the center of it all, Myrnin sits casually in my chair like he’s settling into a theatre seat after the curtain’s gone up. He’s grinning. Wide. Wolfish.

The sight curdles my stomach.

Before I can speak, something barrels into me.

Noodle.

The parasite shrieks so loud my ears ring, his long body coiling around my neck, wriggling against my jaw. His fangs scrape affectionately against my cheek as he chitters in frantic, almost giddy bursts.

I stagger under the onslaught, clutching at him. “What the fuck—Noodle, what—”

He’s vibrating, his whole body trembling with excitement, his black eyes wild. He rubs his head against mine, shrieking again, high and sharp, his tail whipping the air like he’s been waiting for me for a lifetime.

I wrench my gaze up at Myrnin, breath sharp in my throat.

“What the hell happened here?”

The god of Fate just smiles wider, eyes glinting like stars devouring themselves.

“Your wife,” he says softly, almost reverent,

My chest goes tight.

I look to Eleanor, still slumped in the armchair, her chest rising shallow, her face pale. Sleeping, broken. The same as I left her.

And yet—the room around her is burned and broken like a storm tore through.

My blood runs cold.

Noodle coils tighter around my shoulders, his body trembling with excitement, his shrieks scraping the air like knives. My chest heaves as I stare at the wreckage, at Len’s sleeping form in the chair.

“She hasn’t moved,” I rasp. “She hasn’t said a word since you put her under. She’s right there.”

Myrnin tilts his head, watching me with those unnervingly sharp eyes. “Oh, Garrick. You still think so small.”

Before I can answer, the fireplace flares.

A violent rush of flame. Black. Violet. The hearthstones glow red-hot as if molten blood runs beneath them.

I stumble back, shielding my face from the sudden heat.

Myrnin just grins, wide and delighted, as the voidfire snarls against the ceiling beams. “I think,” he says slowly, savoring each word, “you just upset your wife.”

My mouth goes dry. “What the fuck are you talking about? She’s there!” I jab a shaking hand toward her limp body. “She’s in that godsdamn chair!”

Myrnin’s laughter spills out, low and rich, curling around me like smoke. “Yes, her body is there. Her soul too—or most of it.” He leans forward, steepling his fingers. “But not all of her.”

I stare at him, heart hammering, my arms tightening around Noodle as if he’s an anchor. “What?”

His eyes glitter, ancient and cruel. “I believe one of the fractured pieces of Eleanor’s soul is… consciousness itself. And it’s trapped. Between the veil and life. Caught in the tether.” He tilts his head, gaze flicking to the shattered mirror, the scattered pages. “A ghost, in effect. A very angry, very impatient ghost.”

The floor trembles. The windowpanes rattle. The broken shards of mirror skitter across the boards as if dragged by unseen claws.

My stomach drops.

A ghost.

My wife.

I look at the husk in the chair, pale and sleeping, then back at the fire raging against the hearth, and my head spins with a truth too large to hold.

She’s here.

And she’s furious.

My pulse hammers so hard I feel it in my teeth.

“No.” My head shakes, too fast, too frantic. “No, that’s not—she’s right there. She’s in that chair. You put her to sleep. That’s my wife.”

Myrnin leans back, stretching out like a cat that knows it’s cornered prey. “Your wife’s body, yes. Her soul… most of it. But not all.” His smile is sharp as a blade. “Tell me, Garrick, does she feel like herself to you?”

The words punch the air out of my lungs. My throat works, but I can’t force an answer past it.

“Exactly,” Myrnin says softly. “Because part of her isn’t there.” He gestures lazily toward the hearth, where violet fire still spits and hisses. “She’s been trapped all this time. Unable to be seen, unable to be heard. But now…” He tilts his head, eyes glinting like knives. “The closer she comes to healing, the more power her other form gains. She cannot speak. Not yet. But she can interfere.”

My knees nearly buckle. A ghost. My wife, screaming in silence for months while I—while I—

Myrnin’s grin sharpens, and he raises his voice just slightly, like he’s addressing the room itself. “Well then, Eleanor. Are you still angry that you’re trapped?” He pauses, eyes glittering. “Or have you finally learned patience?”

The air shudders.

And then the fire poker launches itself across the room.

It whistles past my face, metal blurring in the corner of my vision, and impales itself into the chair—right beside Myrnin’s head.

The wood splinters, smoke curling from the iron where it sank deep.

For once, I stagger back, my heart in my throat.

Myrnin doesn’t flinch. He just laughs. Low. Delighted. Like a god who’s found his favorite toy again.

“Oh yes,” he says, eyes blazing with amusement. “That’s her.”

My stomach lurches. My gaze swings between the ruined chair, the roaring fire, and Len’s sleeping body.

Gods help me—I don’t know whether to weep or fall to my knees in terror.

Because Myrnin’s right.

She’s here.

My chest heaves. My fists clench at my sides. I don’t even know where to look—the fire, the shattered glass, the sleeping shell of her in the chair.

“Len,” I choke, my voice tearing like old cloth. “If you’re here—if you can hear me—gods, please… please don’t stop fighting.”

My knees hit the floor before I even realize I’ve dropped. My palms press against the rug, my head bowing because I can’t hold it up anymore. “I love you. I’ve always loved you. But I can’t do this without you. I’m not strong enough to watch you slip away every day and not break too.”

The room shivers. The fire hisses. The shadows stretch long across the walls.

I look up at her sleeping face, so pale, so far from the woman who used to smirk at me like the world was hers to burn. My throat closes.

“Come back to me,” I whisper. “Please, Len. Come home.”

Behind me, Myrnin’s voice is maddeningly calm. “This is good news, Garrick.”

I turn, fury and grief colliding. “Good news? She’s a ghost screaming in her own house!”

He just tilts his head, his smile sharp. “It means she’s almost back. Don’t you understand? Her soul is fighting. She’s tethering herself to you, to this life. She’s clawing her way home.”

His words cut through me, burning and merciful all at once. My lungs seize. My hands shake. Because gods… I needed that.

I needed someone to tell me she’s still fighting. That there’s still something of her left. That it isn’t all gone.

Tears blur my sight, hot and fast, slipping down my face before I can stop them. My body shakes with the weight of it.

“Len,” I whisper again, broken. “If you’re here… I’ve missed you so godsdamn much.”

And then—

For a split second, I feel it.

Soft. Familiar. The press of her lips against my hairline, the ghost of her warmth lingering at my temple.

My breath catches. My body stills.

But when I reach for it—

It’s gone.

And the room is silent again, save for the crackle of voidfire and Myrnin’s low, knowing laugh.

I scrub the tears off my face with the heel of my hand, but it’s useless—they just keep coming. My voice is hoarse, torn from begging.

“Len,” I whisper into the stillness, into the crackle of the voidfire. “Have you been here all along? With me?”

The flames shiver, then flare twice.

Twice.

My stomach plummets.

“…No.”

Behind me, Myrnin cocks his head, that damn smirk tugging at his lips. “Well. That’s interesting.” His voice is sharp with intrigue, not cruelty, like he’s found a new puzzle piece. “Has her soul wandered, then?”

The fire flares again. Once.

Yes.

The air leaves my lungs in a ragged gasp. My hands tremble on my knees. “What?”

My throat burns as I look at her sleeping form—my wife, pale and slack in that chair, chest rising and falling shallowly. “Where… where have you been, Len?”

No answer.

The silence feels heavier than the walls.

But I know.

Gods help me, I know. Because I know my wife. Because I’ve always known her better than anyone.

The thought claws up my throat, jagged, desperate. “…You’ve seen the others. Haven’t you?”

The fire answers. A single flare.

Yes.

I bow my head, fists clenching, grief ripping through me anew. She’s been out there, wandering, watching. Trapped and alone. Seeing everyone else break in her absence.

And she couldn’t get to them. Couldn’t get back to me.

“Gods, Len,” I rasp, tears spilling hot again. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

Behind me, Myrnin hums low, the sound equal parts pleased and curious. “Oh, this is going to be fun.”

I ignore him. My eyes stay on the flames, my voice breaking apart.

“Stay with me now, love. Please. Don’t leave me again.”

The voidfire flickers. Once.

Yes.

ELEANOR

They know now.

Garrick knows. Myrnin knows. Even Noodle knows, the little bastard wriggling around like I’ve just promised him an entire bone yard. They can’t hear me—not properly—but they know. I’m here. I’m fighting my way back.

And gods, I’ve missed being smug about something.

So when Garrick and… the husk—ugh, I’ll never get used to calling her that—fall asleep, I slip away. Or drift. Or whatever the fuck this half-dead limbo state is. Doesn’t matter. My tether stretches, and I follow it.

To them.

Xaden and Elias.

The fortress is quiet, shadows hugging every corner. Sygael’s curled outside, tail flicking even in her sleep as she rests beside Miroth. Inside, it’s just the two of them.

Xaden sits hunched over a desk, my battered old journal spread open in front of him. His hand runs over my handwriting like it might bite him, shadows twitching and curling at his wrists. His mouth is tight, his jaw locked.

Elias? He’s in the corner, slouched with a bottle, staring into nothing.

They look like shit.

Which is exactly why I’m here.

Because they can’t fall apart. Not now. Not when I’m not here to put them back together.

So… I do what I do best.

I annoy the fuck out of them.

First, it’s Xaden. I lean over his shoulder, reading the page he’s stuck on. A doodle of Noodle with a speech bubble: “Garrick’s the boring parent.” A smirk tugs at my lips, and I blow—no breath, not really—but enough to rattle the page.

He stiffens. Looks up. Shadows lash the ceiling.

“Elias,” he mutters, voice low and rough. “Did you feel that?”

Elias groans, doesn’t even look over. “Feel what?”

I grin, because oh, this is fun.

I nudge the bottle by Elias’s foot. It tips, clatters across the stone floor.

He jerks upright, swearing, staring at it like it just grew teeth. “What the fuck—”

Xaden’s shadows go wild, crawling the walls, hunting for an enemy that isn’t there. His voice is sharp, tight. “Something’s happening.”

“Yeah,” Elias mutters, rubbing his face, “my fucking liver is giving up.”

I cackle silently, tipping the pen on the desk so it rolls and smacks against Xaden’s hand. He freezes, eyes narrowing, then flicks them toward Elias.

“Tell me you saw that.”

Elias shakes his head, muttering, “Gods, I’ve finally gone mad.”

But I see it.

The flicker.

The smallest spark in Xaden’s eyes. Not full hope, not yet, but the glimmer of something he hasn’t let himself feel since Draithus.

And I stand there, smug as fuck, arms crossed. Because it’s working.

Because maybe they’ll never know for sure. Maybe they’ll always think it’s shadows, or drink, or madness.

But in their eyes, for the first time in weeks, I see it.

Hope.

And gods, that’s enough.

I don’t wait for Xaden or Elias to start muttering about ghosts or shadows or whatever excuse they’ll cling to. That little spark in their eyes? That’s enough. My work here is done.

Which means it’s time to make more trouble.

So I drift.

Back home.

Riorson House.

The hallways are dark, heavy with dust and grief, the air so thick it’s like drowning. I know this place—every creak, every draft—and gods, it still feels like mine.

And of course, where do I find Bodhi?

My bed.

Again.

He’s sprawled out like he owns the place, one arm thrown over his face, hair a mess, stinking faintly of booze even from here.

I grin. Oh, this is too easy.

There’s a book on the nightstand. My old, beaten copy of Bloodstains and Love Letters.

I throw it.

It smacks him square in the chest.

He bolts upright, screaming so loud I’m sure the gods themselves jump.

I’m doubled over, cackling, even if no one can hear me.

The door slams open, Ridoc charging in half-dressed, sword in hand. Emetterio right behind him, then Dain, then Violet, all wide-eyed and braced for blood.

Perfect.

With a flick of fury, I set the magelights blazing. One after another, every sconce in the room flares to life—black-violet voidfire sparking at the edges, unnatural and wrong.

They all freeze.

The silence lasts only a second before Ridoc shrieks, “Oh, fuck no—” and nearly trips over himself.

Emetterio swears in Orlythian, Dain mutters something about finally losing his mind, and Violet’s eyes go wide, glassy, her lips parted.

And me? I laugh harder.

The room glows bright and strange, shadows dancing like they’re alive.

Bodhi’s still on the bed, clutching his chest like he’s been stabbed. His voice cracks as he whispers, “Len? Is that you?”

My grin stretches sharp.

I stalk to the windows, let the power coil and snap, and slam them open so hard the glass rattles and the wind howls through.

They all scream—every single one of them—jumping like startled children.

And then, slowly, the fear melts.

Because for the first time in months, they’re laughing.

All of them.

Violet’s tears spill even as she laughs, Ridoc’s cackling like he’s lost his mind, Emetterio shakes his head with the ghost of a smile, and Bodhi—Bodhi presses a trembling hand to his mouth, laughing so hard he can’t breathe.

And in their eyes, that same spark flickers.

Hope.

I smirk, smug as hell.

Because maybe I’m dead. Maybe I’m fractured. Maybe I’m stuck.

But gods, I can still cause chaos.

And if chaos is all I have left to give them, then I’ll give it until they fight again.

I don’t linger with the squad.

Not because I don’t love them. Gods, I do. They’re mine. My chaos. My family.

But Xaden has Elias. Violet has Imogen, Ridoc, Bodhi. They have each other. They’ll hold each other up.

There’s someone else who doesn’t. Someone who’s drowning alone.

So I go to her.

Katherine.

The house in Deverelli is too quiet when I slip inside. The kind of quiet that presses against your ribs and makes it hard to breathe.

But it’s not empty.

I find myself in the nursery, the air thick with milk and lavender. Elara’s crib sits by the window, the baby kicking and wriggling, gurgling happily at the mobile dangling above her.

And gods, when her eyes land on me, her face lights up.

She coos—loud and sweet, like she’s been waiting for me.

My heart clenches.

I drift closer, crouching by the crib, grinning down at my goddaughter. “Hey, trouble.” My voice cracks, useless to her ears but not to me. “You can see me, can’t you?”

She babbles back, fists waving, her chubby legs kicking hard enough to rattle the crib.

I lean on the rail, close enough to pretend she can feel me. “I’m sorry,” I whisper. “It’s my fault your mom’s not been herself lately. She’s broken without me. Without Garrick. Without your dad.”

Elara squeals, reaching her little hand toward me, grasping at the air like she knows I’m here.

I press my forehead to the rail, grinning through the sting of tears. “But Aunt Lenny’s here now, okay? I’m going to fix it. I don’t know how yet, but I will. Because you deserve better than this. You deserve your mom whole.”

She kicks again, gurgling, her fingers stretching closer, closer.

And I let myself grin, sharp and wild and aching all at once.

“Gods, you’re perfect,” I murmur. “Just like your parents. Just like your idiot uncles. You don’t even know it yet, but you’re ours. Mine. And I’ll burn every afterlife there is before I let you grow up thinking you were anything less.”

Elara coos louder, almost like she’s laughing at me.

And for the first time since Draithus, I feel like maybe—just maybe—I’m still somebody’s aunt.

Elara drifts off, still gurgling softly, her little fists curled like she’s clutching the air I can’t give her. Kingston’s in the corner chair, book in hand, eyelids heavy but vigilant. Always vigilant.

But Katherine isn’t here.

Of course she isn’t.

I find her in the master bedroom, curled in on herself like a corpse. The curtains are drawn tight, the air thick and stale, the smell of sweat and grief heavy enough to choke me.

She hasn’t been up. Hasn’t been living. Not really.

And godsdamn it—I’ve had enough.

I slam the door open so hard it bangs against the wall.

Kat jolts upright with a scream, clutching the sheets to her chest, eyes wild with terror.

A second later, Kingston crashes in, sword drawn, his face pale with panic. “Kat!” His eyes sweep the room, frantic, landing on nothing. “What happened?!”

I don’t stop.

She needs to see. Needs to know.

I’m not done. Not even close.

I rip the covers straight off her, yanking them to the floor. She shrieks again, curling into herself, and Kingston’s head whips around like he’s seeing a ghost.

Light. She needs light.

The curtains fly open with a violent tug, sunlight spearing the dark.

Kat collapses back against the headboard, trembling, whispering prayers under her breath.

Not good enough.

I throw open the wardrobe doors with a crack, clothes spilling forward. Then I grab the nearest brush and hurl it at her head.

It smacks the wall just beside her ear. She screams again.

And Kingston—Kingston laughs.

It bursts out of him, wild and disbelieving. He lowers his sword, shakes his head, and grins through tears.

“Kat,” he says, his voice breaking. “Gods, don’t you see?” He gestures to the room, the chaos, the violence. “There’s only one person who’d be this bloody violent even in death.”

His smile widens, sharp with relief. “It’s Len. Len’s here.”

I stand at the foot of the bed, hands on my hips, glaring at Kat like I used to when she tried to wriggle out of sparring drills.

“Damn right I am,” I mutter, even though she can’t hear me. “And you’re going to get the fuck out of this bed, Katherine. I’m not letting you rot when your daughter needs you.”

Kat stares around the room, wide-eyed, lips parted. Her hands tremble against the sheets.

And for the first time since Draithus, I see it.

Recognition.

Hope.

Fear, too—but the good kind. The kind that kicks you into motion.

Kat’s eyes dart from the smashed-open wardrobe to the sunlight flooding in, to the sheets crumpled on the floor. Her chest heaves, shallow and ragged.

And then, in a voice so quiet I almost don’t catch it, she whispers—

“Len?”

The word splinters through me like glass.

Gods, I’ve wanted to hear that.

For weeks she’s been silent, drowning in grief, her voice lost to it. But now? She says my name.

I don’t hesitate.

Her wedding ring sits abandoned on the bedside table, dulled from dust, untouched for weeks.

With every shred of will I have, I press against it. Push.

It scrapes across the wood.

Slow. Steady.

Kat’s breath catches. Her wide eyes lock on the ring as it slides closer and closer to her trembling hands.

Her hand flies to her mouth, a sob breaking loose, raw and loud. “Oh, gods—”

The ring tips, rolls once, and settles against her fingers.

She grabs it like it’s lifeline, clutching it to her chest. Tears pour down her cheeks, unstoppable, breaking through weeks of silence and numbness.

Kingston’s there in an instant, sword forgotten, his hand gripping her shoulder as she shakes with the force of it.

And me?

I just stand there. Watching.

Watching the woman who’s been my sister in everything but blood fall apart and finally let herself feel it.

They don’t know the truth. Not really. They don’t know I’m fractured, tethered, caught between life and death. They don’t know I might not be like this forever—that this isn’t an ending.

But maybe it doesn’t matter.

Because this?

This is enough.

These little signs—the doors, the brush, the ring—are enough to make them believe I’m still with them. Enough to give them the hope they need to mourn, to fight, to live.

I grin through my own tears, sharp and fierce, because if all I can give them right now is chaos and proof that they’re not alone—

Then I’ll give it until the gods themselves tear me out of this world.

Chapter Text

It is whispered in old halls and darker places that some souls do not cross cleanly into the After. They linger, caught beyond the Veil, neither alive nor truly dead. And the stronger they were in life, the more power clings to them in death. These are not the harmless shades of storybook grief—they are spirits with teeth. They rattle walls. They burn hearths. They move steel and stone alike. They do not simply haunt; they interfere. And interference, unchecked, has always been the herald of ruin.

— Fragment from “The Obscura: Studies on the Veil”

ELEANOR

Three months.

That’s how long it’s been since Draithus. Since the blades, the fire, the silence. Since I realised I wasn’t gone, not really—but stuck.

Three months of being a ghost in my own story.

And I’ve figured a few things out.

First: I’m getting stronger. Slowly. The first few months, I couldn’t even flicker a candle. Now? I can shove a chair, rattle windows, light up a hearth with voidfire bright enough to make Garrick curse and Myrnin smirk like he’s just won a bet with himself.

I can’t make myself visible. Can’t speak so they hear me. Writing doesn’t work—quills splinter, chalk shatters, words smear before I can form them. The world isn’t ready for me to scream my name yet.

But gods, I will.

Second: I’ve learned to be careful. If I push too hard—if I spend too long with the others, tugging at magelights or throwing brushes or slamming doors—it drains me. I fade. Black out. And when I claw my way back, I always wake by her.

The husk.

The body that breathes and babbles and stares at walls while Garrick feeds her soup and braids her hair like she’s still me. Myrnin says it’s because my soul’s tethered to the body—that the stronger I grow, the harder it is to wander too far. That it’s good news.

And maybe it is. Because it means I’m fighting my way home.

But gods, it still hurts to see her wearing my face.

Third: Garrick knows me. Really knows me. He can’t hear my words, can’t see me standing there, but he feels me. The way his shoulders ease when I hover close, the way he mutters “you’re here, aren’t you?” like he already knows the answer. He’s stopped looking over his shoulder when the fire roars to life, stopped flinching when the window slams shut.

We’ve got a system now.

One flicker: no.

Two: yes.

Crude. Messy. But it works.

He asks questions sometimes, late at night when the husk is finally asleep and he’s slumped in the chair, rubbing at his eyes. Are you still fighting? Two flames. Do you still love me? Two flames, always, brighter every time. Are you coming back?

And gods, I give him yes, again and again, even when I don’t believe it myself. Because he needs it. And because maybe if I say it enough, it’ll be true.

I don’t stay with him always. I can’t.

I check in on the others, too.

Bodhi, curled up in my bed with Ridoc beside him, finally sleeping without screaming. Violet, pretending she isn’t drowning under the weight of Duchess, clutching Xaden’s old pillow like it’s her only lifeline.

Katherine, playing with Elara’s hair with shaking hands, her ring back on her finger where it belongs. Xaden and Elias, still burning themselves hollow in their fortress, shadows and grief and a bottle between them.

They can’t see me. Can’t hear me.

But they feel me.

And little by little, they’re starting to believe.

So maybe Myrnin’s right. Maybe this is good news. Maybe I’m tethering myself home, piece by piece, fighting the way I always have.

And gods, if I have to haunt every single one of them until they’re strong enough to stand, then fine.

I’ll haunt them forever.

Because if this is what it takes to remind them they’re not alone, then being a ghost isn’t so bad.

Not when Garrick lights a candle and whispers, “Two flames for yes, Len,” and I roar the fire so bright the whole room glows.

But, there’s a problem.

Okay—several problems. I’m dead, fractured, invisible, and apparently spending my afterlife as everyone’s chaotic emotional support poltergeist.

But no, this problem is worse.

I hate the husk.

Gods, I hate her.

And yes, I know what you’re thinking. Len, she’s you. Same body, same soul, same everything.

Shut the fuck up.

Because that’s not me. Not really. That’s… limp hair, vacant eyes, soup dribbling down her chin while Garrick wipes it away like she’s some delicate little flower. That’s “fire and blood” whispered on a loop while she drools on my husband’s shoulder. That’s my chaos, my teeth, my bite stripped out and left hollow.

And I hate her.

I know it’s irrational. I know she’s me—mind, body, and soul. I know she’s the one Garrick is desperately trying to heal, to bring back. She’s my way home.

But godsdamn it, this fragment of me must be the jealous one, because every time I see Garrick lay her down, tuck her in, brush her hair back from her face, I want to stab that bitch with her own spoon.

My spoon.

He kisses her forehead. My forehead. He whispers he loves her. Me.

I pace the room like a caged beast, muttering curses under my breath. The husk sits there, draped in Garrick’s arms, spoon halfway to her mouth, staring at him like he’s the sun and she’s some tragic maiden in a ballad.

Heart eyes. She’s giving him heart eyes.

That’s it. That’s the final straw.

The fire in the hearth erupts, voidfire licking the stone, rattling the iron grate. Garrick pauses mid-bite, his brow furrowing.

“Len, baby? You here?”

“YES IT’S FUCKING ME. How many other ghosts do you know, Garrick?”

He glances at the flames, sighs like a man long-suffering, and turns back to her. To it. The husk. He lifts the spoon again, voice soft, coaxing. “Come on, love. Just one more.”

And then—oh gods, no—she reaches out, limp fingers brushing his cheek.

Nope. Absolutely not.

MY husband.

Nope. Absolutely not. That’s MY husband, bitch.

I roar, ripping every ounce of willpower into the nearest candlestick, and launch it straight at her head.

It clatters against the floor, inches from her foot. She flinches, wide-eyed, like she actually felt me.

Garrick blinks between her and the candlestick. Then exhales like he’s been here before. “Len.”

“Yes?” I snap, even though he can’t hear me.

He narrows his eyes at the fire. “Are you jealous… of yourself?”

I freeze. Then promptly throw the ghost equivalent of a bitchfit—stomping, pacing, screaming every foul word I know in three languages while Noodle chitters like he’s watching the best comedy of his life.

Garrick just sighs, rubbing his temple. “You’re shouting at me right now, aren’t you?”

“OBVIOUSLY,” I scream, throwing the poker across the room for emphasis.

He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Len.”

“Yes?” I hiss again, though he’ll never hear me.

“Calm down.”

Instead, I blow the fire up so huge it nearly scorches the mantle.

Twice.

He groans. “Godsdammit, woman.”

And I smirk. Because maybe I’m jealous of myself, but at least now he knows it.

The husk blinks at him, soup dribbling down her chin. Garrick sets the spoon aside, his hand covering his mouth like he’s trying not to lose it.

And then—he laughs.

Not bitter. Not broken. An actual laugh, low and warm, rumbling out of his chest until his shoulders shake.

I freeze mid-roar, thrown completely off my tantrum.

The fire is still crackling like it’s about to eat the whole hearth when Garrick does the one thing I don’t expect.

He laughs.

Not a broken laugh, not the bitter sound I’ve grown used to these past months. A real laugh. Warm, low, and gods, I feel it shiver down my ghost spine.

He shakes his head, still holding the spoon like this is all perfectly normal. “Len, you do realise that husk you’re trying to murder is literally you, right?” His mouth quirks in that way it always does when he’s trying not to grin. “I’m not cheating on you. I’m literally trying to keep you alive so the real you can come home.”

I hiss. Loudly. Noodle chitters in agreement.

Garrick chuckles again, glancing at the husk, who’s staring at the spoon like it’s about to sprout legs. “Not sure if you’ve noticed, love, but this version of you? She’s kinda weird.”

EXCUSE ME?

He leans back, eyes softening as he studies her—the husk, me, whatever the fuck she is. “She’s quiet. Soft. Sometimes sweet. But she’s not you.”

His voice lowers, rough around the edges. “I miss you, Len. My real wife. All fire and rage and ferality. The woman who’d threaten to stab me for stealing the last slice of bread. The woman who made Bodhi cry laughing and then cry again in the same breath. The one who never let me forget I was hers.”

I go very, very still.

Because gods, he’s talking about me. Not the husk. Not the babbling shell sitting in that chair. Me.

And if I could touch him right now, I’d grab his face and kiss him until he forgot what air felt like.

Instead, I flare the fire twice.

Yes. Still me.

His lips twitch. “Good,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “Because I’ll wait forever if I have to. But don’t make me wait too long, Viper.”

I swear, if ghosts could sob, I’d be flooding the floorboards right now.

Instead, I do what any normal person would do.

I grab a fistful of Husk Hair and yank.

She shrieks, flailing like the broth’s suddenly boiling lava, and Garrick sets the spoon down with all the patience of a saint.

“Len,” he scolds, rubbing his temple like a father lecturing a particularly deranged toddler.

I cackle. Full poltergeist, feral banshee, echoing off the walls. That’s right, Husky, touch my husband and I’ll touch you.

Garrick exhales hard through his nose, lips twitching like he’s not sure if he should laugh or strangle me. “Why don’t you go see the others? I need to bathe you”—he gestures at the husk, who’s still whimpering and staring at the fire like it owes her money—“and I don’t even want to know how jealous you’ll get if you’re here for that.”

I freeze. Then grimace.

…He has a point.

Because if I had to watch him tenderly wash Husk Me’s hair, soap slipping down my collarbone while he murmurs “easy, love” in that voice—?

I’d drown her. On principle.

Fine. He’s right.

I haven’t checked on the others in a while anyway. Not since I overheard them talking about going back to Basgiath for a few days. Back to the place that broke us and made us and burned us all at once.

The thought sends a shiver through me.

But maybe it’s time.

Maybe they need a reminder that their resident chaos demon is still watching.

So I roll my ghostly eyes at Garrick, flare the fire twice for yes, fine, whatever, and drift for the door.

He smirks faintly after me. “Don’t cause too much trouble.”

I bare my teeth in a grin he can’t see.

As if I’d do anything else.

BODHI

Basgiath hasn’t changed.

That’s the first thing that hits me when we fly over the quadrant—the smell of scorched stone, the banners hanging stiff and self-important, the looming walls that once felt like a prison and a home all at once.

It’s the same.

And I hate it.

Because we’re not the same.

The group walks in silence. Me, Violet, Dain, Aaric, Brennan, Mira. Six of us, where there should be more. Six shadows walking the bones of our past.

We’re here for two reasons.

First, because Violet was summoned by the Senarium—Duchess of Tyrrendor now, Riorson by name, and gods help anyone who underestimates her for being young and grieving. She’ll play their politics, nod at their demands, and then tear them apart when the time’s right. That’s Vi.

The second reason? That one’s mine.

Because it’s obvious now. Eleanor Lennox Riorson-Tavis is haunting us.

The fire. The doors. The windows. We’ve all seen it. Felt it. Laughed through tears when a dagger flung itself at Dain when he said Ghosts weren’t real. Even Brennan—godsdamn Brennan—talks to her like she’s still here.

And she is.

But trapped.

And I can’t stand it.

Because Len was chaos, fire, feral grins and bloody teeth, yes—but she was also free. Always clawing her way past whatever cage the world tried to throw her in.

The thought of her stuck between here and the After, tethered to a husk of herself and screaming into silence?

No. Not her. Not my sister.

So, after the Senarium? We’re going digging. Into the archives. Into dusty tomes and banned codices and myths even Jesinia would scoff at. Ghosts. Revenants. Souls fractured and tethered.

If there’s a way to bring her back—to put her back in her body, or at least give her peace—I’ll find it.

Because the idea of Eleanor trapped?

I’d burn Basgiath to the ground before I let that stand.

Mira’s quiet beside me, her jaw tight, eyes flicking over the stone like she’s seeing both the present and the rebellion bleeding through it. Brennan keeps his expression neutral, but I can feel his mind racing—he’s already cataloguing where to start, what records to demand. Dain looks like he’s swallowed glass, still riddled with guilt, but he’s here. Aaric keeps pace with his usual smug mask, but even he’s tense, his hand twitching near his sword.

And Violet?

She walks ahead, chin high, her braid swinging with each step. A duchess, a widow in everything but name, and a girl still aching for her sister.

We don’t talk. Not yet.

But I know we’re all thinking the same thing.

We came back to Basgiath for answers.

And godsdamn it, if the answers aren’t here, then we’ll make them ourselves.

Because Len’s still ours.

And I’ll tear through every page, every prophecy, every cursed artifact in this gods-forsaken college until I find a way to set her free.

The Senarium chamber is colder than Basgiath’s stone has any right to be.

Not battlefield cold—the kind that seeps into your bones, makes your blood burn with the fight—but the kind that comes from polished marble and politics. From power. From people who’ve never swung a blade in their lives deciding the fates of those of us who bleed for them.

We step inside, and the council is already waiting.

King Tauri sits on his throne at the head, smug as a cat who thinks he owns the world. Beside him is Prince Halden, jaw tight, watching us with the kind of hollow interest that feels like judgment.

I flick a glance to Aaric, who should be on the other throne—should be seated with them. He doesn’t even look that way. He takes his place with us, his shoulders square, as if to say he’s made his choice. Our side.

The Senarium stretches out on either side of the king:

The Duke of Calldyr, grey and stiff, lips pursed like the stench of death off our boots has offended him personally.

The Duchess of Morraine, jeweled hands folded, eyes sharp with calculation.

The Duchess of Elsum, expressionless, her presence more shadow than person.

The Duke of Luceras, fingers tapping the table, gaze flicking between us like we’re pieces on a game board.

The Duchess of Deaconshire, veiled and silent, watching, weighing.

And at the far end: Lewellen, representative of Tyrrendor. Violet’s aide now that she wears her duchess’ title. His eyes flick to her and back again, already calculating his next move in her shadow.

Then there are the generals:

Melgren—He doesn’t so much as twitch when we enter, but I can feel the weight of his gaze, the memory of Draithus sitting heavy in it.
Kravos—lean, cold, a predator’s smile tugging at his lips like he’s waiting for us to trip.

Silas—arms crossed, younger, hungrier, restless as a blade not yet tested.

And more. Nobles, soldiers, vultures dressed in silk and steel.

All of them watching as we file in.

But my eyes don’t stay on them.

They drift back to Violet.

She’s all iron and shadow in her riders’ leathers, her braid hanging like a blade down her back. She doesn’t flinch when every eye in the chamber lands on her. Doesn’t falter as she takes her place at the table—her table now, Tyrrendor’s seat carrying more weight than any of them want to admit.

“Duchess Riorson,” King Tauri drawls, his voice smooth as oil, “welcome back to Basgiath.”

Violet inclines her head just enough to acknowledge him. “Your Majesty.”

Formalities. Polite words hiding knives.

Me? I don’t bother masking my scowl.

Because all I can think is this: We’re not here for their politics. We’re not here to bow or scrape or let them write another neat line in their ledgers about the Tavis deaths.

And while Violet talks, while the council argues, while Aaric keeps his jaw locked against his father’s stare, I’m already planning my next move.

The archives. The truth. The way to bring her home.

Because I don’t give a damn about their titles or their thrones.

All I care about is getting my sister back.

The chamber reeks of parchment and arrogance. The smell makes me want to vomit.

Violet sits across from King Tauri, back straight, hands folded, every inch the duchess she was forced to become. And gods, he loves it—his smug little smile curving higher with every second she doesn’t spit in his face.

“Draithus,” he says, voice low and oily, “was a Pyrrhic victory. Costly, yes, but the eradication of our greatest… threats”—his gaze flicks deliberately toward me, then to Violet—“was worth it. Navarre owes its survival to the sacrifice of so many brave souls. Even if some of them were…” His lips curl. “…questionable allies.”

My nails dig into my palms. Questionable. Fucking questionable. He’s talking about Len and Garrick like they were nothing but inconvenient footnotes.

I want to leap across the table. Tear his smug face off with my bare hands.

But Violet beats me to it.

Her braid swings as she leans forward, green eyes burning like wildfire. “You call them questionable? Them?”

The chamber stills.

“Eleanor Riorson-Tavis,” Violet says, each name sharp enough to draw blood, “dragged gods into this war when every one of you sat safe in your halls. Garrick Tavis stood at her side and held us together when we would’ve splintered. They were not questionable. They were not liabilities. They were our family. And they were the only godsdamned reason Draithus still stands.”

Mira inhales sharply. Brennan’s jaw flexes. Even Aaric looks up, the faintest smirk twitching at his mouth.

But Violet doesn’t stop.

She rises, voice carrying to every corner of the chamber. “You dare sit there and act like the Tavis family were the enemy? That they were expendable? That their legacy is something to sweep aside because it doesn’t fit your ledgers? They saved us. They bled for us. They died for us. And you—” her eyes snap back to Tauri, venom in every syllable—“you dishonor them with every word you speak.”

The room is silent. Dead silent.

Even Tauri blinks, his smugness faltering for the briefest moment.

I swear my chest might crack open.

Because for the first time in three months, it feels like someone finally said it out loud. Said what they were. Who they were. Not martyrs. Not enemies. Ours.

And godsdamn it, if Len’s ghost is anywhere in this room—and I know she is—she’s grinning like the feral maniac she’s always been.

Violet doesn’t stop.

Her voice sharpens, rises, until it echoes across the chamber. “Navarre spent years trying to kill Lenny. Years. You hunted her like prey. And when she survived—when she clawed her way through everything you threw at her—you flinched. You flinched when you realised you’d forged her into a weapon sharper than any blade you could control.”

Her hands are trembling on the table, but her voice? Steady. Unflinching.

“And Garrick?” She snaps her gaze toward the generals, toward Melgren and Kravos and every soldier who ever dismissed him. “You underestimated him every godsdamned day of his life. You laughed when he stood beside her, called him weak, called him lesser, because you couldn’t see the iron under his skin. And you kept pushing. You kept attacking his family. Until finally, he snapped. And when he did? He was the storm you feared most.”

My throat tightens. I force my jaw not to crack from clenching.

“Navarre had reason to fear them, yes,” Violet says, her voice dropping to a knife’s edge, “but not because they were monsters. Not because they were unhinged or unstable. Because Navarre betrayed them. Over and over again. Because you hurt them, over and over again. And when you hurt Eleanor Riorson-Tavis, when you threatened her family, she did what she always did—she fought back.”

Her gaze sweeps across the Senarium, pinning every noble, every general, every coward in their silks and polished armor.

“Even as Queen of Orlyth, she gave you chances. More than you deserved. She offered alliances. Pleaded with you to protect your people instead of playing politics. She gave you every chance to stand beside her, and you spat in her face because you were threatened by her power.”

The chamber is silent, still as a crypt.

Violet leans forward, her voice a growl now. “But you forced her hand. You forced her and Garrick to slaughter innocents in battles they never should’ve been dragged into. You stained their hands and called them abominations. And you have the audacity—” her voice cracks like thunder, shaking the walls—“to sit here now and pretend you understand their legacy? No.”

Her hand slams the table. The sound cracks through me like lightning.

The silence after is deafening.

Every noble stiffens. The generals avert their eyes. Even King Tauri’s smug mask falters for just a breath, like she struck him across the face.

And gods, I think Len herself would be standing on the table right now, howling with laughter at the sight of Violet Sorrengail gutting the Senarium with nothing but words.

I want to howl with her.

Instead, I sit there, my chest burning, seething with pride and rage both.

Because she’s right. And for the first time since Draithus, the truth has been spoken in this chamber.

ELEANOR

Ohhh, that was juicy.

Vi’s speech? Gods, I nearly set the whole Senarium on fire just to add dramatic effect. Watching King Tauri’s smug little mask slip for half a second was better than wine. Better than churam. Better than watching Bodhi fall flat on his ass in sparring.

Almost.

I was this close to pulling some ghost shit—candles flying, chairs toppling, shadows crawling up the walls—but then I thought… why waste it all in one go? Why scare an entire room of pompous bastards at once…

…when I can haunt the Tauri family individually?

Make them think they’re going mad. One by one.

So. First up: Prince Halden.

It takes me less than an hour after the Senarium adjourns to track him down. Basgiath is mine, always has been. I know the walls, the whispers, the shadows. I slip through stone like mist until I find him.

And gods above and below—what a sight.

The prince of Navarre. The king’s precious heir. Balls deep in a redhead who looks more bored than pleasured, her nails picking at the bedpost like she’s waiting for him to finish so she can wash her hair.

I wrinkle my nose. “Vanilla,” I mutter, arms crossed. “No wonder Violet dumped your sorry ass.”

He grunts like a dying elk, sweat dripping, while the poor girl sighs like she’s calculating how long it’ll take her to get home and scrub herself clean.

I hover closer, crouching by her shoulder, chin on my ghost hand. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. It’ll be over soon. Gods, I hope he’s paying you for this. He’s terrible.”

She blinks, her eyes flicking toward the shadows. Can’t see me. Of course not.

“Come on, Halden,” I mutter. “You’ve got all the charisma of a burnt potato. At least try.”

I snicker to myself, giddy, because gods this is the most fun I’ve had in days—since I tripped Xaden on the fortress stairs and watched him eat shit in front of Elias. (He still pretended it was deliberate, shadows curling like he meant to faceplant. Idiot.)

I can’t wait to tell Garrick about this. He’ll—

And then I stop. The grin slides right off my face.

Because Halden groans, shudders, collapses against the headboard…

…and breathes out, “Eleanor.”

My jaw drops. My whole ghostly body freezes.

“No,” I whisper. “No fucking way.”

I glance at the redhead, desperate, my voice sharp. “Please tell me your name is Eleanor.”

She jerks upright, glaring down at him. Whack. Her hand smacks his arm. “My name isn’t Eleanor!”

Halden blinks, sheepish, mumbling something incoherent.

And I—?

I lose my shit.

“YOU ABSOLUTE FUCKING PERVERT!” I roar, pacing the room like a storm, even though neither of them can hear me. “OF ALL THE NAMES—MINE? REALLY?”

The redhead glares, already tugging her dress back on. “You’re such an asshole.”

“You’re telling me,” I mutter, still sputtering in outrage.

And gods, if I had lungs, I’d still be screaming.

I just stand there.

Mouth open. Arms slack.

Because Prince Halden, the man who’s tried to kill me on more than one occasion, the pampered little prick who couldn’t swing a blade without a dozen guards holding his hand—said my name while he came.

And I’m dead.

This is… gods, it’s funny. And horrific. A crime against nature. Against me.

“Unbelievable,” I mutter, pacing like a caged beast. “Of all the people in this godsdamned continent, it had to be you.”

Violet had warned me, hadn’t she? Said he had a thing for redheads. It’s why she dumped his sorry ass years ago—caught him balls-deep in his tutor, who also happened to have red hair.

But this? This?

Even I didn’t see this one coming.

The woman—poor girl—storms out, muttering curses about princes and bastards and wasted time. Good for her. She deserves someone who doesn’t grunt like a boar in mating season.

Halden doesn’t even flinch. Doesn’t care that she’s gone. He just sprawls smugly across the sheets, arms behind his head, smug little smile like he’s just conquered the world instead of lasting less time than it takes me to sharpen a blade.

And that’s when the rage hits.

I cross my arms, glaring so hard I swear the air shivers.

“Firstly,” I hiss, pacing at the foot of his bed, “I’m married, you little rat. Happily. To a man who could crush you with one hand.”

“Secondly—ew!” I throw my hands up. “Do you have any idea how gross it is knowing you’re thinking of me when you’re… ugh. doing that?”

He yawns. Smiles smugly at the ceiling.

“And thirdly—” I slam my fist into the nightstand, sending the candle tumbling—“what the actual fuck?!”

Because I’m dead. And this bastard has the audacity to—?

No.

Absolutely not.

Halden Tauri has just become priority one on my Haunting List.

The nightstand rattles first. A glass tips over, spilling wine across the floorboards. He frowns, blinking around the room.

“Oh, don’t play dumb,” I snarl, pacing circles around his bed. “You know exactly who I am.”

The mirror cracks.

His smugness falters.

Then the hearth explodes to life. Black and violet voidfire roars out of the grate, licking up the stone, searing shadows into every corner. The air warps with the heat, and Halden freezes. His face goes white.

And then—oh, gods. Oh, this is delicious.

Because the prince of Navarre, heir to the throne, supposed soldier and politician extraordinaire…

…screams like a little bitch.

“No, no, no!” He scrambles off the bed, tripping over his own trousers. “Gods, no, she’s dead! You’re dead!” His voice cracks, high and panicked. “I’m sorry, Eleanor, I’m sorry! I didn’t mean it! Don’t kill me, please, don’t kill me!”

And then—oh, oh yes—he pisses himself.

I double over, cackling.

Halden wails, clawing at the door, stumbling into the hall half-naked. “GUARDS! GUARDS! I’M CURSED! SHE’S CURSED ME!”

By sheer luck, Bodhi and Violet are walking past. They stop, both of them staring as Halden stumbles into the light, wild-eyed, babbling incoherently.

“It’s her!” Halden shrieks. “Eleanor! She’s here! She cursed me! I’m haunted! I’m—” His voice breaks, tears streaming down his blotchy face. “She’s going to kill me!”

The guards exchange confused looks, muttering about how the prince must’ve been drinking again.

Bodhi’s brows rise. Violet tilts her head. They glance at each other. Neither of them says a word.

And then—quiet as you please—they just… keep walking.

Leaving Halden to his hysterics, wailing and clutching his head as the guards try to haul him back to his chambers.

I’m left leaning against the wall, wheezing with laughter, choking on my own ghost cackles.

Gods. Being dead is miserable. But this?

This might almost make it worth it.

BODHI

We don’t stop walking until we’re well out of earshot of Halden’s shrieking.

His voice still echoes down the hall behind us, high and panicked—“SHE CURSED ME! SHE’S HERE!”—like a toddler who lost his blanket. The guards are muttering, half-dragging him, half-rolling their eyes, and gods, if I didn’t know better I’d say it was the funniest shit I’ve ever seen.

Except I do know better.

I glance sideways at Violet. She’s quiet, her face carefully blank, but her lips are twitching like she’s fighting a smile.

“…That was her, wasn’t it?” I murmur.

Vi exhales through her nose. “Oh, it was definitely her.”

And just like that—godsdamn it—I almost laugh.

Because of course it was Len. Of course, in death, in whatever the hell half-alive state she’s trapped in, she wouldn’t waste time moaning or rattling chains. No, she’d be haunting the Tauri family like the feral little gremlin she always was, waiting until Halden had his cock out just to ruin his life.

“Unbelievable,” I mutter, shaking my head, though the corner of my mouth betrays me. “She dies, and she’s still more terrifying than half the Senarium combined.”

Violet snorts quietly. Then her face sobers again, her voice softer. “She’s making the most of it.”

I nod, throat tight. Because she’s right.

She’s gone. Stuck. A ghost. A fracture of herself rattling around between here and the veil.

But at least she’s not letting them win. At least she’s not letting herself fade.

“Good,” I whisper. “Haunt those pricks, Len. Drive them mad. Make them pay.”

For the first time in months, the weight in my chest shifts. Not gone. Never gone.

But lighter.

ELEANOR

Halden’s still wailing somewhere behind me, guards half-dragging him like a drunk who pissed himself at a banquet. Good. Let him stew in it. Let him wake tomorrow wondering if it was a nightmare or if I’m perched on the end of his bed, waiting to chew his throat out.

But I’m not done.

Not nearly.

Because if there’s one Tauri bastard who deserves to feel my teeth, it’s not the pathetic son. It’s the smug father.

King Tauri. The monarch who ordered my death more times than I can count. The man who signed Kasten’s orders. The man who smiled when Navarre called me monster, who looked at Garrick like he was disposable, who thought I could be chained to his leash like a dog.

He thinks Draithus made him stronger. That my ashes cleared his path.

He has no idea I’m still here.

And gods help him, because tonight I’m in the mood for fun.

My strength’s waning—I can feel it, edges of me fraying, the pull toward the Husk like a hook lodged in my chest—but I don’t care. If this is my one shot at revenge before I’m yanked back, I’m taking it.

So I slip through the stone walls of Basgiath, gliding down silent halls, my voidfire flickering like sparks at my fingertips. My grin sharpens, feral.

“Knock, knock, Your Majesty,” I whisper, stepping straight through the gilded doors into his chambers.

The room smells of arrogance and wine. Tauri snores in his bed, fat with silk sheets and the illusion of power.

Perfect.

I light the hearth first—black fire licking the ceiling, burning too cold, too wrong. His eyes snap open at once.

And gods, the way his face goes white when he sees the flames? Delicious.

“Wake up, King,” I purr, circling his bed like a predator. “Time to meet the ghost you made.”

Tauri jolts awake, his eyes snapping open as voidfire curls in the hearth, black and violet flames clawing up the stone. His breathing stutters, but his jaw sets as if he can steel himself against it.

Oh, he knows. He knows.

Good.

I glide along the edge of his chamber, brushing my fingers against tapestries, letting them ripple without wind. A goblet tips. Rolls. Falls silent against the rug.

He flinches. Just a flicker, but I see it.

“Scared, Your Majesty?” I whisper, though he can’t hear me.

His gaze flicks around the room, sharp, desperate, landing on shadows that shift wrong, curtains that stir too slow. His chest heaves as he mutters to himself—words I can’t quite catch. A prayer, maybe. Or a curse.

I let the silence stretch, heavy, suffocating, broken only by the hiss of voidfire eating at his hearth.

Then I move again.

The quill on his desk scratches against parchment, dragged by nothing. A page flutters to the ground.

Tauri swallows hard. His voice is low, brittle as glass. “Eleanor.”

The name is venom in his mouth, but gods, the way it trembles? The way his eyes dart to the shadows, convinced I’m there? That’s sweeter than any confession.

He sits straighter, shoulders squared, though his hands clutch the blankets so hard his knuckles whiten. “You can’t hurt me. You’re dead. You have no power.”

I grin, sharp and vicious.

“Oh, darling,” I whisper. “Wrong answer.”

The chair scrapes across the floor. His goblet tips over. His crown—propped neatly on the table—spins once, twice, before clattering to the floor with a sharp ring.

He swallows, jaw locked tight, but the sheen of sweat on his forehead betrays him.

“Scared, Your Majesty?” I whisper, leaning over his shoulder. “Good. You should be.”

He mutters again, louder this time, as though he’s speaking to me. “You think you still hold power? You think you can rattle me from the After? Foolish girl. Dead girls don’t win wars.”

My grin sharpens.

“Oh, you poor bastard. I’m not rattling you from the After. I’m rattling you from here.”

And maybe I push too hard.

Because the flames flare—too sudden, too violent—casting shadows that writhe like serpents along the walls. His eyes widen, his chest heaves, and then—

He clutches at his ribs with a sharp gasp.

Whoops.

The proud king of Navarre stumbles out of bed, half-naked, scrambling for the door. He makes it just far enough to throw it open and bellow for his guards before his knees buckle.

“Help! Guards—” His words cut off in a wheeze as he collapses into the hall.

Someone screams. “Fetch Nolon! The mender, now!”

Boots thunder. Shouts echo. The whole wing erupts into chaos.

And me?

I stand in the middle of his room, staring at him in shock.

“Did I just… give him a heart attack?”

The halls are still chaos—guards yelling, servants shrieking, boots hammering against stone. King Tauri is slumped in the corridor like a sack of potatoes, froth at his lips, eyes rolled back.

I clap my hands over my mouth, then double over with laughter.

“Oh gods—oh fuck—I did!” I wheeze, clutching my stomach even though I don’t technically have one anymore.

The guards are panicking now, someone swearing they can’t find a pulse, others insisting they can. I just hum a little tune and dance around.

Because either way?

King Tauri’s never sleeping soundly again.

And gods, that makes being a ghost fun.

BODHI

The archives of Basgiath smell like dust and arrogance.

Shelves stretch into shadows, sagging with tomes so old the spines flake if you touch them wrong. Candles flicker low, wax spilling like melted bones across the tables. The six of us hunch over different piles of books, our voices hushed because even here—even now—we’re half-convinced the walls are listening.

We’re supposed to be looking for answers. Ghosts. Tethered souls. Anything that might tell us if Len’s… whatever she is… is permanent.

But of course, my focus drifts.

I lean toward Violet, voice low. “So. About earlier.”

Her quill stills over the parchment, her lips twitching. “Halden?”

“What about Halden?” Brennan frowns.

I smirk. “We saw him stumbling down the hall screaming about Eleanor cursing him.”

Vi exhales, shaky, trying not to laugh. “The guards thought he was drunk.”

“Drunk my ass,” I mutter. “That was her. Had to be. Who else would reduce the prince of Navarre to pissing himself in broad daylight?”

Across the table, Dain stiffens. His jaw ticks. “You’re saying Lenny’s… haunting everyone else? Not just us?”

“Not everyone,” I correct, grinning. “The Tauris. Which is exactly what I’d do if I were her.”

Brennan scrubs a hand over his face like he’s aged ten years in ten seconds. “Gods save us. She really would, wouldn’t she?”

“Would?” Violet mutters, finally letting the smile crack through. “She is.”

And that’s when Aaric, of all people, chokes on a laugh. A real one. Not the stiff, princely huffs he used to give, but an actual snort that makes Mira raise her brows.

“Of course she’d haunt them,” Aaric says, shaking his head, a grin tugging despite himself. “I mean, think about it—if death didn’t stop Eleanor Riorson-Tavis from scheming, what chance does my father have of sleeping at night?”

I bark a laugh, then slap a hand over my mouth because the archivist glares at us from across the room. Vi’s shoulders are shaking, Brennan muttering “this isn’t funny” while his lips twitch anyway, and Mira’s just smirking like she always knew Len wouldn’t stay gone quietly.

And for the first time in weeks, the grief in my chest eases. Just a fraction.

Because godsdammit, even in death, she’s still causing chaos.

And I wouldn’t have it any other way.

We’re barely ten minutes into pretending to study when the doors slam open.

The sound ricochets off the vaulted ceiling, dust raining from the rafters.

Halden strides in, face blotchy red, his robes crooked like he dressed in a panic. Behind him stalks General Melgren, expression carved from stone but… off. Not his usual brand of controlled contempt.

The prince doesn’t even give us a chance to stand.

“An hour ago,” Halden blurts, voice high and sharp, “my father had a heart attack in his rooms.”

We freeze.

Melgren shifts behind him, arms crossed, unreadable.

Halden’s chest heaves as he stares at us, wild-eyed. “Nolon saved him. Just barely. And do you know what he was mumbling as they pulled him back?” His voice cracks. “Eleanor Lennox. Over and over.”

My mouth goes dry.

“She’s cursed us,” Halden hisses, spittle flying. “My family. She’s not gone, she’s—she’s haunting us!”

Violet exhales, slow, careful. “Calm down, Halden. Curses aren’t real.”

As if on cue, a chair in the corner creaks. The wood groans like someone’s just sat down.

Halden flinches, stumbling back. His face drains of color.

I cock my head, unable to resist. “Are you drunk?”

“I am not drunk!” he shrieks, before spinning on his heel and storming back out of the archives, his boots echoing down the corridor.

The silence that follows is suffocating.

Every eye shifts to Melgren.

The general doesn’t follow. Doesn’t shout. Doesn’t scold. He just stares at the books spread across our table, the ones about souls and spirits and half-tethered magic. His mouth twitches—not into a scowl, but into something that looks dangerously close to a smile.

“Good luck,” he murmurs.

Every one of us goes still.

Violet blinks. Mira frowns. Dain’s brows shoot up. Aaric looks like he’s swallowed glass.

Me? I can only gape.

“Sir?” Brennan says carefully.

Melgren doesn’t answer. He just tucks his hands behind his back, eyes flicking once more to the empty chair that creaked, before turning and striding silently out of the archives.

And for the first time in my life, I have no fucking idea what side Melgren’s on.

ELEANOR

Melgren’s office smells like parchment and smoke, like old steel left too long in its sheath. The walls are lined with maps and ledgers, all precise, all perfect, as if the man himself etched order into stone just by standing near it.

He enters without ceremony, shutting the door behind him, and just drops into the chair behind his desk with the weight of a man who’s tired of carrying empires.

I hover in the corner, watching.

He reaches for his ink pot, dipping his quill—

And I shove it.

The pot skitters across the desk, rolling in a perfect arc, spilling not a drop.

His hand stills. His head tilts, slow. And then—gods help me—he smiles.

Not cruel. Not mocking. Just… knowing.

“I wondered if you’d follow,” he murmurs.

My chest tightens. Because he knows. He knows.

For a long moment, I don’t move. I don’t rattle the shelves or crack the window. I just hover, unsure. Because what now? This is Melgren. The bastard who hunted me for two years. The one who wrote reports about how best to put me down.

And yet—

He’s also the one who stood in front of the Senarium more than once, voice sharp as blades, telling the Tuari family to stop wasting resources chasing me. The one who scowled every time they muttered “execution order.”.

And gods help me, the one who let me call him Augie, just to watch his eye twitch.

I don’t know if that makes him ally or enemy.

But I do know this: he doesn’t look afraid. Not like Halden. Not like the king.

He leans back in his chair, folding his arms, studying the empty space where I linger. “So. You’re here. Not the After, not a pyre. Here.” His lips twitch like he almost wants to laugh. “Should’ve known. You never were good at following orders. Not even Death’s.”

My hand itches to throw something. To snarl. To tell him he’s still an asshole. But I don’t. I just watch.

And he… sighs.

“I don’t know what you are now. Ghost. Fragment. Curse. But I’ll tell you this, Lennox—” His gaze sharpens, burning straight into the shadows where I hover. “If anyone can claw their way back from death, it’s you.”

My throat closes.

For the first time since Draithus, I don’t feel like haunting. I don’t feel like cackling or burning things. I just… stand there, letting his words coil around me like armor I didn’t ask for.

Maybe he is a friend. Or maybe he’s just another bastard playing the long game.

But either way, he believes I’m still here.

And that’s enough.

Melgren doesn’t move for a long time. Just sits there, watching the ink pot I shoved.

Then he leans forward, folding his hands on the desk. “You should know this, Eleanor. I’ve seen you.”

My head jerks up.

His voice lowers, steady as a blade. “Alive. On a battlefield. You and Garrick both. I don’t know when, and I don’t know how—but whatever this is?” His eyes flick to the shadows. “It isn’t permanent. You’re going to come back.”

For the first time in months, my chest aches like hope’s a blade jammed through my ribs.

He doesn’t stop there. His jaw tightens. “I know there’s no trust between us. Maybe there never will be. But I’ll tell you one thing: the Tauri family is wrong. You’re not the enemy. Not anymore.”

I don’t breathe. Can’t.

He sighs, long and low, rubbing at his temple. “That said… I also know you’ve been terrifying them all day. You gave the king a heart attack.”

I grin, feral, crossing my arms. “Damn right I did.”

Of course, he doesn’t hear me.

He exhales again, weary, almost amused. Then his gaze sharpens, eyes narrowing as though he might pierce the veil itself. “When you come back… what are you going to do?”

The question hangs heavy in the room.

I don’t answer with words.

Instead, I flick my wrist.

The great map of the continent sprawled across his desk goes up in violet-black fire, edges curling, coastlines burning, kingdoms reduced to ash.

Melgren doesn’t flinch. He just sighs, deep and tired, dragging a hand down his face. “That’s what I thought.”

I grin wider, teeth bared.

Because godsdammit, he’s right.

When I come back?

I’m not bowing. I’m burning.

GARRICK

The house is too quiet.

The kind of quiet that presses in on your ribs, that makes every creak of the beams feel like a threat. Lenny—well, the husk of her—sleeps tangled in the sheets, her chest rising and falling slow and shallow. For once, her face is calm. No thrashing, no bloodied scratches, no muttered rambling about shadows or serpents. Just stillness.

I should be grateful. But I’m not.

Because I can feel her. The real her.

Not the woman in the bed—my fractured wife, body alive but soul splintered. No. The other part. The one that drifts. The one that’s been growing stronger these last weeks.

And tonight… she feels quieter.

More drained.

Which only means one thing.

I rub a hand over my face and sigh. “What kind of fucking trouble have you gotten yourself into this time, Len?”

The fire doesn’t flare. No dancing voidfire like usual.

“Are you okay?”

The hearth doesn’t spark this time. No flames licking black and violet. But there’s a soft sound—two taps against the wood by my chair.

Yes.

I sigh in relief anyway. “Good. You’re here. Gods, Len, every time you vanish, I think—what if you don’t come back? What if you fade too far? What if—” My voice cracks, and I shove a hand through my hair. “Just… don’t do that to me.”

Silence answers. Heavy, suffocating silence.

And then the air shifts.

The shadows ripple, folding back like they’ve been shoved aside.

Myrnin appears, stepping out of nothing, his silver eyes burning like twin stars. His expression? Furious.

“Is she here?” His voice is sharp, already knowing the answer.

I sit up straighter. My stomach knots. “Why—”

“She upset the balance. Again.” His voice cuts like thunder. “She changed fate. Again.”

I freeze. My heart lurches.

Myrnin paces a slow, lethal circle in front of the hearth, his robes trailing like smoke. “Why is it that even in death—even as a ghost—your wife cannot stop being infuriating?”

My mouth goes dry. I glance at the bed, then at the hearth, then back to him. “Len,” I mutter, dragging a hand down my face. “What. Did. You. Do?”

The bed creaks as the husk shifts in sleep, mumbling something about fire and blood.

But I don’t look at her.

Because I know damn well my real wife is standing here, smug as hell, and if I don’t get an answer soon, Myrnin might actually combust.

And gods help me—part of me doesn’t even want to know.

Myrnin’s silver eyes flash as he whirls on me, robes snapping like smoke in a storm. “Do you want to know what your wife has been up to while you sit here brooding?”

I sink lower into the chair. “Not really,” I mutter, because I already know I won’t like the answer.

He ignores me. “Prince Halden is screaming through the halls of Basgiath like a child, claiming she cursed him. Guards think he’s drunk. Your duchess thinks he’s lost his mind. And the Tauri heir has been humiliated in front of half the Senarium.”

I close my eyes. Saints preserve me.

“Oh, it gets better.” Myrnin’s tone sharpens, every word a dagger. “Today, the king of Navarre had a heart attack.”

My head jerks up. “What?”

“He died.”

The silence slams into me like a blade to the chest.

Myrnin doesn’t flinch. “Malek—who, I might add, is already drained from helping me patch together your wife’s fractured soul—had to send the king back from the After. Do you understand me? The king was not supposed to die today. The balance is hanging by threads, Garrick. Threads. And your wife is out there snapping them like kindling because she cannot—” he slams his palm against the desk “—be patient.”

My stomach flips, torn between horror and… gods help me, the urge to laugh.

Because of course she did. Of course Len would terrify a king into keeling over. Of course she’d stir the pot in death the same way she did in life.

“Can you not stay here, Eleanor?” Myrnin growls, pacing, his voice low and lethal. “Can you not simply stay in this house with your husband? Can you not wait until your soul is ready to be restored to your body?”

The hearth pops. The shadows stretch.

And from the corner, low and guttural, comes a sound.

A growl.

Not quite human. Not quite beast. Something in between.

The hair rises on the back of my neck. My grip tightens on the arm of the chair.

I exhale through my nose, slow and tired. “Fuck. I really hope that’s not my wife.”

Myrnin just cocks his head, eyes narrowing toward the sound. His lips twitch into a smirk. “Oh, it’s her.”

Of course it is.

Because who else could snarl like a demon just to win an argument?

Myrnin lifts his hands like he’s soothing a wild beast. “Eleanor. Listen to me. No more haunting people. Do you hear me? No. More. Kings. No. More. Princes. You stay here until your soul is ready to return—”

A boot flies across the room and smacks him square in the face.

He actually stumbles.

I drag a hand over my face and groan. “Now you’ve done it.”

Myrnin lowers the boot, his silver eyes blazing, his jaw tight as though he’s debating whether to smite my wife’s ghost or laugh. “What has gotten into her today?”

I lean back in the chair, staring up at the ceiling like I might find salvation there. “She’s been throwing tantrums all day.”

There’s a sharp thwack as a book levitates off the shelf and slaps me on the back of the head.

I don’t even flinch. Just sigh. “Case in point.”

Myrnin pinches the bridge of his nose, muttering something in Orlythian that sounds like blasphemy and prayer all in one.

And me? I just sit there, surrounded by boots and flying books, married to a feral ghost who refuses to wait quietly for her soul to stitch back together.

Gods, I love her.

But she’s going to drive me insane before she comes home.

ELEANOR

Garrick blows out the candle, dragging his exhausted body toward the bed. The husk stirs faintly, mumbling in her sleep. My sleep.

He sighs, tugs his shirt off, and climbs in beside her.

I cross my arms and glare.

Nope. Not happening.

The pillows shift—slow at first, then firm, a neat wall stacking itself between him and the husk.

He pauses. Blinks. Then he actually laughs, low and rough. “Really, Len?”

Yes, really. My husband. Mine.

He shakes his head, still chuckling, and lies down anyway, letting the pillow barricade stand. Within minutes, his breathing evens out, deep and steady.

I hover for a while, watching him sleep. My chest aches. My throat burns. But the husk mumbles again, and jealousy snarls through me.

Fine. I need air.

I slip through the door and float down the stairs.

The house is dark, the halls heavy with silence. But in the basement, there’s noise. Faint, muffled groans. The scrape of chains. The wet, sharp sound of Noodle enjoying himself.

I drift lower, through the stone, until the dungeon greets me.

General Aetos is slumped against the wall, bruised and bloodied, chained by wrists and ankles. He barely stirs anymore.

But it’s not him who matters.

It’s the serpent.

Noodle’s vast black body coils through the shadows, his scales rippling like oil. He slithers in lazy circles around the prisoner, forked tongue flicking—until his head snaps up.

His black eyes lock directly on me.

For a heartbeat, I freeze.

And then he chitters. Loud, frantic, delighted. His body wriggles and coils, thrashing against the stone like an overexcited pup.

My jaw drops.

“You can see me?”

He nods.

I almost faint.

Because godsdamn it—someone can hear me.

And of course it’s the terrifying parasite snake.

Noodle chitters again, thrashing his tail so hard a loose rock clatters across the floor. His fangs gleam as he wriggles toward me, stretching his massive serpent head so close I could swear he’s about to nuzzle me.

And he does. His snout presses right through my stomach, and I laugh and sob all at once, because of course, I can’t touch him back. I can’t feel. But he sees me. He knows.

“Gods, Noodle,” I whisper, choking on my own ghost-voice, “you little bastard, I’ve missed you so fucking much.”

He chitters louder, high and frantic, spinning in a circle before slamming his coils against the floor like he’s throwing a tantrum.

I drop to my knees even though they pass through the stone. “I know, baby. I know. I didn’t mean to leave you. I didn’t mean—” My throat cracks, my words crumbling into sobs. “I wasn’t supposed to die. I wasn’t supposed to leave.”

He lowers his head again, eyes wide and unblinking, fixed on me with that eerie loyalty that always terrified everyone else. But me? To me he’s always been my monster, my child.

“I thought you were gone,” I babble, tears spilling even though ghosts aren’t supposed to cry. “I thought I lost you. Gods, Noodle, I thought I lost all of you. Chompy. Nox. Chradh. Garrick—” My voice breaks. “I thought I’d lost everything.”

He hisses sharp, like a reprimand, like he’s scolding me for being dramatic.

I actually laugh through the sobs, wiping uselessly at my face. “Still sassing your mother, huh? Good. Good boy.”

He chitters softer now, like a lullaby hiss, coiling himself in a loose circle on the floor. His eyes never leave me.

And for the first time in months, I don’t feel invisible.

I don’t feel alone.

Because Noodle sees me.

I lean closer, crouching until my face is level with his massive serpent head. His tongue flickers, tasting the air like he’s trying to pull me into his lungs.

“I’ve been watching you,” I murmur. “I saw what she did. That husk. That thing. She bit you.”

The sound that rips out of him is awful. A low, keening whine that echoes off the stone, half hiss, half sob. He thrashes his tail, coils tightening like he’s trying to strangle the memory itself.

“Oh, baby.” My voice cracks. “I know. I know.”

The memory stabs through me. That day—watching her, the husk, my own body sink her teeth into him. Watching Noodle recoil like he’d been betrayed by the one he trusted most. His shriek had torn through the house, rattling the rafters. He’d coiled around Garrick’s neck for an hour, clinging, trembling, keening like the world had ended.

And me? I’d been right there. Right fucking there. Screaming so loud my voice should’ve split the sky. But I wasn’t strong enough then. Couldn’t move anything. Couldn’t let him know it wasn’t me.

That it was never me.

“I would never bite you,” I whisper, fierce. “Not like that. Never. You know that, right?”

Noodle jerks his head, keening sharper, eyes wide.

“I’m me.” I jab a finger into my own chest even though it passes straight through. “That bitch upstairs? She’s not me. She’s just… the broken parts. The pieces. But I’m your mama. You know that.”

He hisses, long and loud, the sound rolling through the dungeon like thunder. His body writhes, twisting over itself, then stills. His great black eyes fix on me, unblinking.

And then, soft. Almost mournful. He presses his head down to the stone, bowing low like he used to when he was small enough to curl in my lap.

The sound that leaves me is half sob, half laugh.

“Good boy,” I whisper, tears spilling down my useless ghost cheeks. “My good, loyal, terrifying little monster.”

I pace the dungeon, ranting like the unhinged ghost-wife I apparently am, and Noodle follows me with those enormous black eyes, his tongue flicking in rapid little darts like he’s hanging on every word.

“That bitch upstairs,” I hiss, jabbing toward the ceiling, “is not me. She’s not allowed to look at Garrick like that. She’s not allowed to make those stupid little love eyes at him. Mine. He’s mine.”

Noodle chitters, bobbing his head furiously.

“Exactly!” I snarl, throwing my arms up. “And gods, the way she tries to kiss him sometimes? I nearly combusted on the spot. How dare she? How dare she?”

Noodle hisses sharp, like a whip crack, his tail smacking against the wall. Agreement. My perfect son.

I pause, shaking my head, a bitter laugh bubbling up. “Thank the gods she hasn’t tried to sleep with him. Can you imagine?”

Silence.

I blink. Slowly turn my head.

Noodle’s massive body coils in tighter circles, his eyes flicking toward the far wall like he’s just been caught sneaking bones under the bed.

My stomach drops.

“Noodle,” I whisper, my voice sharpening. “Has that bitch tried to sleep with my husband?”

The serpent chitters nervously and curls himself tighter, tighter, tighter, until he’s a perfect black knot on the floor.

My mouth falls open.

“Oh, hell no.”

The dungeon rattles as voidfire erupts in the hearth, black-violet flames licking up the stone walls like claws.

“I die for three months,” I snarl, pacing like a caged demon, “and suddenly my own body is trying to seduce my husband? Over my dead—oh wait, I am dead—but still. Over. My. Dead. Body.”

Noodle chitters again, a shriek this time, like he’s warning Garrick that Mama is about to wage war on… herself.

And honestly? He’s probably right.

Chapter Text

Bodhi,

I don’t know how else to ask this, except plainly. Has anything… strange happened around you? Things moving that shouldn’t. Fires sparking when no one’s near the hearth. A pressure in the room, like someone is watching.

I swear, sometimes, I feel her. Lenny. I see the curtains stir without wind, or the ink on my desk shift when my eyes are turned. I hear Elara laugh and reach into the air as if her godmother is playing with her. It can’t just be grief making me imagine it—can it?

Tell me honestly. Has it happened to you? Because if it has, then it means what I dare not say aloud. It means she’s still here. Not gone. Not lost. Watching us.

It has to be her.

Please, Bodhi. Tell me I’m not mad.

—Katherine

KATHERINE

The mornings are the hardest.

For weeks I lay in this bed, curtains drawn, the air thick with dust and silence. I listened to Kingston pacing the halls, listened to Elara’s soft cries muffled through walls, and I did nothing. Not because I didn’t care, but because caring felt impossible.

But Len didn’t let me. Even in death, she didn’t let me.

That day the covers ripped off me, the brush hurled across the room, the curtains flung wide—I knew. I knew it was her. No one else would be that violent, that unrelenting. My sister-in-law, my chaos, my storm. Eleanor.

And so now… I get out of bed.

I hold my daughter.

Elara is three months old now, her hair dark like Elias’, her eyes still shifting, though some days I swear they flash green. She grips my finger with terrifying strength, just as stubborn as her parents. She gurgles when I whisper to her, babbles like she’s telling me secrets I should already know.

I spend hours with her in the nursery, just being. Rocking her, feeding her, humming songs I can’t remember learning. It’s the only time my chest doesn’t feel hollow.

Kingston pretends not to watch me, but I see it. The way his shoulders ease when I walk into a room. The way he softens when I laugh at Elara’s nonsense babble. He’s relieved. And I’m grateful. Gods, I’m grateful. But his presence is also a knife, because every time I see him, I’m reminded of who isn’t here.

Elias.

My husband.

Venin.

Gone.

Every day, I ask myself if he’s still out there. If he’s still Elias beneath the shadows eating at his veins. If he and Xaden are surviving somewhere beyond these walls, hunted, hated, stripped of everything but each other.

I wonder if he thinks of me. If he thinks of Elara.

I wonder if he hates himself for leaving.

I wonder if he knows I don’t blame him.

The silence is never empty, not anymore. It’s full of ghosts—Len and Garrick, dead in Draithus, and Elias, not dead but not alive, walking some cursed path I can’t follow.

At night, when Elara is finally asleep, I sit at the window. Kingston sits across the room, book in hand, pretending not to see me stare at the stars.

I don’t pray. I don’t believe in gods anymore. But I whisper anyway.

“Please be safe. Please come back. Both of you.”

The stars don’t answer. They never do.

But for just a moment, I let myself believe.

The mornings are lighter now. Not easy. Never easy. But lighter.

Elara lies on a blanket by the hearth, her little fists clenching and unclenching, eyes bright as she kicks her feet against the woven rug. Her laugh bubbles out when I dangle the carved wooden dragons above her, their wings catching the firelight as if they might take off.

Garrick painted them himself, back before Draithus. Steady hands, careful strokes, every detail captured with that quiet patience of his. A gift for my daughter. For his goddaughter.

Elara squeals and grabs for one—the brown one, with sharp horns and a wide jaw. Chradh.

“Of course you pick him,” I tease, lowering it so she can bat it with her fists. “Noxarathian won’t be happy about this. He’s meant to be the favourite.”

She gurgles, her eyes wide with mischief, as though she knows exactly what she’s doing.

I laugh—really laugh—for the first time in days. “Oh, you’ve inherited your aunt’s chaos. Poor Garrick would’ve had a heart attack chasing you around.”

And then the sound catches in my throat.

Because Garrick won’t be chasing anyone around. Nox won’t roar his disapproval. Chradh won’t lower his great head so she can tug at his horns.

They’re gone.

All of them.

I press a trembling hand to my mouth, tears stinging my eyes as Elara clutches Chradh tighter.

Only Len remains.

Or at least… something of her.

The memory of curtains ripping open. Covers flying off me. A brush hurled across the room. My ring slid toward me across the table. No one else could have done that. No one else would have. It was her. It had to be her.

So where are the others?

Did they move on? Did they find peace in the After while Eleanor is left here, snarling and raging and tethered to us like a storm that can’t break?

Or is she trapped?

I look at Elara, my sweet girl with Elias’ stubbornness in her smile. “Did your Aunt Lenny stay for you? For us?” My voice cracks, barely above a whisper. “Or did she get left behind?”

Elara only giggles, babbling nonsense as she gums Chradh’s horn.

But my heart twists, because I can’t shake the thought—if Len is stuck, if she’s clawing at the Veil trying to come back… what does that mean for the rest of us?

And if she’s still here, why do I feel more haunted than comforted?

I’m still watching Elara when the floor creaks.

I glance up to see Kingston leaning against the doorway, his arms folded but his shoulders tight, like he’s bracing for impact. His expression is uneasy, lips pressed in a line.

“What is it?” My voice comes out sharper than I mean, but softness feels dangerous these days.

He clears his throat. “We’ve been invited to the palace.”

My stomach drops. “The palace?”

He nods. “King Courtlyn wants to speak with you. With us.”

The carved dragon slips from my fingers. Elara babbles happily as Chradh clatters onto the rug, but I’m frozen, my pulse loud in my ears.

The palace. Court. Nobles. Whispers. Politics. All the things I’ve avoided, hidden from, since Draithus shattered my life into jagged pieces.

I’m not ready.

I don’t know if I’ll ever be ready.

Kingston shifts his weight, eyes flicking to Elara, then back to me. “We don’t have to go if you don’t want to.” His voice is low, careful. “But Courtlyn’s been patient. He’ll only wait so long before he takes offense. And… if Elias were here—”

“Don’t,” I snap, too fast, too sharp. My throat closes.

But the words settle anyway, heavy and unrelenting.

If Elias were here.

If Elias were here, I wouldn’t be clutching at splinters of myself. If Elias were here, I wouldn’t be raising our daughter alone, wouldn’t be hiding from the world while our enemies grew bolder. If Elias were here…

But he isn’t.

And Len isn’t.

And Garrick isn’t.

It’s me.

Me and Kingston. Me and this child who deserves more than a mother who rots in bed.

I draw a long, shuddering breath and force my gaze back to Kingston. He doesn’t push, doesn’t prod. He just waits, steady as ever, the way Elias’ best friend always has.

My hand smooths over Elara’s little curls, over the baby who gurgles up at me like nothing’s broken.

“I’m not sure if I’m ready,” I admit, voice raw.

Kingston’s expression softens. “You don’t have to be ready. Just willing.”

I look at him, at the man who stood beside Elias since they were boys, who stayed even now, when he could have walked away. And I think of Len—godsdamned relentless Len—tearing my curtains open, forcing me to breathe again, even in death.

Len would want me to go.

Elias would want me to go.

So I nod. Slow. Careful. But firm.

“Okay.”

Kingston exhales, relief flickering across his face before he covers it with a crooked half-smile. “Alright then. I’ll tell them we’ll come.”

I look down at Elara, who has Sereil now clutched tight in her fists. “Looks like it’s time to face the world again, little one.”

And for the first time, I almost believe I can.

BODHI

The clang of steel against steel rings through the sparring gym, sharp and steady, like it wants to pound a rhythm into my skull.

Violet lunges. I parry, our blades sliding with a snarl of metal. My arms ache, my lungs burn, but I don’t stop. Neither does she.

We’ve both learned by now—grief only softens if you beat it into the floorboards.

Her strike comes faster than I expect, a feint and twist that nearly catches me off guard. Almost. I grunt, pivot, and shove her back with enough force to make her stumble a step.

She snarls. “Cheap.”

“Effective,” I shoot back, breathless but not giving her the satisfaction of seeing me sweat.

We circle each other again. But sharper. Harder. Because we don’t have a choice.

It’s been months since Draithus. Months since Len and Garrick. Months since the ashes swallowed every part of my family but me.

And yet—there’s still a war.

Aaric has six dragon eggs. Six.

In two days, he and I leave Aretia. South first—to Deverelli, to Courtlyn’s gilded palace, to put two eggs on the table like bargaining chips. An army for eggs. Then Unnbriel, to Marlis and her sharp smile, to trade four more for the strength of her soldiers.

The plan is dangerous. Risk stacked on risk. But it’s ours. And it’s what Len wanted.

What she planned.

And still—there’s more.

Because Aaric and I? We’ve decided to take a detour. Hedotis.

Talia Riorson’s archives are said to hold texts older than Navarre itself. Writings on the Veil. On magic. On the balance between life and death. If anyone left records that might explain what’s happening to Len—why her ghost won’t leave, why she claws at the edges of the world—it’ll be there.

We haven’t told the others. Not yet. It’s easier to keep it unsaid. To keep the hope between us like a fragile flame that might snuff out if spoken too loud.

Because here’s the truth: in the last few weeks, Len’s ghost has barely shown herself. No flying boots, no cackling laughter, no voidfire hearths blazing to life. The house has been quieter.

Maybe it means she’s calming. Maybe it means she’s fading.

I don’t know which terrifies me more.

Violet lunges again, her blade a flash, her jaw tight with focus. I block, twist, force her back a step. The impact reverberates up my arm.

We pause, panting, neither of us willing to lower our weapons just yet.

Her eyes catch mine. Sharp. Fierce. But tired. So tired.

“You’re thinking about her,” she says. Not a question.

“Always,” I admit, my voice rougher than I want.

She nods once, the smallest flicker of understanding passing between us. “Me too.”

For a moment, we stand there in the circle, blades still poised, grief laid bare between us like another opponent.

And I swear, I almost hear Len’s laugh—low, wicked, unhinged—like she’s watching, mocking us for being so damn serious.

But there’s nothing. Only silence.

I grit my teeth, lower my blade. “Two days,” I mutter. “Then we see Courtlyn. Then Unnbriel. Then Hedotis.”

Vi nods, sliding her sword back into its sheath. “We’ll find answers.”

She says it like a vow. Like a command.

I try to believe it.

Because until we know for sure—until I see with my own eyes that Len has either found peace or a way back—I’m not giving up.

Not on her.

Not ever.

I drag a hand down my face, sweat stinging my eyes. “She wanted this months ago. Courtlyn. The alliances. The eggs. She had it all mapped out, and we’re just—” My throat tightens. “We’re just late.”

Violet sheathes her sword with a sharp click. She doesn’t snap back, doesn’t lecture. She just leans against the wall, her braid sticking damp to her neck. “Maybe. But we also needed to grieve, Bodhi. You. Me. All of us. You would’ve walked into Courtlyn’s hall half-dead and useless if you’d gone straight after Draithus.”

I scowl, pacing the length of the sparring circle. “Len wouldn’t have cared about grieving.”

“She wouldn’t have cared,” Violet agrees quietly. “But she would’ve understood. Gods, Bodhi—she made you promise to keep fighting, right? Not to throw yourself on the pyre with her. So maybe this—” She gestures between us, the gym, the bruises on her knuckles. “—was necessary. Maybe this was us keeping that promise.”

I hate that she’s right. Hate it more because I can almost hear Len laughing at me, taunting me for being such a melodramatic shit.

Violet softens, her voice dipping lower. “Besides… Courtlyn loved her. Still does. He wasn’t offended when I wrote to him, explaining the delay. He said the eggs could wait—that grief couldn’t. So don’t go in there thinking you failed her. Not yet.”

I slump against the wall beside her, wiping my brow with the edge of my sleeve. “I’m still not excited about two weeks on the road with Aaric bloody Tauri.”

That earns me the faintest twitch of a smile from her. “He’s one of us now.”

“He’s still a Tauri.”

“Fair.” She nudges my arm with her shoulder. “But look at it this way—you’ll get to see Kat. And Kingston. And Elara.”

The knot in my chest loosens a fraction at that. “Elara.”

Violet nods. “She’s in Deverelli with Kat. Safe. Waiting. Maybe… maybe this trip is more than just Courtlyn and his armies. Maybe it’s a reminder that not everything we love was taken from us.”

I glance down at my hands, callused and raw. A reminder of every fight I’ve survived. Every one they didn’t.

And still, she’s right.

I sigh, pushing myself upright. “Fine. But if Aaric so much as breathes wrong, I’m shoving him into the sea on the way to Hedotis.”

Violet smirks faintly, though her eyes are still tired. “I’ll allow it.”

For the first time in weeks, something almost like a grin tugs at my mouth.

Almost.

XADEN

Three months.

Three months since Draithus burned, since Len and Garrick went down with it. Since everything I thought was unshakable cracked and bled.

And yet.

I swear she’s still here.

Shadows twitch around the fortress, restless as my own mind. Elias is passed out drunk on the couch again, an empty bottle dangling from his hand. His snores rattle the rafters, low and miserable, the sound of a man too broken to care if he ever wakes up.

But me?

I notice.

The crinkle in the rug that wasn’t there before suddenly catching my boot. The ink bottle tipping when I haven’t touched it. The hearth sparking to life in the middle of the night, flames burning a little too dark, a little too sharp.

It’s her. It has to be.

So tonight—while the only sound is Elias’ drunken snore and the restless shift of Sygael’s wings outside—I just… start talking.

The words scrape out of me rough, low. “If you’re here, Len, I know you’re laughing at me. I can almost hear it. That smug little cackle you always had when you thought you were cleverer than me.”

I drag a hand through my hair, shadows twitching restlessly around me. “And maybe you were. Most of the time, you probably were.”

Silence.

I lean forward, elbows on my knees, staring at the floorboards. “I don’t know what to do without you. Or Garrick. You two were… you were everything. The fire and the anchor. Chaos and calm. And me? I’m just—” My throat closes. “I’m just lost.”

The shadows curl tighter. My chest aches like it’s splintering.

“I miss Vi.” The words fall like a confession. “Gods, I miss her so much it fucking hurts. And Bodhi, too. Even his whining. The way he could always pull you back from the edge. They’re suffering, I know they are, and I’m here. Doing nothing. Because I can’t.”

I glance toward Elias, his bottle slipping from his limp hand, spilling across the stone floor. His face is slack, hollow, broken.

“And him…” My voice cracks. “Gods, Len, I don’t know how to help him. He’s gone. Half-dead already. And every time I try to pull him back, he pushes further away. I’m watching him rot in front of me, and I can’t—”

The words die in my throat. My hands curl into fists, shadows clawing at the walls.

I force myself to breathe. Slow. Measured. Because if I don’t, I’ll shatter.

“I don’t know what the fuck to do,” I whisper. “Not without you.”

The silence stretches. No laughter. No snide remark. No unhinged commentary to break the heaviness pressing me into this chair.

But I keep talking anyway.

Because even if she can’t hear me, even if I’m losing my mind, it helps.

It makes me feel like she’s still here.

Like I’m not completely alone.

MYRNIN

The Veil hums like a wound that never closes.

Endless grey stretches in all directions, folding and unfurling like smoke, like the fabric of time itself. It whispers with voices I’ve known for centuries—souls passing, fading, moving on.

But tonight, I am not here to listen.

Tonight, my brother waits.

Malek stands in the half-light, his sharp profile carved by shadows that shouldn’t exist in this place. Death clings to him, always has, but here in the Veil it seems heavier. Older. His eyes glint when I approach, twin pits of black flame.

“You’re late,” he says. Always so precise. Always so measured.

“You’re always impatient,” I return, because I won’t give him silence. Silence is surrender, and I don’t surrender to my little brother.

He exhales, long and fraying at the edges. “Tell me.”

So I do.

“She should be whole by now,” I admit. The words taste bitter. I hate being forced to speak them aloud. “Two months, perhaps three, for a soul fractured so violently. But she’s… lingering. Her spirit grows louder instead of fading. I can feel her. Angry. Restless. Pulling threads she shouldn’t be able to touch.”

Malek’s jaw tightens. “I can’t sense her. Not here.”

“No,” I agree. “But she’s there. Between. Her power’s growing—too much for what she is. Too much for what she should be. If she keeps pushing, the Balance will notice. And the Balance does not forgive. It will see her as a threat and tear her apart.”

The words hang, heavy as execution.

Malek doesn’t flinch. He just stares past me, into the endless smoke. “Then why hasn’t she healed? Why hasn’t she let herself return?”

I pause. I hate the truth, but I know it. I’ve always known.

“She’s stubborn.”

A humorless laugh flickers from Malek. “That much we share.”

“She doesn’t listen,” I continue, sharper now. “Always clawing at paths that weren’t hers, refusing what was laid in front of her. But this… this isn’t rebellion. It’s something else.”

Malek tilts his head. “You think you know.”

“I do.”

The smoke shifts. A thousand voices whisper. I ignore them.

“She isn’t ready to let go,” I say. “Not of her friends. Not of her family. Their grief anchors her. Their sorrow holds her like chains. She feels their pain and chooses to linger where it burns.”

“Foolish,” Malek mutters.

“Human,” I correct.

He studies me for a long moment, the weight of his silence sharp. Then—softly, almost reluctantly—“And you think that’s all it is?”

“No.” My mouth twists, bitter with knowledge. “Part of her spirit clings not because of grief, but because of choice. She knows that when she returns, when she takes her place in the world again… only Garrick can know the truth. Only he can share that burden. To everyone else—”

I swallow, forcing the words out. “—to everyone else, they are already dead. Draithus was their ending. If she comes back, it will be in secret. Their sacrifices must remain absolute. Their family must go on grieving.”

Malek’s gaze sharpens, a blade through fog. “So she stays. She lingers. Because here, she can still be with them.”

“Yes,” I breathe. My fists curl. “Because she is Eleanor Riorson-Tavis. And she will not stop fighting, even when the war isn’t hers to fight anymore.”

The Veil shudders.

KATHERINE

The palace of Deverelli looks like it’s been half-eaten by ivy.

Vines curl around stone towers, blossoms dripping from windowsills, leaves climbing the walls like they’re trying to swallow the place whole. For all its grandeur, the palace feels less like a kingdom’s heart and more like a manor gone feral. Somehow, I know Lenny loved it.

Kingston and I are led through high-arched corridors that smell faintly of honey and smoke, until the doors of the great hall swing wide.

And there he is.

King Courtlyn of the Southern Isles.

Mad King Courtlyn, as the whispers call him.

Only he doesn’t look mad. Not at first.

I freeze in the doorway, heart pounding like it always does now. Elara is with the nursemaid, safe—or so I tell myself, over and over. But stepping into a new hall, a new court, still feels like stepping into a trap.

Kingston nudges me gently, a quiet strength in his hand on my back. I force myself forward.

Courtlyn gestures to the seats opposite him. “Sit. Eat. It is not every day the Shadewing’s family graces my halls.”

The word twists in my chest. Shadewing. Len’s dragon. Len’s legacy. I swallow hard and sit, though my appetite is long gone.

We exchange pleasantries at first—the weather, the journey, the wine. I murmur answers, too quiet, my throat always raw now from holding back words I can’t say.

Then Courtlyn leans forward, his gaze heavy, steady. “I wish to offer you my deepest condolences.”

The words hit harder than they should.

“For Eleanor,” he says softly. “And for Garrick. Two of the finest warriors history will ever remember. It is a rare thing, Katherine, to live at the same time as legends. It is rarer still to call them kin.”

The ache rises so sharp I nearly choke on it. Legends. Heroes. But not family—not daughter, not son-in-law. Not the fire-haired girl who bit anyone who insulted her cousin. Not the man who steadied her storms. Just names in a ledger now, burned into history.

But Courtlyn’s eyes… gods, they don’t mock. They don’t gloat, like Tauri’s would have. They’re saddened. Genuinely saddened.

“I knew her,” he continues. “Not as well as you, but enough to see the truth. She was chaos given form, and yet—” his mouth twitches, almost a smile—“she carried the weight of this world like no one else could. And Garrick… gods, the way he looked at her. The way he stood by her. I would have trusted him with my crown, had he asked it of me.”

My breath shakes. Kingston’s hand finds mine under the table, a silent tether.

Courtlyn exhales, slow, deliberate. “You are safe here. Both of you. And your daughter most of all. Elara will always be protected in Deverelli, so long as I draw breath. Eleanor’s friends are friends of mine, and her family will never want for shelter or safety.”

For the first time in months, the weight on my chest shifts. Not gone. Never gone. But lighter.

Maybe Eleanor really did trust him, strange and unhinged as she was. Maybe her madness had a kind of sense to it after all.

Because sitting here, in the court of a so-called mad king, I feel safer than I ever did in Navarre’s halls.

And gods help me—I almost believe him.

Courtlyn doesn’t reach for the food. He folds his hands on the table, his rings catching the light, and studies me like he’s weighing what to say.

“You look surprised,” he murmurs.

“I…” My voice falters. I steady it. “I didn’t know you and Eleanor were close.”

He laughs—low, sharp, not unkind but edged with amusement. “Close? Gods, no. She was far too dangerous to be close with. But we understood one another. Two monarchs trapped in cages of expectation, always playing games against the world.”

He leans back, eyes glinting. “We wrote often. Letters smuggled through half a dozen hands before they reached us. She traded me secrets—poison dripping straight from Navarre’s veins. The Tauri’s whispered schemes, their betrayals, their endless lust for power. She always knew exactly where to stab to make them bleed.”

I blink at him, stunned. Eleanor, writing to him as a friend? I’d known she collected allies like stones in her pockets, but this…

“And in return,” Courtlyn says with a shrug, “I sent her gifts. Books she could never have gotten her hands on otherwise. Records your Council banned centuries ago. Maps of the old Orlythian cave routes. Sometimes just nonsense to make her laugh. She liked nonsense.”

His mouth twists then, soft with memory. “Once, she demanded I send her a recipe for Deverelli wine cakes. Claimed she needed to bribe Garrick into forgiving her for—what was it? Ah yes. Snapping his favourite blade.”

Despite myself, a sound breaks out of me. A laugh. A thin, wet thing, but real. Courtlyn’s eyes narrow in satisfaction, like he’s won a small victory.

But then his gaze sharpens. “Do you know why I agreed to her requests, Katherine? Why I indulged her chaos when everyone else called her a monster to be put down?”

I shake my head.

“Because she thought beyond herself.”

He pushes his goblet aside and gestures toward me. Toward Kingston. “Months ago, she asked me for something bigger than books. A house. To be built here, in Deverelli. She insisted it be prepared quietly, without fanfare, without record. ‘For my family,’ she wrote. ‘Because I will never stop making enemies, and someday they’ll need a place untouched by fire.’”

My chest constricts.

Courtlyn inclines his head, voice lowering. “That sanctuary was her gift to you. Long before Draithus. Long before she fell. She wanted to know that if her world burned, yours would still stand.”

The tears come hot and sudden. I press my hand to my mouth, but it doesn’t stop them.

Lenny. Always scheming, always fighting, always preparing for a war none of us could see until it swallowed us whole. And still—still—thinking of us.

“She was mad,” Courtlyn says softly, almost fondly. “Mad as the rest of us. But hers was a brilliance born of love. And that is rarer than any crown.”

Kingston squeezes my hand under the table. I can’t breathe.

Because godsdamn her. Even in death, Eleanor is still saving me.

Courtlyn waits until the goblets are refilled and the servants are gone before he speaks again, his tone shifting—less nostalgic, more deliberate.

“You wonder why I invited you here.” He doesn’t phrase it as a question. His eyes glint, pale as cut steel. “I could have sent word. But I wanted you to hear this from me, not from whispers.”

My spine stiffens. Kingston sets his goblet down with care, his knuckles pale around the stem.

Courtlyn steeples his fingers. “A letter arrived from Duchess Riorson. She requests that I receive Prince Aaric of Navarre and Bodhi Durran of Tyrrendor. They wish to speak with me regarding a potential trade.”

My throat tightens. Violet. Bodhi. Aaric. Their names are knives, each one cutting deeper because they are still alive, still fighting, while I cower away here.

I say nothing. The silence stretches.

Courtlyn’s mouth twitches, as if he already knows my thoughts. “They believe I am unaware of what they carry. But Eleanor told me months ago.” His voice softens on her name, and for an instant, he almost looks amused. “They are bringing dragon eggs.”

I freeze. The world tilts. I can’t feel my fingers, can’t catch my breath.

Beside me, Kingston goes rigid. His eyes cut to mine, wide, terrified. “Eggs?” His voice is a rasp.

Courtlyn leans back, laughing low in his throat. “Yes. Can you imagine? Even in death, she continues her chaos. I told you—mad as the day is long. Who but Eleanor would smuggle dragon eggs like dice in a gambler’s cup?”

My heart pounds so violently I think it might burst from my chest. Dragon eggs. Gods. Even gone, she’s still weaving her threads, still playing the game no one else sees.

Courtlyn’s eyes glimmer with something dangerous, something almost reverent. “They will arrive within days. And though Eleanor originally planned for them to find accommodations with you, I will not force such a burden upon a grieving widow. If you would prefer them hosted elsewhere, say the word.”

My lips part. The instinct to say no—to protect Elara, to shield myself from more ghosts of Eleanor’s making—rises hot in my throat.

But then I see her. Len, in memory. Smirking. Scheming. Sharp green eyes daring me not to follow through.

I breathe out. “No,” I whisper. Then stronger, steadier: “No, it’s not a problem. They can stay with me.”

Courtlyn grins, teeth flashing. “Very well.” His voice is rich with satisfaction, as though this answer pleases him more than I understand. “I am glad to hear it.”

And as the torches flicker, and the feast cools untouched before me, I realise something sickeningly true—

Eleanor may be dead, but I am still living in her plans.

Courtlyn leans back in his chair, swirling the wine in his goblet though he hasn’t touched a drop all meal. “Deverelli is not Navarre,” he says smoothly, voice like velvet draped over steel. “We do not chain ourselves to politics alone. We live. We thrive. We celebrate. And I think perhaps you both have forgotten how.”

Kingston shifts, his jaw tightening, but Courtlyn waves a hand before he can protest.

“Your husband’s best friend, I know, finds comfort in the town—its markets, its taverns, its song. But you, Lady Ryder…” His sharp gaze lands on me, unwavering. “You have not. You’ve shut yourself away, as though Deverelli were a prison instead of a gift.”

The words sting, but there is no malice in them. Only a strange sort of honesty.

“If you feel up for it,” he continues, sliding a folded parchment across the table, “I have a list of recommendations. Places I think you and your family would enjoy. Beaches where the sand is soft and the waves safe. Markets rich with colour and music. Taverns that spill with laughter.” His mouth quirks. “And here, in the palace, our gardens are open to you at all times. We house rare butterflies that only survive in this climate. I believe your daughter would find them… enchanting.”

Elara.

The name is a knife, but the thought of her chubby hands reaching for wings of brilliant blue, her giggles echoing under the sun… it pulls a smile from me before I can stop it. Small. Fragile. But real.

“Yes,” I hear myself say, softer than I meant to. “She would like that.”

Courtlyn’s grin widens, sharp but oddly genuine. “Then it’s settled. You and your child will not be prisoners here. Not in my court. Deverelli will keep you alive.”

Alive. The word weighs heavy.

But before I can dwell on it, Courtlyn sets his goblet down with a definitive clink. His smile fades into something more serious.

“There is one more matter we must discuss,” he says. His tone has shifted—no longer charming, no longer coaxing. Now it’s business.

I go still. Kingston sits straighter beside me, his hand brushing mine under the table like he’s readying himself for whatever comes next.

Courtlyn’s gaze sharpens, and suddenly, it feels like the room itself leans in to listen.

The clap echoes like thunder, and the great doors swing wide.

Three shadows glide into the chamber—silent, sinuous, predatory. My breath catches as the torchlight reveals them fully: panthers, each one larger than a warhorse, their coats pure white and gleaming like snow beneath the sun. Their eyes glimmer with a faint, unnatural light—icy, intelligent, assessing.

Shira. Shena. Shora.

I’ve heard the stories. Deverelli’s legends. Courtlyn’s companions. But stories hadn’t done them justice. They are living myths, walking muscle and grace, and for the first time since Elias left me, I forget my grief long enough to feel awe.

“They’re incredible,” I whisper, the words torn from me before I can stop them.

Courtlyn beams like I’ve paid him the highest compliment in the world. He stands, moving with a flourish, one jeweled hand sweeping toward the panthers as they prowl to his side.

“My children. My guards. My truest friends. Shira,” he says, resting his hand on the broad head of the first, “the fiercest.” The panther’s eyes narrow, teeth flashing as though to prove it.

“Shena,” he gestures to the second, who presses her sleek body against his leg like a spoiled cat. “The cleverest.”

“And Shora,” he lowers his voice almost reverently, palm brushing the last panther’s flank, “the most loyal. Each one born of the same bloodline, bound to me not by chains but by devotion.”

Kingston’s hand tightens slightly on the table. He looks concerned—like a man seeing weapons instead of companions. But me? I can’t stop staring. The elegance. The danger. The sheer majesty of them.

Courtlyn watches, amused. “Eleanor was infatuated with them the moment she laid eyes on them. Begged me, in fact, to gift her one for her birthday. She wanted to name it Fluffy.”

The absurdity of it cuts through the weight in my chest, a startled laugh slipping out of me. Gods, of course she would.

Courtlyn chuckles, shaking his head. “I admired that about her. How she took monsters and claimed them as her own. That parasite. That white fox. Always writing to me about them as if they were her children.”

The ache in my throat sharpens, but I find myself smiling, softly, despite it. “Noodle was… the smartest creature I’ve ever met. Sharp. Dangerous. But he adored her. And Chompy—” I huff a laugh, shaking my head. “Chompy wasn’t clever, not really. But gods, he was loyal. Always at their sides, ready to spit acid at anyone who came too close.”

Courtlyn listens intently, his expression softer than I expected.

“And the bones,” I add, unable to stop the memory from spilling out. “They both loved them. Chompy liked to eat them, but Noodle…” My lips twitch. “Noodle had this shrine. Under their bed. At Basgiath. In Aretia. Wherever they went, really. He’d gather bones—spines, skulls, ribs—and hoard them like treasure. He was so proud of it.”

I laugh, the sound watery, breaking. “It freaked everyone else out, but he’d always drag his newest find out, showing it off like it was some grand prize. Garrick was horrified. Len thought it was beautiful.”

For a heartbeat, the chamber feels less like a throne room and more like a memory. The weight eases, just slightly.

Courtlyn leans back, studying me with a look I can’t quite read. Admiration? Sympathy? Something darker, perhaps.

“She would be glad,” he says finally, “to know you remember them with fondness. That even now, her monsters live on through your words.”

I glance at the panthers again, Shira’s gaze still fixed on me, and wonder if Len ever would have truly gotten her way. If she had lived long enough for Courtlyn to hand her a beast as terrifying and beautiful as these.

Of course she would have. She always got her way, eventually.

Courtlyn’s smile is sharp, secretive, as he claps again. Another guard enters the chamber, and this time my breath catches hard in my throat.

Padding beside him is a cub.

Except even as a cub, she’s huge—already hip-height to Kingston. Her coat glimmers pure white, faintly silver at the tips, eyes too intelligent to belong to anything that should still be called a baby.

Fluffy.

I don’t know how I know, but I know.

Courtlyn gestures with a flourish, pride all but dripping from him. “I spent months searching for a panther of this bloodline for Eleanor. She was relentless in her demands. Finally, I managed it. She never lived long enough to see the result. But—” He pauses, something like respect softening his tone. “She thought ahead.”

From the folds of his robe, he pulls out a sealed letter. The wax is smudged, the paper creased as though it’s been handled too many times already.

Kingston stiffens, eyes narrowing. “What’s that?”

Courtlyn lays it carefully on the table between us. “A letter. It arrived here days after Draithus. Addressed to your daughter.”

My fingers tremble as I reach for it. Kingston swears softly under his breath, his hand hovering like he’s afraid the parchment might burn me.

But I break the seal anyway.

The ink blurs as my eyes fill with tears.

Elara,

Hi, Trouble. It’s your Aunt Lenny.

If you’re holding this, it means I didn’t make it out of Draithus. Gods, I hate writing those words. It wasn’t the plan—I had a hundred of those, and none of them ended like this—but fate’s a bastard, and sometimes it wins. So, I’m gone. And it means I won’t get to watch you grow up and teach you how to bite people properly or slip you churam when your mum’s not looking. And for that… I am so sorry.

Sorry I won’t be there to watch you grow up. Sorry I won’t get to see you take your first steps, or lose your first tooth, or laugh that wicked little laugh I know you’re going to have. Sorry I won’t get to terrify your first boyfriend—though, fair warning, your dad is going to murder him anyway, so maybe give him a decoy boyfriend first just to keep things interesting.

I wanted to be there for all of it. To be your terrible influence. To teach you the bad words, to tell you stories about monsters and dragons and gods until your parents begged me to shut up. I wanted to be there to love you, fiercely and loudly, the way only I could. And I hate that I’m not.

But if there’s one thing you should know about me, Trouble, it’s that I don’t give up easily. Even death won’t stop me from keeping a promise.

So—I left you something.

I begged King Courtlyn of Deverelli for months to find me a panther cub. He thought I was insane (he wasn’t wrong), but he did it. And since I’m not around to add her to my collection of monsters, I want you to have her instead.

Her name is Fluffy.

Yes, really.

She’s yours now. She’ll be soft with you, gentle with your family, but gods help anyone who ever tries to hurt you. You’ll see soon enough. She’s not just a gift, Elara—she’s family. Your protector. Your partner in crime. The same way Noodle and Chompy were mine.

So take care of her. Love her. Raise her to be as loyal and terrifying as the rest of us.

And whenever you look at her, I hope you remember this: even if I’m not there, I’m always with you. Always watching. Always proud. Always yours.

Now—promise me one thing. Cause a little trouble for me, will you? Our family needs it. They’ve already learned all my tricks, so it’s up to you to come up with new ones. Make them laugh. Keep them on their toes. Remind them that chaos is still alive in this family.

I love you, Trouble. More than you’ll ever know.

Always.

Aunt Len x

I sit there frozen, the letter trembling in my hands, blotched with my tears. The words blur and blur again, and I can’t catch my breath.

A panther cub nudges the table, her ice-pale eyes fixing on me like she already knows who I am. Who Elara is.

“This…” My voice cracks, thin and brittle. “This is madness.”

Of course it is. Which means it’s perfectly Eleanor.

Courtlyn folds his hands, perfectly serene, as though presenting a gift basket rather than a predator large enough to crush bone in its jaws. “When the letter arrived, it was not alone. She left instructions. Should I locate a cub from this bloodline, it was to be delivered not to Orlyth, not to Aretia, but here. To Deverelli. To you, Lady Ryder. To your daughter.”

My breath hitches. “You mean—”

He smiles, indulgent. “She is yours. Elara’s. The cub has been trained. She will not harm you or those you name family. She is yours to keep.”

Kingston swears, loud enough to echo through the hall. “Of fucking course.”

I look at him through my haze of tears.

He throws his hands in the air, pacing. “Of course Len would gift a four-month-old baby a panther! Not a blanket, not a doll, not a soft toy—an apex predator with fangs the size of my hand. Saints save me, Kat.”

A laugh bursts out of me, jagged and wet. It hurts, but gods, it feels good too. “She never could do anything simple.”

“No,” Kingston mutters darkly, rubbing his face. “And now I have to explain to Elias—when he ever comes back—that his baby girl’s first pet isn’t a cat or a bird, but a bloody monster.”

The cub huffs, offended, then pads closer. She nudges my knee with her massive head, warm breath brushing my hand. Instinctively, I lower it, fingers trembling as they sink into her thick fur.

She purrs. A deep, rumbling sound that shakes the floor.

For the first time in months, something eases in my chest.

“She’s perfect,” I whisper.

Kingston groans like he already knows he’s lost.

And I know if she’s watching us right now? Lenny’s having the time of her life.

ELEANOR

I’ve been sulking for two days. Two. Entire. Days.

Do you know how hard it is for a ghost to sulk properly? No stomping around, no door slamming (well, not unless I want to drain half my power reserves), no dramatically slamming wine bottles against the wall. Just… glaring. Glowering. Radiating pure wife-rage at Garrick until he caves.

And oh, he feels it. He knows.

Because yesterday morning, while he was being his patient, gentle self, spoon-feeding my husk, the little bitch suddenly leaned in, lips parted, eyes fluttering, and started grinding on him like a bitch in heat.

I lost my shit.

Chairs rattled. Cutlery flew. I tried to stab her with every sharp object in the room—forks, daggers, the godsdamned fire poker—and Garrick had to wrestle me back like I was a feral cat.

“Len,” he’d hissed, swatting away flying knives while holding the husk steady. “Stop it! You’re going to kill yourself—again!”

Excuse me? Kill myself? No. I was trying to kill her. Which, yes, I know is technically also me, but that’s beside the point.

Because here’s the thing: that wasn’t me. That was some babbling, lovesick, brain-melted version of me who thinks batting her eyelashes and grinding on my husband will fix anything. I would never. (I mean, I would. Obviously. But not like that. Not without style.)

So now? I’m on strike. Silent treatment.

Every time Garrick looks my way, I flare the fire just enough to let him know I’m still furious. Not enough to talk. Just enough to burn.

He sighs every time. “Len. For fuck’s sake.”

I don’t answer.

Noodle thinks it’s hilarious. He chitters from his perch, his little serpent head bobbing like he’s laughing his scales off. Every time Garrick sighs, Noodle coils tighter around his shoulders and chitters louder.

Traitor.

Garrick, of course, doesn’t find it funny. He mutters under his breath while changing Husk’s clothes, telling me I’m overreacting. Overreacting? Please. If anything, I’m underreacting. She kissed my husband. My husband.

So I glare harder. Even as a ghost, I know he can feel it.

Because Garrick will be in the middle of brushing Husk’s hair, muttering to himself about patience and progress, and then he’ll suddenly pause, glance over his shoulder like the back of his neck prickled, and sigh.

“Stop glaring at me, Lenny,” he mutters, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I can feel it.”

Good.

Let him suffer.

So here we are. Morning.

The husk is perched in the armchair, sketching demons with charcoal smudges all over her hands and muttering about the serpent like she’s got the inside scoop on the apocalypse. Her hair’s a mess, her eyes are glazed, and she keeps stopping mid-scribble to hum tunelessly like a deranged bard.

Garrick’s at the table, nose buried in some dusty book on talladium, muttering notes under his breath. He’s got that crease between his brows, the one that means he’s been up all night again.

And Noodle? My sweet little monster son? He’s just clattering around with his bone hoard, dragging what looks like a femur across the floorboards like it’s his personal violin bow. He pauses every few seconds to hiss proudly at Garrick, who doesn’t even look up.

I float in the corner, arms crossed, sulking.

Because this is my life now. Watching her—that hollow husk—get all the attention. Watching Garrick tuck her blanket tighter, remind her to drink water, murmur soft words like she’ll even remember them.

It should be me. It is me.

I glare daggers at Husk, who’s now scrawling a very bad sketch of what I think is supposed to be Noodle, but looks more like a drunk worm. She grins down at it like it’s a masterpiece. Garrick leans over her shoulder and murmurs, “That’s very good, love.”

Very good? VERY GOOD? That’s the ugliest fucking Noodle I’ve ever seen in my life.

I swear, if ghosts could vomit, I would.

So I do what I do best. I pout. Harder. The fire flickers low, just enough to let Garrick know I’m in a Mood™. He glances up, sighs, and mutters, “Don’t start, Len.”

Excuse me? Don’t start? Don’t start?!

I blow the fire up so high the whole hearth roars like a dragon’s maw.

Noodle chitters gleefully, tossing his femur in the air like he’s cheering me on. Garrick pinches the bridge of his nose. Husk just keeps humming, oblivious, shading her worm-Noodle like the world’s ending tomorrow.

I slump dramatically into the corner. Because clearly, no one here respects me. Not my husband. Not my noodle-son. And certainly not that blank-eyed imposter wearing my face.

It’s fine. Totally fine. I’ll just keep glaring until Garrick caves. He always does.

Noodle pauses mid-bone drag. Then, like the beautiful little monster son he is, he swivels his serpent head toward Husk, bares his fangs, and hisses. Loud.

“Good boy,” I purr. “You get it.”

Husk blinks at him, confused, before turning her worm-Noodle sketch upside down and giggling like she’s cracked some ancient code. Garrick rubs his temples.

“Noodle,” he says tightly, “don’t start.”

But Noodle does start. He coils up onto the arm of Husk’s chair, glaring at her with all the disdain of a spurned child, and then rattles his fangs like a maraca. She gasps, claps, and says, “Serpent sings.”

I cackle so loud the fire spits sparks.

Garrick stares between Husk and Noodle, his expression caught somewhere between horror and exasperation. He sighs so deep I think he’s trying to bury himself alive with it.

“Of course,” he mutters. “Of course Noodle takes your side. Why wouldn’t he? Gods forbid I get one sane day in this house.”

Noodle chitters proudly, tail thumping the chair like a drum.

And me? I’m smug as hell. Because sure, I might be dead, fractured, jealous, and invisible—but at least my bastard son knows who the real Eleanor Riorson-Tavis is.

Not Husk.
Me.

Noodle hisses again—long, sharp, venom-dripping.

And that bitch lunges.
Husk’s hands wrap around him, clumsy but tight, like she means to crush him.

“DON’T YOU FUCKING TOUCH MY SON!” I shriek, hurling every ounce of ghost-fire I’ve got. The hearth explodes black-violet, rattling the walls.

Noodle thrashes, screeching like a banshee, while Garrick barrels forward.
“Lenny—stop! Both of you, STOP!”

“I’LL KILL HER!” I roar, flinging a candlestick so hard it embeds in the wall an inch from Husk’s head.

Husk screams and babbles, clutching tighter. Noodle snaps his fangs so close to her throat it makes Garrick curse loud enough to wake the gods.

He’s yelling at her, yelling at me, wrestling Noodle free.

“Lenny, ENOUGH!” His voice cracks. “You’re the same fucking person!”

“NO WE ARE NOT!” I bellow, shaking the whole damned room.

I’m screaming myself hoarse, invisible and useless, as Husk bares her teeth at my child. My beautiful, murderous, bone-hoarding boy.

And then—

“Am I interrupting?”

The voice is lazy, amused, too damn calm.

Myrnin.

He’s leaning in the doorway, arms folded, smirk cutting his face like he’s watching the world’s best play.

All of us freeze.

Noodle coils by the bed, fangs dripping. Husk hums about shadows bleeding from her fingers. Garrick’s standing there wild-eyed, his hair sticking up like he’s been struck by lightning, still holding onto his wife—his other wife.

And me? Floating, incandescent with rage, candlestick hovering in midair.

Myrnin tilts his head, grin widening.

“Well,” he drawls, “isn’t this a charming little family squabble?”

The fight fizzles out like smoke. Garrick’s still panting, clutching Husk against his chest like she’s fragile glass instead of a babbling disaster. Noodle’s coiled in the corner, sulking, his fangs still bared just enough to remind everyone he’s ready to throw hands—fangs?—again.

And Myrnin, the absolute bastard, strolls into the room as if we haven’t just redecorated with violence. He surveys the mess—splintered chair, scorch marks, wax dripping down the wall—and then sits himself in Garrick’s armchair like it belongs to him.

“We need to talk,” he says. His eyes flick to Garrick, then past him, straight to the fire. To me. “Specifically, you, Eleanor.”

I roll my eyes so hard the flames ripple. “Oh, brilliant. The god of fate wants a chat. Should I fetch tea? Maybe the Husk can babble her way through a few biscuits while she’s at it.”

Myrnin smirks. Of course he does. He can’t hear me—but somehow he knows. He always knows.

“You’ve made your presence very clear these past weeks,” he continues, steepling his fingers like this is all part of some grand game. “But there’s a difference between rattling windows and living. And you’re running out of time to choose which you want to be.”

My fists clench, useless, invisible. “Don’t lecture me. I didn’t choose to be stuck like this.”

The fire spits high—black-violet sparks—and Garrick flinches. He’s watching the flames like his life depends on it. “She’s here,” he mutters under his breath, almost to himself. “She’s listening.”

Myrnin leans back, smug as sin. “Good. Then listen well, little Viper. Because haunting your family is one thing. But haunting fate itself?” His smile sharpens. “That is another matter entirely.”

Myrnin’s smirk fades into something sharper. Crueler. The kind of truth you don’t want to hear but he lives to deliver.

“The Balance is noticing you,” he says, his tone suddenly weighty, stripped of his usual theatrics. “You keep rattling doors and lighting fires and throwing candlesticks like some deranged poltergeist, and it’s only a matter of time before the Balance decides you’re not a fractured soul anymore.” His eyes glint. “It’ll decide you’re a threat.”

The hearth roars higher at his words, but the tremor in my chest betrays me. A threat?

He leans forward in Garrick’s armchair, shadows pooling around him like a throne. “Do you know what happens then, Eleanor? You don’t drift. You don’t heal. You don’t return to your body.” He taps his temple, slow and deliberate. “The Balance will tear you apart. You’ll scatter into nothing. No soul. No After. No returning to Garrick. Just—oblivion.”

My throat goes dry. I want to scream at him that I’m not scared, but my hands shake even though I don’t have hands anymore.

Myrnin tilts his head, studying the fireplace. “I know where you’ve been. You think you’re subtle, but you never were.” His lip curls in amusement. “It’s almost sweet, the way you’ve been making your rounds. A little ghostly mother hen.”

I want to snap that he’s wrong—but the fire flickers guilty.

“You’re delaying your own healing,” he says flatly. “Because you don’t want to leave them grieving you. You’re fighting it. You think if you linger, if you keep interfering, you can ease their pain.”

I slam the poker off the wall, rattling it to the floor. “Because I can! I can help them!”

His gaze sharpens, voice cutting like a blade. “Eleanor. You’re killing yourself. Piece by piece. Every time you pull yourself further from your body, you make it harder to return. You’re not their savior in this state. You’re your own executioner.”

The words slice deeper than any weapon ever could.

GARRICK

Myrnin’s words hang in the room like poison. Then you’ll never come back.

The fire pops. My gaze locks on it. On her.

“Len,” I whisper, my voice low so it doesn’t shake. “Baby, listen to me.”

The hearth flares once. Not big. Just enough. I know she’s there. I feel her.

I shift the Husk carefully onto the pillows, brushing the damp hair from her face before moving to the fire. My knees hit the stone floor, and I rest a hand against the warm iron grate.

“I know you want to help them,” I say. “Vi. Bodhi. Kat. The whole damned lot. I know you think you have to stay with them. But Len—” My throat closes, and I force it open. “If you keep doing this, if you keep fighting fate itself, then Myrnin’s right. You won’t come back. Not ever.”

The fire crackles sharp, angry. One flare. No.

I shut my eyes. “Yes, love. You know it’s true. You’ve always been reckless, always carrying everyone else on your shoulders. But you don’t have to anymore.” My hand presses harder to the grate. “They’ve got each other. But me? I don’t. I’ve only got you.”

The flames leap twice. Yes.

I nod, blinking hard. “Then come back to me. Please. Stop burning yourself out. Stop haunting everyone else. Fight your way home.”

For a second, the fire dims. Almost goes out. My chest caves.

“Please baby, come home to me.”

Then it flares, wild, filling the hearth with a burst so bright it scorches the stone black.

I choke out a broken laugh. “That’s my girl. Always dramatic.”

Behind me, Myrnin mutters something about sentiment clouding judgment, but I don’t care. Because I know—she heard me.

ELEANOR

I stare at her.

The Husk.

The thing in the bed with my hair, my eyes, my scars. The body Garrick feeds, clothes, bathes, kisses on the temple when he thinks no one’s watching.

And I sigh.

Fuck it.

I want to go home.

Maybe Myrnin’s right. Maybe I’ve been clinging too hard, rattling doors and throwing candlesticks, refusing to move because I couldn’t stand leaving them in their grief. Vi sobbing into Xaden’s pillow. Bodhi screaming into the night. Kat rotting in her bed. I stayed because I thought if I haunted them enough, they wouldn’t feel alone.

But Garrick—He’s the one who isn’t breathing unless I’m here.

And gods, I’m tired. Tired of hovering between firelight and shadow. Tired of screaming at people who can’t hear me. Tired of being jealous of myself.

I drift closer to the Husk. She snores softly, lips parted, drooling on the pillow like a drunk soldier after war college sparring. It should be funny. It’s not.

Because that’s me.

The real me.

The only part that can live.

And if I want to go home, I have to slip back into her skin. Into the cracks of that broken soul. Into the madness.

But gods—my friends.

They’ll never know I was here. They’ll never know how I watched them splinter, how I screamed myself raw trying to keep them standing. They’ll never know the darkness I’ve waded through, the anger that chewed me apart as I watched them drown.

And maybe that’s for the best.

Because if they knew? They’d see the ghost I’ve become, not the woman they loved.

So fine. Let them think I’m dead a little longer. Let them move on. Hate me later if they want.

I look at Garrick. His head bowed in exhaustion, his hand still pressed to the scorched hearth like he can hold me there.

And my decision shatters whatever was left of my hesitation.

He needs me.

So I’ll go home.

Even if it means burying the ghost I’ve been.

Chapter Text

“When the soul is shattered or torn from the vessel of the body, it does not always drift into silence. In rare cases, fragments of the soul will manifest in animal form—‘spirit-beasts,’ as the ancients called them. These are not mere phantoms, but reflections of the soul’s truest nature. A serpent may coil where cunning and survival reign. A wolf may prowl where loyalty and rage entwine. A dragon may rise where defiance and fire were the marrow of a life. To witness such a manifestation is to glimpse the essence of a person stripped bare of pretense. For in death, as in breaking, we are what we always were: the beasts within our blood.”

- From Or’Khal Varien

GARRICK

Her nails are already red with blood—hers, mine, the bed’s. I don’t even know anymore.

I’ve got her wrists pinned to the mattress, my thighs locked around her legs as she thrashes and bucks and screams words I can’t untangle.

“The serpent—he’s coming—he’s crawling through the marrow—” Her voice tears itself apart. “Blood in the roots, fire in the veins—”

“Len, stop!” My voice cracks. Gods, I’m begging again. “Please, baby, stop. Please. Please don’t make me do this.”

Her head jerks, red hair sticking to her face with sweat. She doesn’t see me. Not really. Her eyes are wild, pupils blown so wide they look like nothing but pits. A husk. My wife and not my wife.

She spits and thrashes harder, and the sound of her bones straining under my grip makes my stomach flip. She’s so small. Too small for me to hold her like this, but if I don’t, she’ll shred herself apart. Her forearms are already torn with bloody crescents where her nails dug too deep, clawing and clawing as though she can peel the madness out of her skin.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” I whisper, pressing my forehead to hers, just to keep her from smashing it against the bedpost again. My chest heaves. My arms burn. Gods, she’s stronger than she should be. Or maybe I’m weaker than I’ve ever been.

She screams in my face, words dissolving into a guttural sound that doesn’t belong in her throat. And I swear, for a second, I see the flicker of black fire in her eyes. Voidfire. The thing that lives in her even now, taunting us both.

“Len, please.” My throat is raw. “It’s me. Garrick. Your husband. You know me. You know I’d never—”

Her teeth snap like she’s about to bite. I jerk back, heart pounding, pinning her tighter.

And godsdammit, the guilt carves deeper.

Because I’m holding her down. Because my hands are bruising her wrists, my weight is breaking her ribs, my grip is keeping her from clawing herself to death.

And all I can think is: what if this is all she ever becomes?

What if my wife never comes back?

The thought guts me, but her scream rises higher, breaking into sobs that shake her body against mine.

“Please stop,” I beg again, my tears dripping into her hair. “Please, please, I can’t—I don’t want to hurt you.”

She jerks once more, then collapses into shuddering gasps. Her eyes roll, her chest heaves. For a moment, I think she’s passed out.

And then she whispers, hoarse and broken, “Serpent’s… watching…”

My whole body stiffens.

I press her wrists down more firmly, even though she’s not fighting anymore. My heart is pounding so hard I think it might burst.

The serpent. Always the serpent.

I don’t know if it’s prophecy. Madness. Some truth clawed out of her broken soul.

All I know is this: my wife is screaming herself into pieces, and all I can do is hold her together.

Even if it kills me.

But when the screaming finally breaks into ragged gasps, when she collapses against the sheets in a tangle of sweat and blood, when I’m left kneeling over her with my heart in my throat and my wrists aching from holding her down—something worse hits me.

Silence.

Not her silence. That I’ve grown used to—the babbling, the sudden bursts of rage, the incoherent laughter, the mutters about serpents and fire.

No. The other silence.

The one that’s been here for days now.

The absence.

No fire sparks when I ask her a question. No taps on the wood when I beg her to answer. No tug on my sleeve in the middle of the night, no invisible fingers brushing my hair back, no petty, jealous tantrums rattling the hearthstones.

Just gone.

I ease her wrists back to the bed, tuck them gently under the blanket despite the blood, despite the scratches, despite everything in me screaming that she isn’t really here. Then I sit back in the chair, bones aching like I’m older than time, and stare at her.

Her. The husk.

The woman who has her face, her voice, her red hair plastered to her cheeks, her body lying so small against our bed.

But not my wife. Not really.

And gods, it feels like I’ve lost her twice.

My chest hollows out, my hands trembling as I press them to my knees. The absence presses harder. The ghost-Len—the other her—the one who used to torment me with flickering flames and jealous fits—she hasn’t been here in days.

And for the first time since Draithus, I wonder if maybe she’s gone for good.

Maybe she burned herself out. Maybe the Balance finally tore her apart like Myrnin warned. Maybe she wandered too far into the Veil and couldn’t find her way back.

Maybe my wife is really gone.

I lean forward, my elbows on my knees, and drop my head into my hands.

“I don’t know how to do this without you, Len.” My voice cracks. The room doesn’t answer. The hearth stays dark. The air stays still.

I lift my head slowly, my eyes burning, and stare at the desk across from me. Her sketches are still scattered across it—monsters, serpents, wings of fire. The scrawled madness of her fractured mind. I stare until the lines blur.

Until I feel like I’m staring into a grave.

Because gods help me… if she’s gone for real this time, if I’m only left with this husk, this half-broken shell—I don’t know if I can keep pretending.

The hollow feeling won’t leave me.

It’s in my chest, in my throat, in my bones. Like someone reached inside and carved everything out, leaving me with nothing but the echo of what used to be.

Across from me, she stares.

Not my wife. Not really. Just the husk. Eyes glassy, lips moving around some tune only she can hear. A hum, soft and mindless, like the lull of a child rocking herself to sleep. Her arms twitch against the bandages I wrapped around them earlier, stained with her own blood.

I should look away. Gods, I should stop pretending.

But I don’t.

Instead, I break.

“Len,” I whisper, voice fraying at the edges. The name feels heavy in my mouth. Like it belongs to someone I’ll never see again.

The husk tilts her head toward me, pupils blown wide, humming louder. Like she thinks I’m part of her song.

I lean forward, elbows on my knees, my hands digging into my face. “I don’t know how to do this without you. I don’t know how to keep you alive when half of you is already gone.”

She doesn’t answer.

Of course she doesn’t.

I squeeze my eyes shut, and I picture her instead. The real her. The woman I married.

I see the wicked smirk she wore like armor, the sharp green eyes that never stopped scheming, the way her red hair always seemed to catch fire in the sun. I hear her teasing me for being too serious, feel the warmth of her laugh rumbling through me when she called me hers.

Gods, I’d give anything to hear her curse at me. To watch her roll her eyes and mutter “For fuck’s sake, Garrick” under her breath. To feel her hands pulling me close, all sharp edges and fierce love.

But when I open my eyes—

She’s not here.

Just the husk. Just the broken echo.

And ghost Len—my jealous, fiery, impossible wife who kept me company with flames and taps and tantrums—she’s silent too.

The hearth stays dark. The wood stays still.

Nothing.

And for the first time in months, I feel it.

Truly, utterly alone.

ELEANOR

I wander the house like a shadow in my own grave.

The walls know me. The floors know me. I’ve paced them so often the stone should be worn through. But now, there’s no heat at my back, no pull in my fingertips, no spark in my chest.

Just weakness.

Since Myrnin’s warning, I’ve stayed here. No slipping through Riorson House’s halls, no tormenting Halden, no laughing with Vi’s tears or Bodhi’s rage. I’ve kept myself tethered. Obedient. Patient, like he told me.

And it’s killing me.

Because the more I linger, the more I fade. The taps are gone. The hearth stays cold. I can’t shove a candlestick, can’t flare a spark of voidfire, can’t even nudge Noodle’s shrine of bones.

He doesn’t see me anymore.

Not even Noodle.

Gods, that destroys me most of all. My monster son, who always knew, always felt me—his head no longer snaps up, his eyes no longer track me. He curls around Garrick’s boots instead, chittering soft comfort like I’m not even in the room.

Maybe I’m not.

Maybe I’ve already gone.

But then I look at her.

The husk.

The thing in my body that babbles in riddles and scratches her arms bloody, who smiles at Garrick with my mouth but no memory, no soul. She’s getting worse. Wilder. Every day, more violence, more confusion, more danger.

And I can’t stop her.

I can’t protect him.

So I just watch.

Watch Garrick restrain her, his face breaking with every scream. Watch him beg her to stop—beg me—even though I’m standing in the corner, unseen, unheard. Watch Myrnin scowl and soothe and leave, muttering about balance and fate.

I’m just a spectator now.

And it’s tearing me apart.

Because the weaker I get, the stronger she seems to grow.

And if this is what’s left of me—if this hollow, broken echo is all Garrick has—then maybe he’s right. Maybe I really am gone.

I hover at her shoulder, staring at the scratch of charcoal against parchment.

The husk’s hand trembles, but the lines come anyway, jagged and smudged. Again. Always the same shape.

A serpent swallowing its own tail.

An ouroboros.

I want to rip the paper apart. I want to shake her—me—and demand to know why. Why that? Why always that?

But I know.

Gods, of course I know.

The serpent. The balance. The endless cycle. Beginning and ending collapsing into each other until they’re the same thing.

And I laugh. I can’t help it. It bursts out of me, cracked and wrong, the sound rattling in the walls like a draft.

Because isn’t that just fucking hilarious?

The serpent’s daughter. The wielder of its fire. The girl who thought she could burn fate itself to ash.

Stuck.

Caught in the loop.

Not living. Not dead. No beginning. No ending. Just here. A ghost glued to her own body, watching a mirror-image of herself babble and bleed.

What a joke. What a perfect, cruel joke.

The husk mutters under her breath, charcoal scratching faster now, carving that endless circle into the page until the parchment tears. She doesn’t even notice.

I do.

I see every mark. Every repeat of the cycle.

And for the first time in my miserable afterlife, I wonder if this is it. If this is what balance decided for me.

Not a warrior. Not a queen. Not even a corpse.

Just a piece. A fragment. A soul stuck circling itself forever.

The serpent’s daughter, caught in the coil of her own fire.

And gods, isn’t that fitting.

Garrick’s voice is soft. Careful. Like he’s handling something fragile that might break all the way through if he pushes too hard.

“Come on, love,” he murmurs, crouching in front of her husk. His big hands hover near her knees, not touching, not forcing, just waiting. “Let’s go outside for a bit, yeah? The sun’s out. Nox and Chradh are waiting. They miss you.”

The husk tilts her head, eyes glassy, humming under her breath like a child lost in her own little world. Charcoal smears her fingertips, black dust caked under her nails. The page on her lap is nothing but broken circles now—ouroboros after ouroboros, teeth tearing tail.

Garrick swallows. Tries again. His voice breaks on the edges. “They miss you, Lenny. Come sit in the garden. Draw in the light instead of—this.” He gestures to the ripped pages, the endless cycle scratched into parchment like a wound that won’t heal.

And gods. Gods, it breaks me.

Because I’ve missed them too.

Nox, with his shadows and his stubborn, unyielding loyalty. Chradh, brutal and bloodthirsty, but always steady for me. My dragons. My monsters. My family.

I ache for the sound of their wings, the smell of smoke on the wind, the way their voices filled my head like thunder.

But they can’t hear me. Can’t see me.

All they have is her.

The broken, babbling, vacant thing with my hair and my eyes and my hands. The husk who hums about serpents and balance while I rot in the space between worlds.

Garrick lifts her—me—like she’s nothing but hollow bones and whispers, his arms steady though his shoulders sag with exhaustion.

“That’s it, baby. Let’s go to the garden.”

And she lets him. She always lets him.

Her limp head rests against his chest as he carries her toward the door, murmuring soft reassurances like prayers.

I turn away.

I can’t watch it. Not today.

Not the dragons pretending. Not Garrick pretending. Not this mockery of life they cling to because I’m not strong enough to come back.

So I drift toward the stairs, ready to sink into the basement shadows where Noodle toys with Aetos like a child pulling wings off flies. At least there, the noise fills the silence. At least there, I can disappear into something that isn’t grief.

But then—

Her head jerks.

The husk’s eyes snap wide, pupils blown.

Her hand lifts, trembling, and she points. Directly at me.

“Serpent,” she whispers.

I freeze.

Cold sears through me like steel shoved into my ribs.

She sees me.

Not like Garrick feels me, not like Myrnin taunts me, not like Noodle chitters to my shadow. No. The husk—my body, my broken soul in flesh—she sees me.

“Serpent…” she breathes again, louder now.

Her eyes lock onto mine, glassy and unblinking, like she’s peering through every layer of me and dragging me inside out.

“Serpent… Serpent…”

The word crumbles into babble. Into slurred fragments and shrieks. She convulses against Garrick’s chest, clawing at his shirt, devolving back into her endless spiral of nonsense.

But I can’t move.

Because for a heartbeat—just a heartbeat—she saw me.

And gods, I don’t know if that means I’m clawing my way back into her…

Or if I’m being erased.

GARRICK

The garden smells like wild thyme and ash. Always ash. It clings to us now, no matter how far from the battlefield we run.

I shift Len against my chest, her weight a cruel echo of the woman she used to be. Her head lolls against my shoulder, hair catching in the breeze, eyes glazed as she hums under her breath. Nonsense. Always nonsense.

The dragons are waiting. Chradh sprawled in the sun, claws dug deep into the soil. Nox, curled like a monument of white stone, one black eye cracked open to follow me. They miss her. Gods, they miss her.

So do I.

I lower her gently onto the blanket spread beneath the apple tree. A sketchpad lies open there, charcoal scattered beside it. Waiting. Hoping. Like me.

And on the other side of the blanket, lounging as if this is the most natural thing in the world, sits Myrnin. The God of Fate, robe sleeves rolled to the elbow, a book propped open in one elegant hand. He looks up, smirking faintly.

“I don’t need a babysitter,” I mutter, brushing hair from Len’s face.

“No,” he agrees smoothly, snapping the book shut and setting it aside. “But you need a friend.”

I bark out a short, humorless laugh. “That what you’re calling yourself now?”

He tilts his head, smile sharp but not cruel. “Call it whatever you like. But you’ve been drowning, Garrick. I thought perhaps you could use a lifeline.”

I glance at him, at the relaxed sprawl of his body, at how human he looks when he’s not glowing with power and smug prophecy. And for a second, I want to laugh again—because who the fuck would’ve thought Myrnin of all beings would show up in my garden like some kind of… drinking buddy?

But the lump in my throat stops me.

Instead, I pull Len’s sketchpad closer, guiding her limp fingers to the charcoal. She hums, head tilting, but makes no mark. My heart squeezes anyway.

“I don’t need a friend,” I rasp, though my voice betrays me. “I need my wife.”

Myrnin sighs, and for once, he doesn’t sound like a god at all. Just tired. Old. Almost kind.

“Then let me help you keep her tethered,” he says softly. “Until she’s ready to come back.”

I lower myself onto the blanket with a groan, the ache in my shoulders a constant reminder that sleep and I parted ways weeks ago. My knees brush the grass, the earth cool beneath my palms as I settle close to her. My wife. My husk. My stranger.

Her fingers drag charcoal clumsily over paper, jagged lines looping into something that might’ve once been a circle. Her lips move, sound spilling soft and broken, nonsense syllables strung together like beads on a frayed thread.

I swallow hard and watch. Because what else is there to do?

Myrnin sits across from me, long legs crossed, robe pooling like spilled ink. He watches her too, but not the way I do. Not with grief eating holes in his chest. His gaze is steady. Measured.

“She’s sketching the serpent again,” I murmur. My voice feels sandpaper-thin.

Myrnin only hums. Then his head turns, sharp as a hawk’s, to the massive shadow shifting beside us.

Nox lowers his body close to the ground, claws sinking into the dirt. The weight of him bends the air itself, black eyes narrowing as his snout presses near enough to stir Len’s hair. She doesn’t even flinch.

Chradh lingers further off, his great wings folded tight, molten eyes never leaving her. He doesn’t crouch. Doesn’t lean closer. He just… watches. Tense. Uneasy. Like every instinct in him knows what I refuse to admit: that this isn’t right. That she’s wrong.

“They miss her,” Myrnin says simply.

My throat tightens. “So do I.”

For once, he doesn’t reply with sarcasm. Instead, he tips his chin at the dragons. “Go on. Tell him.”

Nox’s great head swings toward me, his voice sliding like shadowfire through my skull. "Our viper’s mind feels stronger today."

I freeze. “Stronger?”

"Down the bond," he clarifies. "It… pulls together. Not steady yet. But closer than it was yesterday. And the day before."

For a moment, I can’t breathe. My chest cracks wide open under the weight of those words. Because gods—I’ve been clinging to scraps, to every twitch of her fingers and flicker of her eyes, and hearing this? Hearing that she’s pulling herself back, even if it’s just threads—

I press my palms over my face, fighting the sting in my eyes. “Gods, Len,” I whisper, my voice breaking. “You stubborn, impossible woman. You really are fighting your way home.”

Nox exhales, the gust ruffling my hair. Chradh still doesn’t move. Myrnin only leans back on his hands, watching me crumble like it’s exactly what he expected.

“She’s coming back,” Myrnin says quietly. “Piece by piece.”

And for the first time in weeks, I almost let myself believe it.

I drag my hands down my face, palms rough against stubble. For a heartbeat, I almost let myself breathe easier. Almost.

But then I glance at her. My wife. My stranger. Charcoal smudged up her wrists, hair falling into her face, lips shaping half-words about serpents and shadows.

And the guilt gnaws its way right back in.

I let out a jagged laugh, hollow and ugly. “You want to know the worst part, Myrnin?”

The god doesn’t flinch. He never does. He just tips his head, eyes like sharp steel under the sun. “Go on.”

I look at her—at the husk—and the words rip out of me before I can bite them back. “Sometimes I resent her. This… shell. This version of her I have to feed and bathe and pin down when she tears at her own skin. I hate myself for it, but godsdammit, I do. Because she’s not her. Not my Len.”

My voice cracks, and I shove my fist against my mouth to stop it shaking.

Myrnin’s gaze doesn’t soften. It never does. But he doesn’t look away either.

“And I’m terrified,” I whisper into the crackling silence. “Terrified that the ghost—whatever the fuck she is—is gone. That the fire, the taps, the stupid flying boots and slammed doors were just… fragments. And I missed my chance to save her. What if she’s gone for good, and all I’ve got left is this?”

The husk lets out a tuneless hum, dragging her charcoal hard enough to tear the page.

I choke down the sound in my throat and press my palms into my knees like I can hold myself together by force. “What if I’m holding onto nothing? What if all this fighting, all this hoping, just leaves me with this half-empty body and memories that hurt too much to touch?”

The breeze shifts. Nox exhales low, like thunder in the marrow. Chradh flicks his tail, restless.

And Myrnin—damn him—only watches me with that unreadable, infuriating patience.

“You sound like a man who’s already decided the ending,” he says at last, voice soft but cutting. “When you should know better by now, Garrick Tavis. Has your wife ever done anything except defy endings?”

I press my lips together until they ache, because gods help me—he’s right. And it hurts.

ELEANOR

The basement reeks of damp stone and old blood. Noodle’s newest shrine of bones glints faintly in the dark, and usually I’d make some smart remark about how my child’s décor would give Xaden nightmares.

But tonight, I don’t have it in me.

I curl into the corner, knees to my chest, fists pressed hard into my ribs like I can stop myself from unraveling.

Because I am unraveling.

Every day, I feel it. The weight of me thinning. The silence swallowing me up. I can’t rattle doors anymore. I can’t tug Garrick’s sleeve or flick candles at Myrnin’s face. I can’t even make Noodle flinch.

I’m fading.

And gods, I’m so fucking scared.

It isn’t fair.

After everything—after a childhood of scars, after Basgiath’s cruelty, after clawing myself into fire and fury just to survive—they’ve found a way to take even this from me. Even in death, I don’t get peace. No After. No family. No fucking home. Just a slow, hollow disappearance in the shadows of my own house.

A sob tears its way out of me, ragged and broken. It echoes off the stones like someone else is crying with me.

I slam my fists into the ground, over and over until the stone bruises me. “Please!” I scream into the void. My throat is raw, my chest burning. “Please, I just—I just want to go home! Please, let me go home!”

The word rips out again, hoarse and ugly. Home.

Home is in Garrick’s arms.

Home is where Nox sulks unless I read to him.

Home is where Noodle wriggles in excitement when he's showing me his newest bone.

Home is where Bodhi teases me, Xaden scolds me, Violet smirks at me like I’m trouble.

Home is where I can be again.

“Please,” I whisper, voice cracking on the plea. “Don’t let me fade. Don’t leave me here. Please, I want to go back. I want to go back to him. Please, please, let me go home.”

And the silence that answers feels like it’s sealing my coffin.

I sob harder, the kind of crying that shakes my whole soul apart, until I don’t know if the sound is even mine anymore.

Because I don’t want to fade.

Not like this.

Not unseen.

Not forgotten.

Not without Garrick.

I drag my nails down the wall, but even the scrape doesn’t sound real anymore. Like I’m already gone. Like I’m just pretending to exist.

I wanted to believe Myrnin. That this was part of healing. That my soul was clawing its way back into my body, that the silence meant I was close.

But it doesn’t feel like healing. It feels like dying again.

And I’m so tired of dying.

I curl tighter, pressing my forehead to the stone. Images flicker behind my eyes, cruel reminders of what I’ve lost: Garrick’s smirk when he caught me plotting trouble, Nox’s enormous wing wrapping me in shadow, Chompy proudly dragging home a spine like a gift, Bodhi’s laugh when I said something unhinged just to piss him off, Violet’s exasperated fondness when she called me a menace.

Gone. All of it gone.

I open my mouth and the sound that rips out is more animal than human, a guttural sob that shakes the walls. My voice echoes back at me, hollow, pathetic.

“Please,” I choke. “Please, I don’t want this. I don’t want to be nothing.”

I slam my palm against the ground, but it’s weaker than before, a faint ripple through the air. Not enough to move even the dust.

My chest heaves. My throat burns. “Please. Just let me go home.”

The word tastes like blood and salt. Home.

But the silence that follows is merciless.

So I do the only thing left I can—I scream. I scream until my voice fractures, until the sound claws through me and rattles my own bones, until I’m begging the darkness itself to answer.

And for one impossible heartbeat… the house listens.

The torches gutter upstairs. The earth trembles faintly.

And I wonder—did Garrick feel that?

Or was it just the sound of me falling apart?

Nobody hears me.

Not Garrick, not Noodle, not Myrnin.

Nobody.

Just the echo of my own begging clawing back at me from the stone walls.

And then—

A voice.

Soft. Feminine. Cutting through the silence like a blade made of silk.

“Time to go, little viper.”

I freeze.

I don’t know that voice. I don’t recognise it. It isn’t Myrnin’s careful rasp. It isn’t Garrick’s tired devotion. It isn’t the cruel purr of Malek or the cold venom of a Tauri.

It’s someone else. Someone who knows me. Who names me.

The air sharpens, suddenly heavy, pressing down on me like a mountain falling.

And then the pain hits.

White-hot, skin-flaying, soul-crushing pain. Like my very essence is being ripped apart thread by thread. My scream splits the dark, raw and feral, but it doesn’t sound like me anymore. It’s distorted, mangled, a chorus of a hundred voices all shrieking from the hollow of my chest.

My hands claw at my throat, at my chest, at something, trying to tear free from what’s happening, but there’s nothing to grab, nothing to fight. Just agony. Endless.

The walls bleed into shadow. The floor rips away beneath me.

And then—

Nothing.

Not silence.

Not dark.

Not light.

Just nothing.

As if I never existed at all.

GARRICK

The sun is too warm for how cold my chest feels.

We’re still in the garden. My wife—what’s left of her—sits cross-legged on the blanket, scratching charcoal across parchment with frantic hands. Over and over, the same thing: the serpent devouring its own tail. Black circles, jagged flames, pages torn through from pressure.

I sit close enough to catch her if she topples, far enough that I don’t smother her. Myrnin is sprawled beside us, looking maddeningly at ease with a book in his lap, though I know him too well now. He doesn’t read when he’s tense. He watches.

Noodle coils at my boots, his scales warm against my ankles. But he isn’t lazy, not today. His head is lifted, tongue flickering, body taut as a bowstring. Even he knows something’s wrong.

Chradh rumbles low from his stretch of grass near the orchard, a sound like stone grinding against stone. Nox crouches even closer, enormous body pressed low, his black eyes unblinking as they pin my wife like they’re waiting for her to move wrong.

The air tastes sharp. Oily.

Her hand doesn’t slow.

Charcoal scrapes over parchment, ragged and too fast, her lips parting as if words are caught between her teeth.

“I’m dead, you know.”

The sound punches the air from my lungs.

I snap my gaze down to the page, expecting another serpent loop, another broken circle. But the lines are jagged. Familiar. Too godsdamn familiar.

A figure. Red hair like flames.

Eight blades piercing through the body.

The prophecy.

“Lenny, love—” My voice breaks, my hand hovering just above hers, not daring to stop her.

But she drifts again, her gaze clouding, her humming restarting like a child lost in her own head. Charcoal scratches and scratches, smudging her fingers to black.

Then—quietly, almost like she’s asking me what time supper is—she whispers, “Does it hurt?”

Every bone in me goes still.

“Len.” I can barely get it out. It’s a plea, a broken prayer. My chest twists like it’s been gutted open. “Len, please—”

The air hisses.

Then it happens.

Right where her charcoal digs into the paper, the ground hisses. A line of black flame uncoils, purple streaks twisting through it, like a snake made of pure fire dragging itself from the earth.

Voidfire.

My body reacts before my mind does—I’m on my feet, heart slamming, hands reaching for her.

“Len—!”

But Myrnin doesn’t move like I do. He doesn’t reach for her. He steps forward, deliberate, his head tilted back like a man tasting rain after drought.

And for the first time since I’ve known him, his face isn’t smug or coy. It’s reverent. Lit from within by something I almost mistake for joy.

“That’s her,” he whispers, voice carrying like thunder.

The voidfire coils higher, a serpent of flame spitting violet sparks into the air. It hisses across the grass, splitting soil, scorching nothing but the silence around us.

The Husk doesn’t even flinch. She just drags charcoal across paper, muttering, lost in her endless loops.

But me? My chest is a cage too tight for my heart.

“That’s Eleanor,” Myrnin says again, louder now, like he wants the whole godsdamned world to hear it. His eyes shine with something sharp, something that isn’t smugness but pride, reverence, maybe even relief. He steps closer, fearless before the writhing fire.

His hand lifts, palm open to the blaze. “This is your wife. The one that’s been stuck in the beyond. The ghost tethered to your home. To you.”

I can barely breathe. My knees nearly give out. “Len…”

Myrnin’s smile is wolfish, teeth bared like he’s been waiting centuries for this. “How fitting, don’t you think? That her soul reveals itself as a viper.”

The fire-serpent hisses louder, curling on itself, and for the first time in weeks I feel it. A spark against my skin, like a kiss of heat brushing my forearm. Like her.

My throat closes. My eyes sting.

“Len?” My voice is ragged, a plea, a prayer.

And the voidfire flares, snapping toward me like it’s answering.

My knees hit the grass.

Gods help me—she’s really here.

I can’t move. None of us can.

The garden holds its breath. Nox crouched low, Chradh’s claws digging into the dirt, Noodle keening so soft it’s almost a whimper. Even the damned wind has stilled.

The serpent of voidfire coils higher, black and violet flames hissing, its gaze—her gaze—fixed on the Husk.

And the Husk… gods, she’s staring back. Wide-eyed, charcoal fallen from her fingers, lips trembling around a soundless murmur. For the first time in weeks, she isn’t muttering nonsense.

She’s silent.

I force the words past the stone in my throat. “Len. Love. If that’s you—please. Come home. I can’t… Please, baby, come home to me.”

The voidfire shifts, the serpent angling its head toward me. My chest feels like it might split open.

But then it turns back to her. To it.

The Husk.

Her body. Her shell.

I feel it in my bones, a shudder like fate itself is rolling dice. Life or death. Return or fade.

And godsdammit, it’s her choice. It always has been.

The serpent hisses, curling tighter, the grass blackening in a perfect circle beneath it. And then the whole world falls into silence.

Even Myrnin doesn’t speak.

Because all of us—man, god, dragon, parasite—are watching the coin hang in the air.

Waiting to see which side it falls on.

Death.

Or life.

THE HUSK

Charcoal on fingers. Smudge smudge smudge. Doesn’t matter. Doesn’t matter. Hands can be black as ash, black as blood, black as the flames in my chest—what chest? No chest. A hole. A hollow.

Drawing. Drawing. Drawing.

Dragons. Always dragons. Big teeth, sharp claws, eyes that see everything. I draw Nox first because he’s too big to forget. He’s white, no he’s black with flames, no he’s everything, his scales never stay still on the page.

Smudge smudge.

He doesn’t fit on paper. None of them do. Chradh comes next. Always grumpy. Always hungry. Hungry like me, except I’m not. Am I? No, Garrick feeds me. He always feeds me. He’s good at it. My husband. My anchor. My storm.

I draw storms too. Black sky, purple fire, screaming people. There’s a lot of screaming in my head. Is it still happening? Or is it memory? Doesn’t matter. Screams sound the same whether they’re old or new.

Blood. So much blood.

It spills across the paper when I shade too hard, my charcoal breaking, cracking like bone. I laugh at that. Bones. Noodle likes bones. Always brings them. Under the bed. Crunch crunch crunch. I draw him too, coils everywhere, filling the page until there’s no space for anything else. He takes up too much room. He always has. Parasite. Precious parasite. My baby. My son.

But not my only son.

Chompy.

Chompy chompy chompy. My fox, my acid, my little flame that wasn’t a flame. I try to draw him but my hand shakes and he comes out wrong. Too many teeth. Too many eyes. No. No, that’s not him. He was clumsy. He was warm. He was fur and laughter and bad breath. He was mine. Ours. Dead.

He’s dead.

He’s gone.

The sun is too bright. Too bright. How dare it shine when he’s gone? How dare it warm my skin when he’s cold beneath the earth? I dig the charcoal in harder, break it, smear it, ruin the paper until it looks like nothing but smoke. That’s all he is now. Smoke. Ash.

I giggle. My lips crack when I do. Maybe I’m the ash. Maybe we all are.

I draw Garrick’s face. Hazel eyes, tired eyes. He’s always there, watching. My storm, my soldier, my king. He doesn’t let me fall. But sometimes—sometimes—I think he wants to. Just to see if I’ll stand back up. I always do. Always. Always. Until I didn’t.

Until the blades.

Eight of them. One, two, three—stab stab stab, like drawing lines across paper, across skin. I feel them sometimes. Feel them now. Phantom fire in my chest. I draw them too. Daggers in my ribs, in my legs, in my heart. I smile at the picture. Looks right. Looks like me.

I whisper to the paper, “I’m dead, you know.”

The paper doesn’t answer.

But I hear laughter anyway. Somewhere. Someone’s.

Maybe mine.

“Eleanor.”

That’s my name, isn’t it? Eleanor. Or Len. Or Viper. Or Queen. Or nothing. Too many names. Too many skins. I don’t know which one fits anymore.

Voices beside me. One soft. One sharp. One that cuts and one that soothes. Garrick and Myrnin. My storm and Fate. Husband and god. Both mine. Both not.

“Lenny, love—” Garrick. His voice drops low, the way he does when he’s trying to coax me out of the dark. I don’t turn. If I turn, I’ll see his eyes, and if I see his eyes, I’ll drown.

The grass whispers. He moves. Close. Warm. Too warm. Always warm. He smells like steel and storms. His hand is on my knee. He’s talking. Talking. Asking if I’m okay. Am I okay? Okay. Okay. What does that even mean? Okay is gone. Okay bled out of me with the eight blades. Okay bled when my son did.

I have a son?

Behind him, Myrnin’s shadow stretches. He doesn’t kneel. He watches. Always watching. Concern flickers across his face. Or maybe it’s amusement. He’s always both. He’s been here a lot lately. Hasn’t he? Or I’ve been with him. In the Veil. Or in the garden. Or in a dream. Dead. Alive. Alive. Dead. Which is it? Which matters? Does it matter?

My head tilts. “Does it hurt?” I whisper, and Garrick stiffens.

Everything hurts.

It flashes. Like lightning. Like knives behind my eyes. Bodies. So many bodies. The stench of burning flesh. Screams. My screams. His screams. Their screams. Blood soaking stone, shackles around my wrists. A man’s hand on my throat. Holding me down. The knife. The rune. The collar. Pet. Songbird. Plaything.

I choke on a breath. I’m back there. Always back there.

Then—shift. Sharp.

Love. Love. Lovelovelove. A different hand. Steady. Safe. Garrick’s hand. Not holding me down. Holding me up.

Flowers. Endless wildflowers. Sunlight. My husband’s head in my lap. His laugh when I read aloud with the wrong voices. His kiss on my temple. My boy—my fox—chasing butterflies that never burned. My parasite coiling around him in mock fury.

Peace. Happiness.

It’s too much. Too bright. Too sharp. I press the charcoal harder into the paper until it snaps, gouging the page. My hand shakes. I laugh, broken, high, because the flowers burn too. The peace burns. The happiness bleeds.

“Len.” Garrick’s voice again. But it doesn’t reach me. Nothing does.

Remember.

I try. I try to fight for it, to hold onto something solid, but all that comes are scraps, flashes—like shards of glass slicing through my skull.

Hands. Blades. Chains. Screaming until my throat tore.

Then—Garrick’s laugh. Noodle gnawing on my boot. Chompy dragging bones across the floor with that stupid proud little strut.

Then—blood again. So much blood. Mine? Theirs? Gods, whose?

It all flickers too fast. Too much. I can’t catch it. Can’t hold it. It’s all—oblivion. Oblivion. Oblivion.

What is oblivion?

…Me.

I am.

The end of all things.

No. No. That’s wrong. Isn’t it? Because didn’t I end? Didn’t I fall? I remember blades. Eight. I remember the way it felt to split apart, like my soul was ash and fire and dust. I ended. I ended.

My hand won’t stop moving. Drawing, scratching, tearing the page. Dragons. Shadows. Flames. My boys. My death. My son’s corpse. Myrnin’s rune-hands. Malek’s teeth. Everything. Nothing. Pages blur together until I don’t know what’s real anymore.

Three more finished before I notice. My fingers are black with charcoal.

Somewhere behind me, Garrick’s voice murmurs low, calm, steady. The anchor in a storm. Myrnin’s answer, smooth, measured. I don’t listen. I can’t. I’m not here. I’m too far inside.

Am I real?

Am I dead?

I should be dead. I remember it. I remember the blades. Eight of them. The tearing. The rending. My chest, my throat, my soul splitting like glass dropped on stone. Shards everywhere. Too many pieces to pick up. Too sharp. Too lost.

My heart feels broken—cracked and hollow, like it’s dripping out through my veins. My soul feels fractured, jagged edges grinding inside me, screaming with every breath.

But…there’s something.

Something I’m supposed to do.

Something important.

It lingers right there, right on the edge of thought, teasing me like smoke through fingers. If only I could reach—My hands twitch, clawing the dirt, as if I can drag it closer. The truth. The purpose. The thing I’m missing.

Why can’t I hold it? Why can’t I remember?

Every time I almost do, it slides away. Leaves me with blood. Always blood.

Am I supposed to bleed? Am I supposed to burn? Didn’t I end already? Didn’t I fall?

Oblivion.

OblivionOblivionOblivion.

It pounds in my head, a drumbeat. I’m not Eleanor anymore. I’m just…this. Broken pieces rattling in a cage too small to hold them.

I claw at the ground. I tear at my sketch. Dragons. Flames. A son with too-bright eyes who died.

Did he die? Did I? What am I?

I rock forward, my forehead pressing into the page until my vision smears charcoal and ash. I laugh. Or cry. Or both. I can’t tell.

It’s all broken.

I’m broken.

But the thing, the thing I’m supposed to do, it whispers. Crawls like fire under my skin. Important. Vital. Right there—I slam my fists against my skull.

“What is it?”

The garden echoes. Shadows ripple. Something shifts.

A hiss cuts through my spiraling.

And I go very still.

A hiss.

It cuts through my head like glass dragging across bone, sharp and endless.

I blink. My sketches blur. My hands are shaking charcoal dust into the dirt.

And then I see it.

Slithering. Curling. A shadow. A flame.

A serpent made of fire and ash. Its body flickers black and purple, coils shifting like smoke, like the sky at midnight when the stars drown. A viper.

Viper viper viper.

My breath hitches. My mouth tastes like iron.

What’s the viper? Isn’t that me? Or am I nothing at all?

I stare, my heart rattling against ribs like a trapped thing.

They go still around me. Garrick’s intake of breath, sharp. Nox and Chradh, their wings flaring wide. Noodle’s hiss, chittering fury, fangs bared. They are afraid.

Why are they afraid?

It’s just a snake. A pretty snake. Pretty flames licking its body, curling like ribbons. I like fire. Don’t I?

But Myrnin’s voice cuts, calm but taut. “Stay back.”

Stay back? Why? Isn’t it me? Am I me?

Eleanor. Eleanor Lennox. Eleanor Riorson. No—Eleanor Rioron-Tavis. The girl with green eyes. A soldier. A wife. A rider.

But wasn’t I also fire? Wings of fire? A phoenix.

Yes. Yes, I remember. Burning bright. Voidfire in my veins.

But they clipped my wings, didn’t they? Tore me down. Eight blades.

Stab stab stab.

Blood and pain and death.

The memory stabs, jagged. My chest aches. My skin crawls.

But I lived. Didn’t I? Didn’t I die? Who am I?

The serpent hisses again, flames flaring brighter, and my mind splinters with the sound.

Phoenix. Viper.

Which am I?

All. None.

I had a brother. Didn’t I? No. No, I didn’t.

Yes. Yes, I did.

Broody, broken, angry—my Duke, my brother, my family. Xaden.

And Bodhi. My cousin, my twin flame in laughter, my chaos in arms. Another brother.

Two brothers.

And a sister. Violet. So sharp, so soft, so endlessly infuriating.

Where are they? Why are they not here? Did they die too? Did I leave them behind?

Do I miss them?

I can’t remember.

My hand twitches. My fingers ache to reach.

The snake flicks its tongue, flame dripping like venom, black and violet embers speckling the dirt.

Pretty snake.

Pretty fire.

I like to burn.

Should I touch it? Burn a little more? Or have I burnt enough?

The viper slithers closer. My mind unravels with every coil.

And somewhere, dimly, beneath the fractures and noise—something in me whispers:

It’s you.

The serpent hisses again.

And the sound…it rattles in my skull like bells. Like chains. Like laughter.

What is it? What am I?

I blink. The world tilts. Shapes sharpen, blur, sharpen again.

The dragons—Nox, Chradh—they crouch low, wings tucked, eyes like burning suns. Hope glints in them. Hope? For me?

I laugh under my breath, a sharp, cracked sound. Hope is wasted here.

Noodle coils tight, black scales quivering, his tiny fangs bared like he could kill gods if he had to. But he’s not hissing in rage—no, no, it’s softer. Quieter. Like he’s calling. Like he knows.

Knows what? That snake? That fire? That thing slithering through the grass—it’s me? No. No. No. I’m here. Aren’t I?

Am I?

I twist, my head jerks, too fast, too sharp, and Myrnin is there, watching. His lips curve in a small, sad smile. Encouraging. Like I’m a child learning to walk. Like I’m something fragile.

I hate it.

But…I need it.

Then I see him.

Garrick.

My husband. My tempest. My anchor.

Hazel eyes rimmed red, brimming with tears, staring at me like I’m breaking him in half just by existing. By being like this. He doesn’t move. He just watches.

Why are you crying, baby? I want to ask. Don’t cry. Don’t cry, please. I’m fine. I’m fine. Am I fine?

And then—I turn back.

The snake is closer. Its body glows, black flames flickering violet, curling across the grass without burning it. Tongue flick. Flick. Flick.

Something in my chest flares. Recognition. Horror. Longing.

I laugh. A giggle that tears from my throat, too high, too cracked, too broken.

“Pretty snake,” I coo, swaying where I sit, voice lilting like a lullaby. My fingers twitch, reaching, curling. “Such pretty fire.”

It tilts its head at me. A mirror. A mockery.

“Pretty snake,” I croon again, rocking where I sit, the world tipping and righting, tipping and righting. My voice comes out soft, almost a lullaby, almost sweet. My fingers twitch, curl, tremble as if they’ve forgotten how to be hands.

The snake tilts its head at me. Flames lick up its sides, violet and black, swallowing and swallowing and swallowing until all I see is myself—reflected in burning eyes that aren’t mine but should be.

“Do you want to burn me?” I whisper, cocking my head, smiling too wide, my lips splitting at the corner. “Bite me? Kill me?”

I laugh, sharp and too loud, echoing across the garden like something unhinged.

“I’m already dead.”

The serpent hisses, smoke curling from its tongue.

“Burn, burn, burn,” I giggle, swaying, my fingers reaching for it, then pulling back, then reaching again. My laugh cuts into a sob. “I think I like to burn. But—” I pause, shaking my head too fast, hair sticking to damp skin. “But I’m not sure. Because I’m not me anymore. I’m not myself.”

I clutch the charcoal in my hand so hard it snaps, dust spilling over my trembling fingers.

“I’m broken. Lost.” My eyes sting but I don’t cry—can’t cry—only shake, only twitch. “But sometimes…sometimes I think I remember.”

The snake flicks its tongue again. Closer now.

“I think I remember being a person. A fighter. A queen. A mother, a wife, a sister, a friend.” My voice rises with each word, frantic, like a prayer, like a scream in disguise. “Sometimes I remember burning. The warmth. The fire. The me.”

My chest seizes.

“But then it’s gone,” I whisper, hollow, empty. My smile cracks. My hand falls limp. “And now I’m empty.”

Behind me, a sound. A broken sound.

“Lenny…” Garrick’s voice. A whisper. A plea.

I freeze.

But I don’t look at him. I can’t.

I only look at the serpent.

“I think I was a person once,” I confess to it, voice thin, shattering. “But now I’m not. Now I’m a ghost.”

The snake stills, its flaming body coiling at my knees, flickering violet heat brushing my skin, and it doesn’t burn.

It just waits.

Like it’s deciding.

Like it’s listening.

“Are you looking for something?” I ask the serpent softly, swaying where I sit, the broken charcoal still smeared in my fingers. My voice trembles, lilts, almost sings. “For someone?”

It only watches me.

Flames flicker violet-black across its scales, its eyes fixed on mine—too knowing, too endless.

“I like wild things,” I whisper, leaning closer, lips curling into a grin that doesn’t quite reach my eyes. “Not to tame them. No. Never. But to protect them. To love them. Because…” My breath catches, breaking. “Because I think I was a wild thing.”

The serpent tilts its head. Slow. Curious.

“And Garrick protected me,” I murmur, glancing past the glow of fire and shadow, finding him standing there with tears in his eyes. His hands trembling. My husband. My anchor. My everything.

The serpent doesn’t move. Just coils tighter. Just waits.

“Do you have a home?” I ask it suddenly, voice lilting, eyes wide, unblinking. “Do you? Because I do. With him. With Nox. With Chradh. With Noodle. With everyone else I dream of. Real or not real.” My laugh cuts sharp, desperate. “They matter.”

The snake hisses, slow and soft, like a sigh.

“If you want, you can join our family.”

And then—hesitant, trembling, I reach.

My fingers brush fire. And it doesn’t burn me.

It lets me.

It lets me pet it.

I grin, wild and cracked and childlike, grinning so hard my cheeks ache, tears spilling hot down my face as though I can’t decide if I’m laughing or sobbing.

And when I look up, Garrick is watching me in awe.

His lips parted. His chest rising like he’s forgotten how to breathe.

My voice is a whisper, but it feels like a command. Like a plea.

“Come home,” I tell the serpent, stroking it gently as flames flicker against my palm. “Come home to me. Back where you belong.”

The fire flares—blinding, consuming—rising high around us, swallowing the world whole.

And then—

It dives.

Straight into me.

The fire erupts.

It swallows everything—sky, earth, even the sound of Garrick crying my name. The serpent surges into me, coils of shadowfire wrapping my chest, threading through my veins, piercing bone, blood, memory.

It hurts.

Gods, it hurts.

Every fragment of me—the broken pieces, the jagged edges I’ve been drowning in—ignite. My ribs split open on invisible fire, my head cracking apart with memory, with truth, with every nightmare I thought I’d forgotten.

I scream. And the scream isn’t mine.

It’s every version of me. The girl who was caged. The woman who was collared. The wife who burned. The mother who lost. The warrior who fought. The phoenix who fell.

All of them.

All of me.

The chaos fractures. Splits. Shatters.

And then?

Something stitches.

Thread by thread. Light by light. Shadow by shadow. A tapestry re-weaving itself inside my chest. I see it—my soul, torn to ribbons by the eight blades, now sewn back together by fire and venom, by pain and love and everything I am.

The serpent coils around my heart, hissing once, before dissolving into me, leaving only warmth. Leaving only wholeness.

And suddenly—I remember.

I am not broken.

I am not gone.

I am not a ghost.

I am Eleanor Lennox-Riorson-Tavis.

Viper of Aretia.

Queen of the Orlyth.

Wife. Mother. Daughter. Sister. Friend.

And I live.

The fire shrieks outward one last time—blinding, unstoppable—a storm that rattles the Veil itself. I see Myrnin and Garrick shielding their faces, their eyes burning against the brilliance. I see Nox and Chradh bowing their monstrous heads. I feel Noodle pressed tight against me, chittering in wild relief.

And when the fire dies?

I’m kneeling in the grass.

Breathing. Whole.

The serpent is gone. But its fire still licks my veins.

I lift my head. My gaze finds Garrick. His face is a ruin—wet with tears, torn with awe. And when his trembling hands reach for me, I don’t falter.

I take them.

And I smile.

His knees hit the earth, his forehead crashing against mine, and his sob shreds the air.

Behind us, Myrnin’s voice carries soft, reverent, almost fearful.

“It is done.”

Malek, for once, sounds awed. “The Phoenix has fallen. But the Viper…” He smiles like death itself has found amusement. “The Viper has risen.”

The world feels heavy. The war is far from over. My family grieves me still. The scales remain shattered, and the Venin grow stronger.

But none of it matters in this single, burning second.

Because I am alive.

And gods help them all—

I am whole.

Chapter Text

"The Veil is absolute. Those who pass beyond it do not return, for it is not a door but a sundering. The body withers, the bond shatters, and the soul—stripped bare—is claimed by the Balance itself. There are no records, no legends, no exceptions. No rider, no god, no creature has ever crossed and come back whole."

— “On Death and the Divine: A Treatise on the Veil and the After” by Scholar Eryvan Rellis, Basgiath Archives

ELEANOR

The first thing I notice is weight.

Heavy. Crushing. Real.

Not the feather-light drift of ghosthood, not the numb ache of watching the world through glass—No.

This is gravity.

This is a body.

My body.

My chest shudders, dragging in air so sharp it scrapes my throat raw. For months, breath was a memory, something I screamed for but never reached. Now it’s here—burning, searing, but mine.

Am I alive?

The thought crashes like thunder through my skull. Panic follows. Am I alive, or is this just another trick? Another cruel cycle in this game?

I blink, and the world blazes into focus.

The garden. Wildflowers bending in the breeze. The towering shadow of Nox, crouched so low his great head nearly brushes the grass. Chradh beside him, wings tucked tight, his molten eyes glowing like a forge. Noodle, wriggling in excitement. Myrnin’s silver gaze sharp and intent, his body so still it could be carved of stone.

And Garrick.

Gods. Garrick.

His arms around me, trembling like they’ll break. His face buried against my hair, his sobs shattering the air in pieces. His whole body shakes with it. Like he’s afraid if he loosens his grip, I’ll vanish.

“Len,” he chokes.

My throat convulses, but no sound comes. I want to answer. I want to tell him I’m here. That I’ve been here all along. That I never left him, even when the veil swallowed me whole.

But the words… they’re stuck.

I can’t move. Can’t speak. My limbs are stone, my lips locked, my voice lost.

I’m terrified.

Because for months, I’ve been nothing but shadow and spite, voidfire and whispers. And now? Now I’m flesh. But flesh that won’t obey.

Am I alive? Or am I just another husk?

Myrnin leans closer, his sharp smile a blade against the moment. “Steady, Garrick. Don’t crush her. She’s fragile still.”

Garrick ignores him, his tears dripping hot against my temple. “You’re here. You’re here.”

I want to reach for him. Gods, I want to touch his face, hold his hand, feel his heartbeat under my palm. But my body won’t listen.

Then—warmth.

A weight coils at my feet, slithering up. Noodle. His scales cool against my bare skin, his little serpent body wriggling and pressing close, keening high and frantic. I almost laugh, but it catches in my chest as a sob.

Because I feel him.

I feel everything.

The grass beneath me. The sunlight stinging my eyes. The shudder of Garrick’s lungs as he weeps. The low rumble of Nox, vibrating the ground like thunder.

For the first time in months—I am not hollow.

I am not nothing.

I am whole.

Or close enough.

A single tear slides from my eye, and Garrick jerks back to look at me. His breath catches, and for a heartbeat, he goes still. Then his lips brush my forehead, reverent and desperate all at once.

I want to say always yours. Gods, I want to.

But all I can do is cry. Because for the first time in months—I can cry true tears.

And everyone is waiting.

Myrnin, Noodle, the dragons, my husband. Holding their breaths. Watching.

To see if it’s really me.

To see if the viper fought her way home.

And in my silence—in the breath I finally take, in the tears I finally shed—they have their answer.

“Lenny?”

His voice shakes like he’s terrified of the answer. His hands frame my face, trembling, rough from weeks—months—of holding me when I wasn’t really me. His thumbs brush clumsily at the tears spilling down my cheeks.

“Is it you?” he whispers. “Tell me it’s really you. Please, baby. Please.”

The sob tears out of me before the words. Raw. Crooked. Like my throat’s been stitched back together wrong. But I force it anyway, my lips cracking around the sound.

“It’s… it’s me.”

His breath stutters, his eyes searching mine like he’s looking for proof. Looking for the fire, the sharpness, the chaos. For his wife.

“I’m back,” I rasp, voice broken glass. “I’m… alive.”

And then I’m crying too hard to finish.

Garrick’s face collapses. He pulls me into him, crushing me against his chest like he’s never letting go again. His sobs tear through me, muffled in my hair, his whole body shaking with it.

I cling—weak, trembling, fragile as spun glass. But I cling. Because gods, I can. I can.

The world tilts. My body aches. Every muscle screams like it’s been stitched together wrong, bones splintered and remade. I feel hollow and heavy all at once. Weak. So weak.

But I’m not empty anymore.

I’m alive.

The garden blurs through my tears—sunlight fractured on Nox’s pale scales, Chradh’s molten eyes burning as he lowers his head, a low rumble shaking the air. Noodle keens, writhing against my legs, frantic with joy. Myrnin stands stiller than stone, but even he watches with something sharp and triumphant in his eyes.

I press my forehead into Garrick’s shoulder, my voice shredding itself as it drags out.

“I came back.”

“You came back,” he echoes, like if he says it enough it’ll be real. “Gods, Len. Gods, I thought I lost you.”

His tears soak through my hair. Mine soak through his shirt. We’re both a mess. Broken, splintered, undone.

But we’re together.

And for the first time in months—I am not a ghost.

I am not nothing.

I am home.

His forehead presses to mine, hot and trembling, like he’s afraid if he lets go, I’ll vanish all over again. His breath stutters against my lips, broken and uneven.

“I love you,” he chokes, the words ripping out of him. “Gods, Len, I love you. I missed you so fucking much. I needed you—”

I sob, clutching at his shirt with hands that barely have the strength to hold on. “I’m here. I’m back. I’m so sorry I left you. I’m so sorry—”

He shakes his head, fierce and desperate. “Don’t. Don’t you dare apologise. You fought your way back to me. You—” His voice breaks, another sob tearing out of him. “You never stopped fighting. Not even like that. And I… I never gave up on you.”

Fresh tears burn down my face, our noses brushing, breath and grief mingling in the space between us. “Thank you,” I whisper. My voice is raw, nothing but splinters and salt. “Thank you for staying. For holding on. For not letting me go.”

His arms crush me tighter, his lips brushing against my temple, my cheek, my hair, frantic and reverent. “I’d wait forever for you, Eleanor Tavis. You’re my wife. My everything. Always.”

A sob rattles through me, but this one feels lighter. “I love you. Gods, I love you so much.”

His chest heaves against mine. “Say it again.”

“I love you.” I press my forehead harder against his, my eyes squeezed shut, my voice a vow. “I love you. I love you. I’ll never stop.”

We cling to each other, shaking and sobbing, two broken halves stitched back together in the dirt of our own garden.

Alive. Whole. Home.

The moment shatters when a blur of scales and teeth launches itself at me.

“Noodle—!” Garrick starts, half a warning, half a sigh.

But the little bastard doesn’t care. He slams into my chest like a wrecking ball, fangs scraping against my jaw, his whole body writhing in a knot of coils and keening chitters. His head butts my cheek so hard it almost rattles my teeth, and I can’t stop the sound that rips out of me—half sob, half laugh.

“I love you too,” I gasp, clutching his slick body as he thrashes like he’s trying to crawl inside my ribcage. “Gods, Noodle, I missed you so much.” My tears soak into his scales, my fingers stroking down the curve of his spine even as he wriggles and screeches.

When I finally manage to lift my head, Chradh is there. Watching me with those sharp, unblinking eyes. The dragon who never flinched, never softened for anyone. His voice rumbles through me, low and jagged, and it cracks something open inside me.

“It’s been too quiet without you, wildflower. We missed you.”

The sob breaks out of me before I can swallow it. “I missed you too,” I cry, my throat raw.

The great brute dips his head in acknowledgment, and then—Nox.

Nox crouches so low his massive body shakes the ground beneath me. His shadow swallows everything, and his enormous snout presses into my chest with terrifying gentleness, like he’s trying to shove me inside his ribcage and keep me there forever. One of his fangs is longer than my torso, almost as big as I am—but I let him nuzzle, my fingers trembling against his scales.

And then it hits. The bond. That impossible, unshakable tether. His voice floods me like a storm, shadows and fire laced with fury.

“Never again,” he snarls, so sharp it feels like claws dragging through my chest. “You will never do that again. I forbid it. You are mine. My rider. Always. Do you hear me, Viper? You will never make me live without you again.”

I break into more tears, nodding, pressing my forehead against the ridge of his snout. “I hear you,” I whisper. “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”

His voice softens, just a fraction. “I’ve missed you, my little viper.”

The world caves in around me. My arms curl tighter around Noodle as if I can hold them all, as if I can keep this moment from shattering. “I missed you too,” I whisper through my tears. “All of you. Gods, I love you so much.”

And for the first time in months—since Draithus, since the screaming, since the fire—I believe it. I believe I’m home.

Myrnin is standing a little apart from it all, hands clasped behind his back, his expression carved from something unreadable. Watching. Always watching.

For a second, I can’t find my voice. My throat feels torn raw from crying, my chest aching with the weight of everything I thought I’d lost. But I force myself to look at him, to meet those dark, knowing eyes.

“Thank you,” I whisper. My voice breaks on the words, fragile and hoarse, but I mean them. Gods, I mean them. “For saving me.”

One corner of his mouth tilts, faint and sharp. “I didn’t save you, Eleanor.” His voice is quiet, but it carries through the garden, cutting through the wind and the rustle of dragons’ wings. “You saved yourself. All I did was…wait.”

I clutch at Garrick’s arm, grounding myself. His forehead presses into my hair, silent, still shaking with the aftermath of his tears. I look back to Myrnin, needing him to say it out loud, needing it to be real.

“Is this it?” My voice cracks. “Am I…really back?”

Myrnin studies me for a long moment, head tilting like a predator who’s just solved a riddle. And then he nods, slow and deliberate. “Yes.” His gaze flicks to the husk, limp and abandoned on the blanket, and then back to me. “The fracture has closed. The soul has stitched itself. You are whole again.”

A sob rips out of me, harsher than before. My hands fist into Garrick’s tunic as he crushes me closer, like if he lets go for even a breath I’ll vanish again.

Myrnin studies me one last time, those dark, ancient eyes weighing everything—the cracks, the stitching, the fragility barely holding me together.

“You are still weak,” he says at last, voice a low verdict. “The body remembers. The soul remembers. You will need time to heal. Do not mistake being whole for being unbroken.”

I nod faintly, though my chest tightens. Weak. Fragile. Gods, I hate the sound of it. But he’s right—I can feel the exhaustion in every bone, like I’ve been stitched together from ash and thread.

“I’ll give you days,” Myrnin adds, softer now, his gaze flicking between me and Garrick. “Time to adjust. To remember each other again. I’ll return soon.”

Garrick’s voice is hoarse when he speaks, raw from crying and holding me too tightly. “Myrnin…thank you. For everything these past few months. Truly. I don’t know how—” His throat closes. He shakes his head. “You’ve been a good friend.”

Myrnin blinks at that, as if the word cuts deeper than anything else. Slowly, a strange smile curves his mouth—sharp but not cruel. “It has been years since I’ve had a friend,” he admits. “Centuries, perhaps. I’m glad to be considered one again.”

And then, like smoke caught in wind, he’s gone. The air settles where he stood, empty but still humming with his presence.

Noodle is still losing his mind, wriggling and keening, his fangs scraping gently against my arm as if to reassure himself I’m real. I laugh through the last of my tears, stroking his smooth, dark scales.

But then I look at Garrick.

At my husband.

His face is blotchy, his eyes red, his jaw tight with everything he hasn’t said yet—but gods, he’s beautiful. More beautiful than anything I’ve seen in the dark months of watching and waiting.

I lean forward, shaky and unsure, but certain of one thing. I press my lips to his. Gentle. Soft. A kiss meant not to ignite, but to reassure.

“I’m home,” I whisper against his mouth.

And when his arms crush me to his chest again, trembling, I finally believe it.

Noodle is still losing his mind, wriggling and keening, his fangs scraping gently against my arm as if to reassure himself I’m real. I laugh through the last of my tears, stroking his smooth, dark scales.

But then I look at Garrick.

At my husband.

His face is blotchy, his eyes red, his jaw tight with everything he hasn’t said yet—but gods, he’s beautiful. More beautiful than anything I’ve seen in the dark months of watching and waiting.

I lean forward, shaky and unsure, but certain of one thing. I press my lips to his. Gentle. Soft. A kiss meant not to ignite, but to reassure.

“I’m home,” I whisper against his mouth.

And when his arms crush me to his chest again, trembling, I finally believe it.

I clutch fistfuls of his shirt, terrified that if I let go, I’ll wake up back in that endless silence. Back in the shadows where no one could hear me.

But Garrick breaks the kiss just long enough to press his forehead to mine, whispering my name like a prayer. Like a vow.

“Eleanor…” His breath hitches, his voice breaking apart. “Gods, I’ve missed you.”

My tears spill harder, hot and relentless, but I smile anyway. A broken, trembling smile.

“I’ve missed you too,” I whisper. “Every second. Every breath. I—” My voice shatters, but I force the words through anyway. “I love you, Garrick Tavis. Always.”

His arms lock around me tighter, as if to anchor me in place. As if he’ll never let me go again.

“You need to rest,” Garrick murmurs against my hair, his voice rough but firm. “Myrnin’s right. You’ve been through too much.”

I open my mouth to argue—because of course I do—and he barks out a laugh so disbelieving, so wrecked, I almost start crying again.

“Gods,” he says, shaking his head, pressing another kiss into my temple. “You really are back. Arguing already.”

“Obviously,” I rasp, my throat raw but my smirk intact.

But he pulls back, eyes still wet, and his smile softens into something unshakable. “No. Not this time, Lenny. You can’t win this one. You’re going inside. You’re eating. You’re bathing with me—” he swallows, his jaw trembling—“and then you’re going to lay in bed, in my arms, where you fucking belong.”

The certainty in his voice guts me. My chest caves, and I nod, because how could I deny him this? Deny us this?

But before I can say anything, Nox’s voice rumbles down the bond, sharp as obsidian. “She’s mine too, Muscles. Don’t forget it. I’ve missed her as much as you have.”

Chradh’s voice cuts in, deep and unyielding, the steady burn of old fire. “She’s weak. Fragile, after clawing her way back. Garrick is right. She needs rest before anything else.”

Nox huffs, his massive head lowering until one eye—black and endless—fixes on me. “Fine. Rest. But I want to see you in the morning. And if you vanish again, I’ll find you and kill you myself.”

I choke on a laugh, shaking my head. “I’ll be here,” I promise him, voice cracking but true. “I swear it.”

Garrick presses his forehead to mine again, whispering, “You’re home,” like he still can’t believe it.

And for the first time since Draithus, I let myself believe it too.

Garrick scoops me into his arms before I can even blink.

“Hey—” I protest, my voice still hoarse, my limbs aching but functional. “I can walk, you know.”

He snorts, tightening his grip like he’s daring me to wriggle free. “You’ve been a ghost for three months, baby. You are not walking anywhere.”

I pout, actually pout, and it makes him laugh again. Gods, that sound—like something raw and broken is finally stitching back together.

“Not funny,” I mutter, crossing my arms against his chest like a sulking child.

“Very funny,” he corrects, kissing the top of my head as he strides toward the estate. “You can pout all you want. You’re not touching the ground until I put you in the bath.”

“You’re ridiculous,” I whisper, though I secretly love it. The steadiness of his arms. The safety of being carried like I’m something precious, not broken.

He leans close, his breath hot against my ear. “And you’re mine. So shut up and let me take care of you.”

My heart stutters, then melts completely. I sigh, burying my face against his shoulder, inhaling the scent of him—smoke, steel, and the faint tang of soap. Home.

Behind us, I hear Nox grumbling low in his chest and Chradh snorting, but Garrick ignores them. He ignores everything but me.

And I let him. Because for the first time in months, I can.

He carries me through the halls like I weigh nothing, like he’s not bone-deep exhausted, like his arms haven’t been carrying the weight of the world for months. Every corner of the house smells faintly of ash and herbs, shadows of lives lived in silence.

Upstairs, he lowers me gently into the chair by the window. I sink into it, my limbs trembling, and watch as he moves to the bath. He runs the water, steam curling into the air, the faint scent of soap drifting toward me. It’s so ordinary. So achingly normal.

When he finally turns back, he doesn’t go to the bath. He comes to me. Sits beside me on the edge of the chair, crowding close, and presses his mouth to mine again. Slow. Soft. Desperate.

When he pulls back, his forehead rests against mine. His breath shudders out. “Gods, Lenny. I can’t believe it’s you. You’re really here. Alive. Yourself.” His voice breaks. “These months without you…”

He swallows hard, staring down at his hands, at the scars on his knuckles. “I thought I was stuck with your other self forever. And gods, I would have. I would’ve waited forever if that was all I had left of you. But some days…” His chest heaves. “Some days were so fucking hard.”

I cup his cheek, weak fingers brushing the stubble there. “Tell me.”

His eyes flicker to mine, wet and raw. “I hated it. Having to hold you down so you wouldn’t claw your own face off. Having to tie your wrists, just to keep you from bleeding. Having to sedate you when nothing else worked.” His voice cracks into a whisper. “I hated it, Lenny. I hated every second of watching you be… not you.”

My throat burns. Gods, my poor husband. My anchor. My heart.

I lean closer, pressing my lips to his temple. “That wasn’t me,” I whisper fiercely. “Not truly. That was a broken piece. A shard. But I’m here now. Me. The real me.”

His hand clutches mine like a lifeline, like if he lets go, I’ll vanish again. “Don’t leave me again,” he rasps.

“I won’t,” I promise, though my voice shakes. “I swear it.”

The water trickles into the tub, steam curling and filling the air. I can hear it behind us, steady, soothing, but I can’t look away from him. From the man sitting so close, his thumb brushing over my knuckles like he’s afraid I’ll vanish if he lets go.

He exhales shakily. “I’ll always love you, Lenny. Always protect you. That never changes.” His eyes flicker, heavy with exhaustion. “But some days…” He swallows hard. “Some days, I hated the other you. Because it wasn’t you.”

A laugh snorts out of me before I can stop it, raw and broken but real. “Yeah, well—I hated that other bitch too.”

His head jerks toward me, startled, then he grins. Full and bright, like sunlight through stormclouds. “So I was right.”

I pout, folding my arms. “About what?”

“You were jealous. Of your own body.”

Heat rushes up my neck. “Of course I was! That bitch was trying to sleep with you.”

He chokes on a laugh, running a hand down his face. “Len…”

I tilt my head, unapologetic. “What? You think I’m gonna let my own broken husk throw herself at my husband and not get involved?”

His grin softens into something disbelieving, something that aches. “Gods, is that why you tried to kill yourself that one day? When you threw a dagger at her?”

I shrug, pretending to examine my nails, even though my hands are still trembling from weakness. “Maybe.”

He groans, dragging his palm over his eyes, but there’s no heat behind it. Just relief. Just love. He looks back at me, and I see it there—his exasperation, his devotion, his heartbreak stitched through with laughter.

“My wife,” he mutters, shaking his head like he can’t believe me. “My beautiful, crazy wife. Only you would be a ghost, jealous of your own body.”

I lean closer, lips quirking. “You should keep that in mind, husband. I’m crazy enough to kill my own body for touching you. Imagine what I’d do to another woman.”

His grin spreads slow, sharp and wicked, and gods, I’ve missed it. “Lucky for everyone else, there’ll never be anyone except you.”

The words hit like a punch straight to the heart. I close the gap between us, kissing him again. He tastes like salt and relief, and this time I giggle against his lips when he pulls back, shaking his head at me.

“I’m glad you’re back,” he says, voice thick, soft in the way he only ever is with me. “The other you was… fucking weird.”

I blink. “Weird?”

He nods solemnly, like he’s about to deliver a war report. “She kept dribbling food. It wasn’t attractive.”

A bark of laughter rips out of me, raw and unsteady, and I shove at his shoulder weakly. “Gods, Garrick.”

He laughs too, that broken, beautiful sound I thought I’d never hear again, and for the first time in months it doesn’t feel like ghosts or husks or endless silence.

It feels like us.

The rush of water quiets as Garrick turns the taps off. Steam curls into the air, thick and warm, the scent of soap sharp against the walls.

I’m still perched on the chair, my limbs heavy as stone. He turns to me, and for a second I see it—that flicker of disbelief still clinging to his face, like he’s terrified if he looks away I’ll vanish again.

He steps close, sliding his arms under me with practiced ease, lifting me as though I weigh nothing. I bury my face into his neck, breathing him in, letting myself cling for once. His chest rumbles with a sigh as he lowers me onto the edge of the bath, his hands lingering at my waist as if to anchor me there.

My fingers fumble at my shirt, but before I can tug it over my head, his hands close over mine.

“No.” His voice is low, firm but gentle. His eyes are on mine, dark and steady. “Let me. Let me take care of the real you. Just once.”

Something in me twists sharp and hot. I want to argue—gods, I always argue—but the way he looks at me… like I’m glass and wildfire all at once, like I’m everything he’s been waiting for… I can’t.

So I let my hands fall.

“Okay,” I whisper, my voice breaking.

His hands are slow, almost trembling, as he eases away my clothes. It feels surreal—after months of nothingness, after cold silence and weightless drifting, his touch is warm and solid, grounding me in a way that makes my chest ache.

When the final piece falls, he doesn’t look at me like I’m fragile or fractured. He looks at me like I’m whole. Like I’ve always been whole.

His lips brush my collarbone, then my shoulder, then lower still. Every kiss is a promise, every breath a vow: I’ve got you. I’ll never let you go again.

I shiver—not from the chill, but from the overwhelming, suffocating flood of being here. Alive. In my body. In his arms.

And then he lifts me, strong and steady, lowering me into the bath as though I’m precious cargo. The water wraps around me in warmth, seeping into my bones, pulling a broken sigh from my lips. I want to cry, because I’d forgotten what this felt like—heat, weight, sensation. Not just shadows and silence.

My head tips back, my eyes flutter shut, and for the first time in months I don’t feel like a ghost.

I open them again—just in time to see him unbuttoning his shirt.

The sight of him—my husband, alive, steady, undressing for me—makes my mouth go dry.

Gods, after months of watching the husk touch him, kiss him, try to take what wasn’t hers… seeing him here, bare and real and mine—it’s almost enough to undo me.

And for once, I don’t care how weak my body feels. I want him.

Steam curls around us, clinging to the walls, to my skin, to the strands of my hair already damp from the heat. The water laps against me when I shift, sinking deeper into its embrace. It’s almost too much—the contrast between months of absence, of nothingness, of being a flicker in shadows… and this. The weight. The warmth. The realness of it.

And then Garrick steps out of his trousers.

I can’t breathe for a second. My mouth goes dry, my pulse stutters. Not because I haven’t seen him before—I’ve memorized every inch of him, every scar, every place that makes him hiss or groan. But because for months I’ve only been able to watch. A silent ghost, powerless, furious, jealous out of my mind every time the husk touched him. Now, he’s here. And he’s mine.

His eyes never leave mine as he lowers himself into the water opposite me. His breath catches like he doesn’t quite believe it either—like he’s afraid if he blinks I’ll vanish again. The bath is just big enough that when he stretches out, his legs brush mine under the water. The contact makes me shiver.

“Come here,” he murmurs, voice rough with emotion.

I obey without hesitation, crawling across the short space until I’m straddling his lap, water sloshing over the rim. My arms loop around his neck, my forehead presses to his, and for a moment all we do is breathe. His chest rising against mine. My heart pounding like it’s relearning how to live.

“I thought I’d lost you,” he whispers, voice breaking.

“You didn’t.” My words shake, tears already blurring my vision. “You never will.”

His arms crush me tighter, and gods, it feels so good. Like the world could fall apart, the house could burn down, the gods could descend with all their fury, and I wouldn’t care. Not as long as I had this. Him.

He pulls back just enough to look at me. His hands rise, gentle, reverent, sinking into my wet hair. “Let me,” he says softly.

He reaches for the small jug by the side of the tub, fills it, and tilts it carefully over my head. Warm water cascades down my hair, over my shoulders, making me sigh with something dangerously close to relief.

He grins faintly at the sound. “Still like that, huh?”

“Always,” I whisper. My eyes flutter shut as his fingers comb through the strands, untangling, massaging my scalp with infinite care. It’s the most ordinary thing in the world—hair washing—but after everything? It feels holy. Like proof that I’m alive, that I’m back, that this is my body again and not some half-life of watching from the shadows.

My head tilts into his touch, my breath catching as his thumbs sweep along my temples. “Feels… gods, it feels so good.”

“I know,” he murmurs. “You used to fall asleep when I did this.”

“I might again,” I admit with a shaky laugh.

His smile flickers, then fades, replaced with something deeper. Raw. He rinses my hair, then repeats the process, slow and careful, like he’s afraid I’ll break if he rushes.

And maybe I would. But not here. Not with him.

“I missed this,” I whisper.

He kisses the corner of my mouth, tender, lingering. “I missed you.”

Tears spill, hot even through the steam. I clutch at him, my nails biting into his shoulders, my sobs muffled against his lips as he kisses me again, again, again. Not hungry or frantic. Just… there. Present. A reminder that we survived. That somehow, after everything, we’re still here.

When we finally part, he cradles my face in his hands, his thumbs brushing my cheeks. “You’re really back.”

“I’m really back.” My voice is broken but sure. “And I’m not leaving you again.”

He rests his forehead against mine, both of us crying quietly in the bath like idiots, clinging as if the world might rip us apart again if we dare to let go.

I bury my face against his throat, breathing him in—soap and steel and Garrick—and whisper, “I love you. More than anything. More than life. Always.”

“I love you too,” he answers instantly, fiercely. His arms squeeze me until I squeak a little, and for the first time in months, laughter slips out of me.

It feels strange. Fragile. Perfect.

And in that moment, I know: whatever comes next, whatever darkness is waiting, whatever fate tries to rip from us—this is ours. This love. This bond. This ridiculous, stubborn, feral life we’ve built.

And I’ll burn the world to ash before I let it go.

The jug clatters softly against the rim as Garrick sets it aside. His arms wrap around me again, grounding me against his chest, and I sag into him like a rag doll. His shoulder is warm and solid beneath my cheek, his pulse steady under my lips.

He shifts, reaching for the soap, and then his hands are on me again. Slow. Careful. Reverent.

The washcloth drags across my back first, gentle circles down my spine. Then his palm follows, calloused and sure, like he can’t help touching me even when there’s no dirt to scrub away.

I let my eyes close. My arms dangle around his shoulders, my cheek pressed to the crook of his neck. “I never thought I’d feel anything again,” I whisper.

His movements pause, the cloth hovering just above my ribs.

“Not heat,” I murmur, blinking against the tears that threaten again. “Not tiredness. Not hunger. Not your hands.” My breath hitches, shame and grief twisting in my chest. “I thought I was lost forever. That I’d just…watch. Powerless. Until I faded.”

The cloth falls back into the water with a soft splash. His hands—just his hands now—curve over my sides, smoothing down my arms, wrapping me closer. His lips brush my temple.

“You’re not lost,” he says, voice low and certain, the kind of voice that makes the whole world bend around him. “You’re not going anywhere. Not without me.”

I clutch his shoulders tighter, breathing him in, letting the soap and steam and his touch ground me in the now.

He takes his time, washing every inch of me like I’m breakable glass. My arms, my hands, each finger kissed after he rinses it clean. My chest, his palm pressed over my heart like he’s trying to convince himself it’s still beating. My legs, the muscles of my thighs trembling with exhaustion.

Everywhere he touches, he whispers the same promise.

“You’re here. You’re mine, and you’re not going anywhere.”

By the time he’s finished, my head is tipped back, tears slipping silently down my cheeks. But for the first time, they’re not only grief.

I feel.

The water. His touch. The heat of his body pressed against mine.

And gods, I never want to stop feeling again.

My head lolls against his shoulder, lips grazing his damp skin as I whisper, “Garrick…”

He hums, still stroking circles into my spine, patient as ever. Too patient. My husband—the man who once made me scream in darkened halls, who made me ache for days with nothing more than his hands—is holding me like I’ll shatter. And gods, part of me needs that. But another part… another part has been starving.

“For months,” I whisper, my voice raw, “I’ve watched you.”

His whole body goes still beneath me.

“I saw you sleep,” I continue, tears and want tangling together. “I saw you eat, and fight, and break yourself holding me down when I was gone. I saw you, Garrick. And every godsdamned night, I thought about this—” My lips brush his jaw, trembling. “About your body against mine. About how much I missed your hands. Your mouth. Your weight over me.”

“Len…” His voice cracks, half warning, half plea.

I cup his face, dragging my thumb over his cheekbone. My mouth is dry, my chest tight, but I force the words out because I need him to understand. “Prove this is real. Please. Touch me.”

The air between us tightens. Steam curls against my face, water lapping quietly around us. His eyes—gods, his eyes—burn like he’s seconds from losing himself, but still he hesitates, the careful soldier, the cautious husband who’s spent months guarding a broken shell of me.

My voice splinters as I beg, “Please, Garrick. I need you. I need this.”

His jaw clenches. His breath hitches. And then his mouth crushes down on mine, desperate and wet and trembling like he’s been holding back for lifetimes.

The kiss sears. His hands slide up my thighs, gripping, anchoring, pulling me tighter into his lap until there’s no space left between us. Until I can feel him—hard, hot, alive beneath me. My moan breaks against his mouth, and his growl answers, low in his throat, as though he’s been waiting for this as long as I have.

“Real enough for you?” he rasps when he finally breaks away, his lips trailing fire down my throat.

I laugh, breathless, tilting my head back to give him more. “Not even close.”

His mouth trails down my throat, lips reverent, hands slow, careful where once they’d have been rough. Garrick Tavis—the man who usually takes me apart with sheer force—holds me like I’m something sacred.

And maybe I am. Not a queen. Not a viper. Not a ghost clawing at the veil. Just his wife. Alive. Breathing. In his arms again.

I sigh into the kiss, clinging tighter to him as the water rocks around us, steam wrapping us in a cocoon. My legs slide higher over his hips, and his breath hitches, forehead falling against mine.

“Gods, Len,” he whispers, voice shredded, “I don’t—” His throat works. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t.” My fingers press to his jaw, forcing him to meet my eyes. My smile trembles. “You never could. Not like this.”

For a heartbeat, he just stares at me—like he’s memorising me all over again. Then he nods, slow, ragged, and lowers his mouth to mine in another kiss. This one softer, lingering. A promise.

His hand drifts down, over my ribs, my waist, between my thighs. I shudder, tears stinging my eyes because it feels real. Heat and ache, pleasure curling where I thought I’d never feel again.

“Still want this?” he murmurs against my lips, testing, begging me to stop him if I need to.

I laugh, breathless. “I’ve wanted this for months, Garrick. Please.”

He swallows hard, and then he’s shifting me, lifting me slightly so he can slide into me slow—achingly slow, filling me inch by inch. I gasp, clutching at his shoulders, tears spilling as my body stretches around him, finally alive, finally whole.

The world narrows to the feel of him inside me, to his forehead pressed against mine, his mouth whispering broken words.

“I love you. I love you. Gods, Len—I love you.”

I sob, kissing him hard, tasting salt and steam and us. “I love you too. Always. Always.”

He moves slowly, rocking me in his lap, water lapping over the sides with every careful thrust. No roughness. No snapping pace. Just gentle, consuming worship. His hands cradle my hips, my back, his thumbs stroking as though he’s soothing me through it.

Every time he enters me, my heart cracks wider open. Every time he whispers my name, I know—I’m home.

And when release finally tears through me, soft and shaking, he holds me tighter, trembling as he follows me over, burying his face in my neck as though he’ll never let me go again.

We stay like that in the water, clinging, sobbing, whispering our love into each other’s skin. Not queen and commander. Not viper and soldier. Just Garrick and Len.

Alive. Together.

GARRICK

Her hair is damp against my chest, sticking to my skin where the heat of her body presses close. I’ve got her practically curled in my lap, her legs tangled with mine, her head pillowed under my chin. She fits there like she always has—like she was carved for me.

Gods, she’s really here.

I keep tracing slow shapes across her bare back, half to soothe her, half to reassure myself she won’t vanish again. Her skin still shivers under my fingers, her body weak, trembling like she’s been wrung out. But she’s warm. Alive. Breathing.

Every time I blink, I expect to wake up alone with the husk. But then she shifts, mumbling something stubborn under her breath, her nose scrunching when I brush a kiss against her temple.

“Sleep,” I murmur into her hair. “You need it.”

She tips her head up, those green eyes heavy but sharp, and smirks at me. My smirk. “Missed too much already. Don’t want to miss a second more.”

Gods, I want to laugh and cry at the same time. “Len. You’re falling asleep in my arms while trying to argue with me. Just rest. I’m not going anywhere.”

She huffs, the little brat, and buries her face against my neck. “If I close my eyes, you’ll disappear.”

My chest aches. I tighten my arms around her. “I swear it, baby. I’ll be right here when you wake. I’ll hold you the whole time. I won’t let you go.”

That earns me a soft smile, sleepy and devastating. Her lashes flutter, but she’s still fighting, still clinging to every second like she can’t risk wasting them.

“Rest,” I scold again, brushing my thumb under her eye where shadows still linger. “Or I’ll—”

“Spank me?” she interrupts, her voice hoarse but smug.

I bark a laugh, my forehead falling against hers. “Gods, you’re incorrigible.”

Her lips twitch into a pout. “Not a no.”

I grin down at her, shaking my head. “Maybe—maybe—if you’re lucky. And if you actually get some godsdamned sleep.”

She sulks, biting her lip, narrowing her eyes at me like she’s already plotting. “You’re mean.”

I can’t help it—I laugh. Full and unrestrained. The sound feels foreign, like I haven’t used it in months. Maybe I haven’t. I tilt her chin up and kiss her slow, soft, letting the sound bleed into her mouth.

“You’re back,” I whisper against her lips. “And you’re mine. Always. Now go the fuck to sleep, wife.”

Her pout softens into a crooked grin, and finally—finally—her body relaxes in my arms. Her eyes slip shut.

I hold her tighter, tracing lazy circles on her skin as her breathing evens out, her smirk fading into peace.

I don’t sleep. Not yet. I just watch her, memorising every line of her face, every rise and fall of her chest.

Because she’s here. Whole. Herself. And I’m never letting her go again.

Her breathing steadies against my chest, soft and even, her body finally gone slack with rest. Gods, it feels like a miracle.

For weeks—months—I’ve begged for this sound. For the weight of her in my arms. For the certainty that she’s not about to thrash, not about to claw her own skin open, not about to vanish into the void while I’m powerless to stop it.

And now she’s here. Whole. Sleeping.

I press my face into her hair, biting down hard on the inside of my cheek. Because if I don’t, I’ll sob loud enough to wake her.

The past months have been hell. Pure, unrelenting hell.

I’ve buried too much already—Chompy, that strange little monster who died protecting us. My friends. My family. Every ounce of normal life I thought I’d ever get to have.

And through it all, I kept her body alive. A body that wasn’t her, not really. A husk that screamed and babbled and bit and bled. I held her down until my arms ached, begged her not to hurt herself, even when I knew it wasn’t my Len in there. I sedated her. Gods help me, I sedated her. Because I couldn’t lose her, even when she wasn’t really mine.

And then the ghost. My fucking wife, haunting our house, rattling the walls, throwing things at Myrnin like some furious poltergeist. The only proof I had that she was still fighting. That she wasn’t gone.

I lived in limbo. Half grieving. Half pretending. Every day I wondered—was I insane? Was she ever coming back? Or was I doomed to love her broken pieces until the end of my days?

I hated it. Hated every second.

And gods, I loved her through it anyway.

Because she’s Eleanor. My wife. My viper. My chaos. And no matter what state she’s in, she’s mine.

But tonight—tonight she’s back.

Her wicked smirk. Her stubborn tongue. Her laugh that cuts me open and stitches me back together in the same heartbeat. She’s here. Alive. In my arms.

And all the weight I’ve carried for months—the grief, the rage, the guilt—finally cracks.

My body shakes with silent sobs I can’t hold back, tears spilling hot against her hair. I hold her tighter, afraid she’ll slip away again if I loosen my grip for even a breath.

But she doesn’t. She stays. Her warmth bleeding into me, her heart beating steady against mine.

And for the first time in months, I believe it.

She’ll be okay.

And if she’s okay… then I will be too.

Because my wife—my feral, unhinged, impossible wife—would do anything for me.

And gods know, I’d do anything for her.

Always.

The light spills across her face, catching in the red of her hair, painting her in silver and fire all at once. My viper. My wife. My miracle.

She shifts a little in her sleep, burrowing closer, her nose brushing against my chest like she’s afraid I’ll move. As if there’s a power in this world that could pry me from her now.

Gods, all I feel is love. Pure and consuming.

I’m lucky. Beyond lucky. Because this woman—the fiercest, wildest soul I’ve ever known—loves me so much she clawed her way back from death itself. She fought the After, the Void, the gods, even herself… just to come home to me.

She loves me so much she was jealous of herself. That thought makes me huff out a laugh, wet with tears. Of course she was. Only Eleanor could look at her own broken reflection and snarl because it had my attention. And gods, I’ll never stop being grateful for that feral, possessive love.

Because it means there’s nothing she wouldn’t do for me. No line she wouldn’t cross. No fire she wouldn’t walk through. She’s proven it a thousand times, and still she keeps proving it.

And I—

I’m whole because of her. Because she chose me, again and again, even when it would’ve been easier to let go. Because she made me hers, and never once let me doubt it.

She makes me feel loved. Truly loved. Enough that even in my darkest moments, I held on. Enough that tonight, when I thought I’d lost her forever, she came back to me.

I brush a thumb over her cheek, soft, reverent, memorizing every inch of her face. I’ll never take this for granted again.

She’s here. She’s mine. And gods, I will spend the rest of my life proving she’s just as loved.

ELEANOR

The dark is soft around us. For the first time in months, I can feel the warmth of a blanket over my skin, the rise and fall of Garrick’s chest beneath my cheek, the steady drum of his heartbeat beneath my ear. It should be enough to lull me into sleep.

But of course, it isn’t.

I stir, restless, that old itch in my bones—the one that never let me sit still, not in Basgiath, not in Aretia, not even in the After when I was supposed to be a bloody ghost. I slide carefully off Garrick’s chest, biting down on my lip when the room tilts. Gods, my body feels like it’s been wrung out and left to dry in the sun.

Still. I’m not a child. I’m not the husk. I can walk myself to the bathroom without—

My knees buckle.

Before I hit the floor, something catches me—cold, invisible, but solid. Air wraps around my waist like Garrick’s arms, holding me steady before I faceplant into the rug.

“Len.” His voice is sharp even in sleep, groggy but full of command. A second later, his eyes snap open, pale green and furious in the moonlight. “What the fuck are you doing?”

I pout, caught mid-sneak like some errant child. “I was going to the bathroom.”

“By collapsing on the floor?” he growls, pulling me back into his arms with his signet before he even sits up.

“I can walk myself,” I snap, wriggling like a feral cat as he tucks me against his chest. “I’m not her.” My gaze flicks toward the memory of the husk, that broken shell that had to be carried everywhere. “I’m me. I can stand.”

His eyebrow arches in that way that’s both infuriating and unfairly attractive. “You sure about that?”

“Yes,” I say, petulant.

He sighs, the kind of long-suffering sound that makes me want to bite him just to prove I’m still sharp. “I’ve missed you, Lenny,” he murmurs, lips brushing the top of my head, “but I didn’t miss your attitude.”

I grin, sharp and feral, even as I sag against him because godsdammit, he’s right. I can barely sit upright without swaying. “Well,” I mutter, “you don’t get one without the other.”

He huffs a laugh against my hair, tightening his arms around me like he’s never letting go again. “Unfortunately.”

And despite myself, despite the weakness in my bones and the stubborn heat in my chest, I melt into him. Because gods help him, he missed this. He missed me.

And so did I.

“I can walk,” I insist, pushing at his chest until he finally loosens his grip. My voice comes out hoarse, but it’s mine. Not the husk’s broken babble. Not silence. Mine.

Garrick gives me that look—the one halfway between murder and heartbreak. “Len—”

“No,” I cut him off, stubborn fire sparking even through the tremble in my knees. “I’ve been lying down for months. I’ve been carried like some fragile little doll. You’re not doing that to me anymore. I want to walk.”

His jaw flexes. “You can barely stand.”

“Then catch me if I fall.” I grin, feral, teeth bared. “That’s your job, isn’t it?”

He groans into his hands like he’s begging some god for patience, then rises off the bed with the slow menace of a man resigned to watching disaster unfold. “Fine. But I swear to every God, Lenny, if you faceplant, I am carrying you back and tying you to the bed.”

I push myself up, swaying immediately, and Garrick’s arms twitch like he’s about to snatch me up again. I throw him a glare. “Don’t you dare.”

His hands hover a breath away from my waist, the air of his signet already curling like invisible ropes, ready to yank me upright. “This is insanity,” he mutters, pacing half a step behind me as I wobble toward the door. “You’ve been a ghost for months, baby. You need rest.”

“Insanity is my brand,” I shoot back through clenched teeth, focusing on the way my bare feet drag across the floorboards. One step. Two. My legs feel like wet paper, but gods, I’m moving.

Garrick is practically breathing down my neck, his hand flinching every time I list sideways. “You’re going to kill me before you kill yourself,” he growls.

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” I pant, gripping the doorframe for balance. My arms shake, my chest heaves, but I’m upright. On my own. I look back at him with a triumphant grin. “See? Not dead.”

He stares at me like he wants to strangle me and kiss me at the same time. Probably both. “You’re out of your godsdamned mind.”

“And you love me for it.”

His exhale is sharp, pained, but his hand finally comes to rest against my back, steadying me. “More than anything.”

And for a moment, I almost forget how weak I feel. Because his eyes are on me like they always were—furious, protective, unyielding—and for the first time since Draithus, I feel like me again.

I make it five steps before the fire in my veins shifts into something dangerous—cocky.

“I told you,” I throw over my shoulder, grinning like a lunatic as I shuffle toward the washroom. “I can walk. Might even do a little dance if you’re nice to me.”

“Len,” Garrick warns, his voice flat steel.

I wave him off, because gods, it feels good to be upright. To move under my own strength instead of being carried like glass. “Relax, baby. I’ve got this.”

And then my knees buckle.

The floor rushes up to meet me, but it never does—because Garrick’s there. His arms catch me mid-fall, his chest a solid wall against my cheek, his signet crackling in the air like he’s one heartbeat away from tying me down with it.

“Godsdammit, Len!” His voice cracks sharp with fury, but underneath it—fear. He clutches me too tight, like if he loosens even an inch I’ll slip through his hands forever. “Do you have any idea what you’re doing to me?”

“I was—” I try, but my throat closes. I was just trying to prove I’m still me. That I’m not broken.

But my legs shake like leaves, my body trembling from the effort of those few pathetic steps. And his face—fuck, his face is wrecked. Red-rimmed eyes, jaw locked, grief carved into every line.

“I can’t—” His voice drops to a ragged whisper, forehead pressing against mine. “I can’t lose you again, Len. I can’t watch you fall apart one more time. I’ll break with you. Do you understand that?”

Tears sting hot in my eyes, guilt burning sharper than any wound. “I just… wanted to walk to the fucking bathroom.”

“You nearly collapsed in the middle of the floor.” His hand cups my jaw, thumb brushing over my cheek like he’s terrified I’ll vanish again. “You’re fragile, Len. And I know you hate that. But I need you alive more than I need you strong. So for once in your godsdamned life, listen to me.”

The feral spark in me bristles, but it dies quick. Because his voice isn’t angry—it’s broken. He’s begging.

“I hear you,” I whisper back, my lips trembling against his. “I’m sorry.”

His chest caves with a shuddering breath, and he presses his mouth to my hair, muttering into it like a prayer. “No more proving yourself. You’re here. That’s all I need.”

And wrapped in his arms, carried back toward the bed whether I want it or not, I realise something I haven’t in months—he’s right.

I’m here.

Alive.

And for Garrick Tavis, that’s enough.

He scoops me up like I weigh nothing and stalks straight to the bathroom, jaw clenched so tight I’m surprised it doesn’t crack. He sets me down on the edge of the tub like I might shatter, one arm still braced around my back.

“Garrick,” I growl, teeth bared.

“Don’t start.” His voice is low, dangerous—like he’s one heartbeat from locking me in bed with his signet.

I jab a finger into his chest, ignoring how my hand shakes. “If you’re going to make me rest, fine. I’ll rest. I’ll eat. I’ll even let you tuck me into bed like some fragile doll. But you listen to me.”

His brow furrows, eyes burning into mine.

“I am not her.” My voice cracks, sharp with fury. “I’m not that husk you’ve been feeding and bathing and carrying for months. I’m not broken and I’m not some empty shell. I’m me. I’m your wife. And even if I’m weak now—” my throat tightens, but I force it out, “—I won’t stay weak. Because I hate it. Gods, I hate it. And you know me, Garrick. You know I’ll tear myself apart before I let weakness define me.”

His face softens then, the fight bleeding out of him, leaving nothing but exhaustion and something deeper—something like awe.

“Len…” His hand cups my jaw, thumb tracing the wetness under my eye. “I do know that. I’ve always known that. And maybe that’s what terrifies me most.”

My chest stutters. I bite down on my lip, forcing the tears back, because I don’t want to cry. Not when I’ve finally clawed my way back here.

“Then understand,” I whisper. “Understand I’ll take it slow for you. I’ll rest. I’ll heal. I won’t fight too hard and break myself again. But don’t you dare forget who I am. I’ll never be weak. Not really. Not me.”

He exhales like I’ve just stolen the air from him. And then he nods, just once, forehead pressing against mine.

“I understand,” he murmurs. “And gods help me, Lenny, I’ll never mistake you for weak.”

I smile, shaky but real, and finally push him toward the door. “Good. Now wait the fuck outside while I take a piss, husband.”

For the first time in months, he laughs. A real laugh. The sound of it nearly buckles my knees again.

And for a second, I don’t feel weak at all.

The door clicks shut behind him, and I lean against it for a second, breathing hard. My whole body feels like glass balanced on a blade—one wrong move and I’ll shatter. But I did it. I made him understand. I’m not weak. Not me. Not ever.

When I’m finished, I wash my hands slowly, deliberately, staring at my reflection in the mirror. The face looking back is pale, shadows etched under my eyes, lips cracked—but it’s me. Not the husk. Not the ghost. Just me. Eleanor fucking Tavis.

When I open the door, he’s waiting, of course. Leaning against the wall like he hasn’t been holding his breath the entire time.

“Stalker,” I mutter.

He raises a brow, pushing off the wall. “Making sure you don’t collapse.”

I lift my chin, stepping past him like I’ve still got a shred of dignity left. “I didn’t collapse in there, did I?”

“No,” he admits, falling into step at my side. Too close. Always too close. His hand hovers at the small of my back like a leash he’s dying to snap into place.

I roll my eyes. “You’re hovering.”

“You nearly face-planted into the floor ten minutes ago.”

“One time,” I snap, wobbling slightly as I walk back toward our room.

His hand shoots out, steadying me before I can protest. “That’s all it takes, Len.” His voice is soft, almost pleading.

I grit my teeth but let him guide me, each step measured, stubborn pride keeping my head high even though my legs tremble like I’ve run a mile. He doesn’t say anything else, just watches, shadowing my every move.

By the time I reach the bed, I’m breathless, but gods, the victory tastes sweet. I flop onto the mattress dramatically, grinning up at him.

“See? Not weak. I walked. All by myself.”

He drags a hand down his face, muttering, “You’re going to kill me.”

I smirk, pulling the blanket over myself. “Not if you keep hovering.”

His laugh is low, broken, but real. He sits beside me, brushing damp strands of red hair off my forehead. “Gods, I missed this.”

And for the first time since I woke, I don’t feel like a husk of myself. I feel like his wife.

The blanket shifts at the edge of the bed, and then a glossy black head slides into view.

“Noodle,” I whisper, and my chest cracks open at the sight of him.

He chitters so loudly I swear the windows rattle, wriggling his whole ridiculous body until he practically launches onto the mattress. His scales are warm against my skin, his fangs scraping as he presses his head under my chin. He coils and uncoils like he doesn’t know what to do with himself, keening so sharp it almost sounds like sobbing.

I grin, choking on tears as I wrap my arms around him. “Yeah, I missed you too, trouble.”

But then the smile fades, because the bed feels too empty. Too wrong. There should be another set of paws clawing at the sheets. A wet snout digging into my ribs. My little monster spitting acid at Garrick whenever he dared to move me from his side.

Chompy.

Gods, it hurts.

I swallow hard, pressing my face into Noodle’s scales. “It’s just us now, huh?”

Noodle chirps furiously, wriggling harder, like he’s trying to tell me everything I’ve missed. His little fangs scrape the blanket, his tail thumping against the wood of the bedframe as if he’s acting out a whole saga.

I laugh wetly, brushing tears off my cheeks. “You’re giving me gossip, aren’t you? What, Garrick left his boots in the hall again? Or did Myrnin steal your bones?”

He chitters louder, almost smug, and I can’t help it—I laugh harder, shoulders shaking.

Garrick just sits there, watching us with a smile that’s so soft it kills me. His eyes crinkle at the corners, tired but full of warmth, like he’s been waiting for this exact moment.

My boys.

My little family.

Maybe I’m not whole yet. Maybe I’ll never be. But sitting here, tangled in Garrick’s blanket, Noodle pressed against me like he’ll never let go again… it feels like enough.

Noodle chitters once more, then wriggles off my lap and dives under the bed like a little black streak of chaos.

“Oh gods,” I groan, already knowing what’s coming.

Sure enough, he emerges with a femur clamped between his fangs, tail lashing with pride. He drops it on the sheets in front of me with a triumphant screech.

I grin through my tears. “Good boy. Show Mama your treasures.”

He vanishes again, dragging out a cracked rib, then something disturbingly sharp that might’ve once belonged to a wyvern. Each one is placed carefully on the bed, like a shrine. He hisses and chitters like he’s narrating the story of every piece.

My chest tightens with pride. My little murder son, so proud of his hoard. So desperate to make me smile.

Garrick leans closer, eyeing one jagged spine that’s half splintered. His voice cracks when he whispers, “Chompy would’ve liked that one, huh?”

The air stutters.

Noodle freezes, his body coiled tight around my thigh. Then he makes a low, broken noise—nothing like his usual chatter. It’s keening, almost mournful, a sound that punches straight through me.

“Yeah,” Garrick says softly, reaching out to rub the serpent’s scales. “I know, Noods. I miss him too.”

Noodle presses his face into both of us, his coils shifting until we’re wrapped in his warmth. He nudges my cheek with his blunt fangs, then bumps his head into Garrick’s chest, insistent, like he’s reminding us.

He’s still here.

We still have him.

And even though grief claws at my ribs, I stroke down his sleek back, whispering, “We know, baby. We’re not going anywhere either.”

Our family’s smaller now. But it’s still a family.

And gods help anyone who tries to take what’s left from us.

I lie back against the pillows, Noodle still coiled around my waist, his bones clattering on the sheets like an audience too close to the stage.

My fingers trace over one of them absently, but my eyes are on Garrick.

“Tell me,” I whisper.

His brow furrows. “Tell you what?”

“Draithus.” The word tastes like ash on my tongue. My throat burns. “I know I died, Garrick. I remember the pain. I remember the silence. But… I don’t remember the rest. Not really.”

He goes still. Too still.

“I heard things,” I press, the words shaking. “When I was… gone. When I was trapped. They said you—” I break off, swallowing. “You died too. But you didn’t, did you? Because you swore you’d stay.”

His jaw works, muscles straining. He looks away.

“Garrick.” My voice cracks sharp, too sharp. “Don’t you dare lie to me.”

Silence stretches, thick and suffocating. And then—

“I killed them.” His voice is low, guttural. His eyes flick back to me, dark and burning. “Kasten. Aedriel. I tore them apart, and then I let the fire take me. I burnt out, Len.” His voice breaks. “I died. So did Nox. Chradh. Noodle. All of us.”

The room tilts. My chest hollows out.

He swallows hard, dragging his hand through his hair like he’s trying to rip the memory out. “There was never gonna be a life beyond you, Lenny. Not for me. Not for us. You fell, and I—” He chokes, shaking his head. “I wasn’t going to stay in a world that didn’t have you.”

Silence. My lungs burn. I can’t move.

He groans, dropping his face into his hands. “Fuck. You’re angry, aren’t you?”

I just stare at him, my heart thundering like it’s trying to decide between breaking in half or clawing its way out of my chest.

My breath comes sharp and shallow, like the air itself is cutting me.

“You what?” The words rip out of me. Too loud. Too jagged. “You burnt out? You—” My voice fractures into a sob, my nails digging into the sheets. “You fucking died?”

He flinches. “Len—”

“No!” My scream shatters through the room, and Noodle recoils with a pitiful hiss. My chest feels like it’s splitting in two. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”

His face twists, raw and aching. “I stayed with you. I—”

“YOU WEREN’T SUPPOSED TO DIE!” My throat burns, my vision swimming as I thrash against the pillows, against the weight of it all. “Not you, not Nox, not Chradh, not Noodle. None of you. Gods, Garrick—I never wanted this. Any of this!”

Tears stream down my cheeks hot and relentless, and I claw at my own skin like I can rip the guilt out. “I was supposed to die alone, not drag you all into it. You weren’t supposed to—fuck—you weren’t supposed to choose me like that. You were supposed to live.”

He reaches for me, but I shove his hand away with a sob that rips me open.

“I spent three months watching them grieve us!” I scream at him, words breaking, choking. “Three months watching Violet and Bodhi fall apart. Kat locked in her fucking bed. Elias drinking himself into the ground. I watched Bodhi sleep in our bed like it was a shrine, Garrick! And I couldn’t touch them. Couldn’t speak. Couldn’t help. I was stuck, forced to watch the people I love lose everything—because of me. Because I wasn’t strong enough. Because I—”

I can’t finish. The words collapse in my throat, smothered by sobs so violent my whole body shakes.

Garrick drags me against his chest anyway, arms iron around me even as I beat at him with fists too weak to hurt. “Stop,” he growls, voice breaking, forehead pressed to mine. “Stop blaming yourself. Stop, Len. You hear me? This isn’t your fault.”

“Yes it is!” I shriek, clawing at him, at myself. “You died because of me. They all did. And I had to—” My voice cracks to nothing, just wet gasps against his chest. “I had to watch it all. Every second. And you—”

My sobs splinter into silence, raw and choking. “You didn’t.”

His grip on me tightens until it almost hurts, and when I glance up through my tears, his eyes are blazing.

“You think you’re the only one who suffered?” His voice is raw, loud, cutting through my sobs. “Yeah, maybe I wasn’t a ghost, maybe I didn’t watch our friends tear themselves apart from the other side of the fucking veil—but I was here, Len.” His chest heaves against mine, the tremor of his fury vibrating through me. “Alone. With her.”

The husk. My own empty skin. My mouth goes dry.

“I fed her. Bathed her. Held her down when she tried to hurt herself. Every godsdamned day, I stared into your eyes and saw nothing. Do you have any idea what that did to me? To keep breathing when you weren’t really here? To know the woman I loved more than anything was gone, and I had to keep protecting what was left of her?”

I swallow hard, my nails digging into his shirt. His voice is breaking, but his anger is wildfire.

“So you want to be furious that I died with you? Fine. Be fucking furious.” His jaw clenches, tears streaking down his cheeks. “But I get to be furious too. Because you died, Len. You chose to fulfil that godsdamned prophecy. You threw yourself into it without me.” His voice cracks, but he pushes on, louder. “You left me.”

The words cut like a blade, deep and merciless.

“I had no choice,” I whisper, hating how weak it sounds.

“The fuck you didn’t!” He slams a hand against the mattress beside my head, caging me in. His voice shatters into something guttural. “There’s always a choice. Always. You sacrificed yourself for a prophecy, for fate, for them. And you left me here. Alone. So don’t you dare stand there screaming at me for burning out. Don’t you dare tell me I shouldn’t have followed you. Because I wasn’t about to live in a world without you, Eleanor. Not then. Not ever.”

Silence falls, broken only by my ragged breaths and the wild pounding of my heart.

And gods, it hits me like a hammer—he’s right. He has every right to be furious with me.

I died. I left him.

And he stayed.

The silence after his words is unbearable. Like the whole house is holding its breath, waiting to see which one of us breaks first.

And it’s me.

My anger shatters into sobs so violent my chest aches. My hands fist in his shirt, clutching him like I’ll fall apart if I let go. “I didn’t want to leave you,” I choke out. “I thought—I thought if it was me, it wouldn’t be you. I thought I could end it, Garrick. That I could be enough.”

His forehead drops to mine, his tears hot against my cheeks. “And I thought I could live without you. I thought I could keep my promise, survive this war, and find you in the After. But when I held you—” His voice breaks, ragged. “When I held your body in my arms, Len, I knew. I knew I couldn’t. So yes, I burned out. Yes, I died. And I don’t regret it. Not for a second.”

I sob harder, because gods, he means it. He would choose me even in death.

“Garrick…” My voice is barely there, a ghost of sound. “These past few months… all I’ve wanted was you. Not the After. Not the war. Just you. I begged the gods, begged the Balance, begged anyone who would listen—please, let me go home. Let me go back to him.”

His arms wrap tighter around me, like he can fuse us back together with sheer force. “You’re here now. That’s all that matters. You came back to me.”

I shake my head against his chest. “I shouldn’t have left you. I never wanted you to feel that pain.”

“And I never wanted you to carry it alone,” he whispers back, broken but fierce. “We’re a team, Len. Always. If one of us goes down, the other follows. That’s the deal.”

I laugh through tears, the sound shaking and bitter. “Gods, we’re fucked up.”

He smiles wetly, kissing my hair, his shoulders trembling. “Yeah. But we’re fucked up together.”

And for the first time in months—since Draithus, since death, since fire and prophecy and all the pieces of me splintering—I believe him.

We’re still here. Both of us.

Alive.

And we’re not letting go.

Chapter Text

“I don’t know how it’s happened. For years, I spat on the gods’ names, cursed them for every cruelty, every silence. But after what Myrnin and Malek did for her—after they pieced my wife’s soul back together when I couldn’t—I think… gods help me, I trust them now.

I’ll never say it aloud. Not to Len. Not to anyone. But I see it when Myrnin visits. He comes with food, or books, or just to sit near us. It’s not only duty. It’s not only because Fate owes us something.

The truth is simpler. The god of Fate is lonely. And though I’d never thought it possible, I think he comes here because—for the first time in centuries—he has a family to sit beside.”

- From the private journals of Garrick Tavis

ELEANOR

Two days.

It’s been two days since I clawed my way back into this body, into these bones, into this fragile skin that still feels too tight and too foreign. Two days since the veil stitched me back together—or maybe just decided to spit me out again instead of keeping me caged in the dark.

And holy fucking gods, I hate it.

I hate being weak. I hate waking up with my limbs aching like I’ve been beaten with iron rods. I hate the migraine that won’t let go, a constant hammer in my skull that makes even Garrick’s gentle touch feel too loud. And the voidfire? The fire that once roared in my veins like an unstoppable tide? It’s barely a flicker now. A candle flame sputtering in a storm.

I’m pathetic.

I despise being pathetic.

But I’m also not a complete monster—I know Garrick’s traumatised. He spent months watching me unravel, months holding a husk of me together with bloody hands and sheer willpower. So instead of clawing myself upright, instead of pacing the floors until I collapse like I used to, I’m… resting.

Resting.

It’s driving me insane.

I glance over at him now. He’s sprawled on the couch, head tilted back, book still open on his chest. We’d been reading together—runes, ancient markings, something I’d pretended to give a shit about until my eyes blurred and the letters became little daggers stabbing my temples. Garrick didn’t notice. He’s been half-dead on his feet since I came back, terrified I’ll vanish if he so much as blinks.

But he’s sleeping now. Peaceful. And I’m sitting here, twitching, restless, staring at the door like it’s a challenge.

Earlier, I asked if I could go out. If I could see them. My dragons. Nox, who I haven’t touched properly in months, not since the fire pulled me out of myself. And Chradh, grumpy bastard though he is. Garrick told me, “Later.”

Later.

I hate that word.

I stare at him. His chest rises, falls. He needs the rest. He deserves the rest.

Which means… if I sneak out right now, he won’t even know.

Yes, I already know this is against my general’s strict fucking orders. Garrick is paranoid that if I so much as walk across a room alone, I’ll collapse. Break. Shatter. And, okay, maybe he’s not wrong. My body feels like glass held together with spit. But still—fuck him.

I’ve missed Nox.

I shove myself up from the chair, every bone protesting like I’m eighty years old, and glare at Garrick’s sleeping form one last time. “You’ll forgive me later,” I mutter, because I’m nothing if not an optimist.

And then, barefoot and half-dizzy, I creep toward the door.

The moment my hand hits the wood, I grin.

Gods, this is going to be fun.

The night air tastes different after months of being half-dead. It’s sharp, bracing, tinged with ash and salt from the coast. My bare feet stumble against the grass as I creep out of the Lennox estate, but my chest is pounding with something I haven’t felt in so long—excitement.

And then I see him.

Nox.

My dragon. My cannibalistic, egotistical, melodramatic bastard of a dragon, looming in the dark like a mountain of white scales and void-shadow eyes. He’s crouched low, waiting, his wings tucked in tight, but his head snaps toward me the second I step into the garden.

For a moment, he doesn’t move. Just watches. Measuring.

And I grin. Wide. Wicked. My chest aches with how much I’ve missed him.

“Hey, Noxie,” I say, loud enough that Chradh—standing calmly at his side like the ever-patient best friend—can definitely hear.

Nox huffs. Loud. Dramatic. The kind of sulk that rattles the ground.

“You dare.” His voice rumbles through me like rolling thunder. “You dare use that name here, in front of him?”

I bite my lip to keep from laughing, but it doesn’t work. “What, Noxie? You love it. Don’t even try to lie to me.”

His massive head jerks back like I slapped him. Chradh makes a low noise that might be dragon-laughter.

“I am not soft. I am not your—your pet. I am NOXARATHIAN. Devourer. Slayer of Venin. Cannibal of dragons. Not…” He snarls, lowering his head until his fangs gleam inches from my face. “…Noxie.”

I snort so hard I nearly fall over. “Everyone knows you’re a secret softie for me, don’t even try it. Chradh knows. Garrick knows. Fuck, even Noodle knows. And he tortures people for fun.”

Chradh rumbles with that calm, wise amusement of his. “She’s right, you know.”

Nox snaps his wings open just to look scary, but I can feel it—the bond thrumming between us like a heartbeat, jagged and broken for months but still there, still ours. He’s sulking. Pretending. But underneath all the theatrics? He’s just as wrecked as me.

So I step forward, ignoring the way my body protests, and press myself against his massive claw. Hugging it. My tiny body against his impossible scale. My arms barely fit around one of his talons, but I don’t care.

“I missed you, Noxie.” My voice cracks, the grin slipping into something raw, something real. “Gods, I missed you so much.”

For a moment, he doesn’t answer. Just lowers his head, his shadows curling faint and protective around me. Then, so soft I almost miss it—

“I missed you too, little viper.”

And that? That shatters me.

I bury my face against his claw and sob.

Chradh shifts beside us, lowering his head until his molten-brown eyes meet mine. Calm, steady, endless as the mountains.

“It’s been too quiet without you, wildflower,” he says, voice low and warm, wrapping around me like a blanket I didn’t know I needed.

I choke on a laugh that turns into a sob. “Yeah, well—I’m mad at you.” My voice shakes, but I press my palm to his snout anyway. “Especially you, Chradh.”

Nox rumbles, smug. “Not me?”

I shake my head, glaring through my tears. “No. Not you. We had a deal. We go together, or not at all. Of course you’d follow me.” My chest cracks open, a sob splitting free. “But you, Chradh? No. You shouldn’t have. You should’ve lived.”

Chradh closes his eyes, nudging me gently with the tip of his nose, his voice carrying that steady certainty that always anchored me. “There was no hope of a life without my family. Not for me. Not for your husband. We choose you. Always.”

For once, Nox doesn’t snort at his friend’s sentimentality. He just watches, shadows curling tighter around me like a shield.

But then his voice slides into my head, sharp and inevitable. “We visited the After.”

My heart lurches. I freeze, staring up at him. “You… you what?”

“When we burned out, Malek allowed us a few moments with our dead. Our loved ones.”

The air leaves me in a rush. The After. The place I’d been denied. I stumble back a step, knees weak. “And you…?” My throat closes around the question. “You got to see her?”

Nox lowers his massive head until his fangs glint against the moonlight, his black eyes pinning me still. His shadows ripple like the sea, and for once, his voice softens.

“I saw Nyx.”

My breath hitches, my hands trembling against his claw.

Nyx. His mate. The Shadewing he lost centuries ago.

And suddenly the garden feels too small, too quiet, like the entire world is holding its breath.

Nox’s head dips lower until his shadow swallows me whole, his voice coiling through my mind like smoke.

“She told me to keep living.”

I blink at him, stunned. “What?”

“Nyx. She said to protect the little viper who stole my soul.”

My knees buckle. I press a hand to his claw to keep from collapsing, but the tears are already burning, spilling down my face.

He leans closer, massive fangs grazing the grass inches from me, his voice a low rumble that thrums through my bones.

“I loved her.” His shadows twitch, sharp, dangerous. “But I never would’ve left you alone in this world. Not even for her.”

The sob tears free of me before I can stop it. “Nox…”

“She understands. She told me she’s waiting. That she’ll be there when it’s time.”

I cover my mouth with my shaking hands, a scream trapped in my chest.

“But she’s gone, Viper. Truly gone.” His voice lowers, grief curling in the edges of it. “I’m glad I saw her, even for a heartbeat. Because she told me something else.”

I force my eyes up, vision blurred through the tears. “What?”

“The others. The Shadewings.” His head tilts, black eyes burning like a storm. “They’re all there too. Every one of them. And they’re proud of us. Proud of you.”

The words tear me apart. My ribs feel cracked open, my heart raw and bleeding.

Chradh hums low beside us, the sound grounding, steady. “Hear him, wildflower. They’re proud. Of both of you. Of what you’ve done. What you’ve become.”

I choke on a laugh, broken and desperate. “Proud? Of me?”

Nox’s shadows surge around me, brushing against my skin like a thousand claws.

“Especially of you.”

And I collapse against his claw, sobbing, because gods—he means it. They’re gone, but they see me. And somehow, despite everything, they’re proud.

The moment—raw and breaking and soft—is shattered when the door to the Lennox estate slams open. Garrick stumbles out, hair a mess, eyes red-rimmed with exhaustion, shirt half-tugged on.

“Lenny.” His voice is a whip, sharp with panic. “Are you serious? You couldn’t wait until I woke up?”

I wince, shrinking a little against Nox’s claw. “...Hi.”

His eyes blaze as they rake over me, checking, measuring, cataloguing every tremor in my limbs.

Nox lets out a sound halfway between a snort and a laugh, shadows curling smugly around him. “Possessive little husband, isn’t he?”

“Stay out of this, princess,” Garrick snaps without hesitation, glaring at the dragon like he’d gladly wrestle him into submission.

I choke. Chradh goes still. Nox rears his massive head back, shadows bristling like quills.

“Princess?” I squeak, laughter already spilling out of me. “Oh, that’s new.”

Nox snarls, his voice vibrating like a growl across the bond. “Say it again, muscles.”

But Garrick doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even look up. “Princess.” He folds his arms across his chest, jaw tight. “That’s what you are. Giant, sulky, over-dramatic princess.”

I collapse against Nox’s claw, cackling so hard I can barely breathe. “Oh gods. This is the best day of my life.”

Chradh exhales like he’s aged three centuries in as many seconds. “While you were gone, wildflower, nothing changed. These two still don’t get along.”

“Of course they don’t.” I wipe my eyes, giggling. “They’re both stubborn idiots who think they know best and that they’re my favourite.”

“I am your favourite,” Garrick says at the same time Nox snarls, “I am your favourite.”

I sigh dramatically. “You poor thing,” I say to Chradh. “You had to deal with this circus by yourself?”

“I survived,” Chradh rumbles dryly. “But not without considering chewing them to pieces.”

Nox lowers his head to glower at Garrick, shadows curling like smoke. “Keep talking, Muscles.”

Garrick smirks, sharp and unrepentant. “Whatever you say, Princess.”

And just like that, the garden explodes with noise—Nox roaring, Garrick smirking, Chradh muttering about fate abandoning him, and me?

I just laugh. Gods, I laugh until my chest aches. Because after everything—after death, after ghosthood, after silence—this chaos feels like home.

I don’t even have time to blink before Garrick moves. One second I’m perched smugly against Nox’s claw, the next—

“Hey!” I squeal, flailing as Garrick scoops me straight into his arms like I weigh nothing. He clamps me to his chest, already storming back toward the house.

Behind us, Nox roars so loud the ground shakes, wings snapping wide. “Thief! You’re stealing my viper!”

“She’s my wife,” Garrick growls, tightening his hold.

“You hoard her like gold, muscles! Always snatching her away!”

“Because she’s mine!”

I wriggle in Garrick’s arms, laughing and kicking uselessly against him. “Put me down, you brute! I demand time with my dragons!”

“You’ll catch cold.” His tone is firm, brooking no argument.

“It’s summer,” I hiss, jabbing a finger at his chest. “And newsflash, husband of mine—I wield voidfire. I don’t get cold.”

Nox preens, smug. “Listen to the viper, muscles.”

Garrick stops dead mid-step and glares over his shoulder. “Oh, shut up.”

I twist and slip right out of his grip, landing on the grass with a wobble but holding steady. He curses, reaching for me, but I throw my arms out wide. “No! I’m staying out here—with Nox and Chradh. I’ve missed them. And you can’t keep me all to yourself forever, Garrick Tavis.”

His mouth twists, that betrayed pout breaking my heart and making me want to laugh all at once. Gods, the man is ridiculous.

He finally exhales through his nose, shoulders dropping. “Fine. You can stay.” His glare sharpens. “But I’m getting blankets.”

I roll my eyes. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re fragile,” he shoots back, already turning toward the house.

I catch his wrist, tug him back, and lean up to kiss him anyway. Slow. Sweet. Defiant.

Nox gags so violently I think the earth trembles. “Disgusting. Appalling. Truly revolting.”

An hour later, the fight is long over. The blankets Garrick insisted on are piled around me in a fortress of warmth, though it’s laughable—I’ve got enough fire inside me to scorch the continent, but he insists. Always insists.

I’m nestled between him and the dragons. Nox is stretched out at my back, his massive flank rising and falling like a mountain breathing. Chradh curls opposite, his steady gaze fixed on us like a silent sentry.

And under the blankets? Noodle. My murderous, bone-hoarding baby, wriggled up onto my chest like he owns me. He chitters and presses his fangs against my collarbone, purring in that strange, rumbling way that vibrates through my ribs.

I stroke his scales with one hand, the other tangled in Garrick’s shirt where he sits propped against me, fussing like the mother hen he’s apparently become.

“Too many blankets?” he asks for the twelfth time, shifting one away only to tuck another in tighter.

I huff a laugh against his shoulder. “I’m drowning, not freezing.”

He kisses the top of my head. “Good. Stay that way.”

I tilt my face up, smiling faintly. “Gods, I’ve missed this. Missed you.”

His hand cups my jaw, thumb brushing the hollow beneath my eye. “You’re not allowed to leave me again.” His voice is rough, the kind of quiet that holds a thousand unspoken things.

I kiss his palm in answer.

Noodle chooses that exact moment to burrow deeper into the blankets, wriggling until he’s fully cocooned between us. He lets out a triumphant squeak, fangs flashing as he gnaws on the edge of Garrick’s shirt.

I giggle. “I missed this monster too.”

Garrick groans but doesn’t move him. He just sighs, pulling me tighter against his chest, his hand smoothing over my hair like he can’t stop touching me—like if he lets go, I’ll vanish again.

I close my eyes, soaking it all in. The weight of Noodle, the heat of Garrick, the steady breaths of Nox and Chradh surrounding us like guardians.

My boys. My family. My home.

I should be content. Gods, I am content. My boys are here—my husband, my dragons, my monster child gnawing happily on Garrick’s sleeve like it’s the greatest treasure he’s ever found.

But the truth hits like a blade between my ribs.

One of them isn’t here.

Chompy.

The acid-spitting, bone-loving, not-fox who followed me everywhere, who never once left my side unless it was to terrorise Garrick’s boots or steal scraps from Bodhi. My sweet, grotesque little monster. My son.

Gone.

Because of me.

I blink hard, but the tears slip out anyway, dampening Garrick’s shirt. He feels it instantly, pulling back to search my face with wide, frantic eyes.

“What is it, baby?” he whispers, brushing my hair back like I might shatter.

I shake my head, choking. “Chompy.” Just saying his name feels like a wound ripped open. “He’s not here. He’s—he’s gone because of me.”

The words spill out, broken and jagged. “I dragged us all into Draithus. I made the choices that killed him. Our baby died because of me.”

Noodle lets out a low, keening hiss, curling tighter into me as if he knows, as if he’s trying to soothe me. Chradh shifts closer, his molten eyes heavy with something that feels like grief. Even Nox lowers his massive head, silent but watchful, as if acknowledging the hole none of them can fill.

Garrick holds me tighter, but it doesn’t help. Nothing can. Because Chompy isn’t under these blankets. He’ll never come bounding in with bones clattering in his mouth, proud as a king. He’ll never curl up in my lap again.

And the guilt is poison in my veins.

“I killed him,” I sob. “I killed our son. And I’ll never forgive myself.”

Garrick grips my face in his hands, tilting my chin until I can’t look anywhere but at him. His eyes are wet, fierce, unrelenting.

“Don’t you dare,” he says, voice low, breaking. “Don’t you dare put that on yourself, Lenny.”

I choke on another sob, but he doesn’t let me turn away.

“You didn’t kill him,” he pushes, rough but steady. “Chompy saved us. Do you understand that? He leapt at Kasten when I couldn’t reach him. He bought us the seconds we needed. He fought for you, for me, for this godsdamn family. That’s what he did.”

I shake my head, tears streaming. “He was just a baby—”

“A baby who knew exactly what he was doing,” Garrick cuts in, his thumb brushing my cheek. “He wasn’t mindless, Len. He wasn’t some accident of fate. He was ours. And ours are stubborn. Brave. Suicidal little terrors.” His voice cracks, but he doesn’t stop. “He died the way he lived. Protecting his family. Protecting you. And if you think for a second that monster would regret that—” He shakes his head, fierce. “No. He’d do it again.”

The words splinter something in me, and I collapse into him, sobbing against his chest. His arms crush me close, his body shaking with his own grief.

“I miss him,” I whisper, broken. “Gods, Garrick, I miss him so much.”

“I know, love,” he murmurs into my hair, his voice wrecked. “I miss him too. Every day. But listen to me—he didn’t die because of you. He died because he loved you. Because he was ours. And if you can’t forgive yourself yet…” He presses his forehead to mine. “Then let me forgive you for both of us.”

Noodle’s keen cuts through my sobbing—high, broken, a sound I haven’t heard since Draithus. I feel him before I see him, his small serpentine body wriggling up through the mountain of blankets, clawing his way onto my lap with desperate urgency.

He presses his fanged head against my chest so hard it knocks the breath out of me, his scales vibrating with the force of his cry. My arms move before I can think, clutching him to me, stroking down his spine, kissing the rough crown of his skull like I used to.

“Oh, baby,” I whisper, tears dripping onto him. “I know. I know, you miss him too.”

He makes another keening wail, rubbing his fangs against my chin, smearing tears and snot everywhere, and I swear my heart tears itself in two.

Garrick’s hand slides over my back, grounding me as his voice rumbles low against my ear.
“For all their drama, and their fights, and the bones they stole from each other…” His throat works. “Noodle misses his brother. We all do.”

I hold Noodle tighter, his little body trembling with grief only he and I can understand.

“He loved him, Len,” Garrick continues, voice raw. “In his own way. And he lost him too. Just like us.”

Noodle keens again, softer this time, burrowing under my chin. My fingers curl around him, and I sob until my chest hurts, pressing my forehead to his scaly hide.

It’s not enough. It will never be enough. But in this moment—me, Garrick, Noodle—we grieve together. And maybe that’s the closest thing to forgiveness I’ll ever find.

GARRICK

The fire upstairs is quiet when I leave her. She’s curled on the couch, blankets tangled around her, one arm flung out like she meant to reach for me before sleep dragged her under. Gods, she looks so small when she rests. So fragile.

I press a kiss to her hair, then head down into the basement.

The air changes here—stale, damp, heavy with iron and rot. It smells like blood soaked into stone. Like fear. Like the ghosts of every memory Len once carried from these halls.

And at the centre of it all, Colonel Aetos hangs in chains.

His head lolls forward, bruises painting his jaw, his chest rising in shallow, desperate gasps. He’s not the proud Navarrian commander anymore. Not the cold strategist who signed orders that sent children like us to die. No. Now he’s nothing but a husk of a man—starved, hollow, broken.

And still alive.

“Good morning, Colonel,” I say, leaning on the railing, my voice smooth. “Or maybe it’s night. Hard to tell down here, isn’t it?”

His eyes snap up—wild, glassy, rimmed red. “Please,” he rasps, his voice shredded. “Please, kill me.”

A shiver runs through me. Not horror. Not guilt. But something darker. Something that makes me curl my fingers into the railing just to ground myself.

“Kill you?” I echo, stepping down toward him. “After all this effort Noodle’s gone through to keep you alive?”

As if summoned, the little bastard chitters from the shadows, his fangs gleaming. He slithers forward, circling Aetos like a vulture, brushing his scales against the man’s bleeding ankles. Aetos flinches, the chains clinking.

Noodle hisses and snaps at his thigh—not a killing bite, just enough to rip flesh. Aetos screams, hoarse, broken.

And gods help me, my pulse quickens.

There’s a sick, depraved part of me that enjoys this. The control. The reversal. Watching the man who once held power over Len writhe and beg and sob. Watching him realise his life or death depends on me—and that I’ll never give him what he wants.

He thinks he’s been here years. That’s Noodle’s trick. He warps the mind. Distorts time until hours feel like decades. And every day, he begs for death. Every day, I deny him.

I crouch close, catching his terrified eyes. “You don’t get to die yet,” I murmur. “You’ll stay here, in the dark, until the gods themselves decide you’ve suffered enough. Do you hear me, Colonel?”

His sob shakes the chamber. His lips tremble around the word. “Please.”

And gods, I should hate this. I should hate myself for what I’ve become.

But I don’t.

I savour it.

Because for the first time in years, I’m the one in control.

And it feels good.

I drag a chair across the stone, the scrape echoing like a scream in the chamber. Aetos flinches, like the sound itself is a blade.

“Comfortable?” I ask, settling myself down in front of him. He shakes his head frantically, chains rattling, his lips chapped and bloody from biting them.

“No,” he croaks.

“Good.”

Noodle slithers up onto my lap, fangs bared in a grin. He’s vibrating with excitement, tail thudding against my leg like a dog begging to play fetch. Except fetch, for him, means bones.

“Go on then,” I murmur, stroking along his scales. “Show him what happens to men who cross this family.”

Noodle chitters gleefully and launches, coiling around Aetos’ chest like a vice. His fangs sink into the man’s shoulder—not deep enough to kill, just enough to spread venom. Enough to make him scream.

The sound rips out of Aetos’ throat raw, tearing, a howl that bounces off stone and sinks into my bones.

I lean forward, elbows on my knees, watching his face contort.

“You used to like control, didn’t you?” I ask. “Used to enjoy giving orders. Deciding who lived and who died. Did it feel good, Aetos? Did it make you feel powerful, knowing you had the chance to destroy other families?”

Noodle hisses, venom dripping, sizzling as it hits the stone floor. Aetos thrashes, chains cutting deeper into his wrists.

“Stop—please, stop—” His voice is shredded, almost gone.

I glance at Noodle, who squeezes tighter, dragging another scream from his throat. I wait until it breaks, until it turns to sobbing, then finally click my tongue.

“Enough.”

Noodle loosens just enough to let the man gasp for air, his body shaking like he’s been plunged in ice. He stares at me with hollow terror, eyes begging.

I lean close. Close enough that he can see the smile on my face.

“You don’t get to beg, Colonel,” I whisper. “Not here. Not in her house. Not after what you did.”

Noodle chitters, proud of himself, and slithers back toward me. He coils around my shoulders, smug, dragging flecks of blood with him. I scratch under his jaw and he nuzzles like the little monster he is.

“Good boy,” I murmur.

Aetos is still sobbing, still trembling in his chains. He looks less like a man now, more like a shell.

And gods help me—there’s a twisted satisfaction in it. Because every scream, every tear, every ounce of his brokenness feels like penance. Like justice for Len. For me. For every life this bastard touched with his cold hands and cruel orders.

I should feel guilty.

But I don’t.

Not even a little.

The knife feels too light in my hand. Too clean. So I fix that.

Aetos screams as the blade drags across his thigh—not deep enough to kill, but enough to open him up. His blood is hot, spilling fast, running down the grooves in the stone.

“Funny, isn’t it?” I murmur, wiping the knife on his tunic before pressing it to his chest. “A man like you—who thought himself untouchable—reduced to begging. To bleeding. To this.”

He jerks against the chains, eyes wild. I lift my hand, and the air bends to me, unseen fingers wrapping tight around his throat. He chokes, legs kicking, wrists tearing against iron.

I hold him there, just long enough that the light in his eyes starts to dim. Then I release. He collapses forward, wheezing, drooling blood and spit.

Noodle chitters happily from the floor, dragging one of Aetos’ discarded fingernails like a prize.

I twirl the knife, almost absently, the weight soothing now. This isn’t justice anymore. It’s something else. Something darker. Something in me that never used to exist, but Len’s ghost, Len’s absence, carved it out of me.

Another cut. Another scream. Another squeeze of air. I lose track of how many times. How many wounds. How much blood slicks my hands.

By the time I finally step back, chest heaving, the knife drips onto the stone. My hands are crimson, sticky, my nails clogged with gore.

And then—

I freeze.

Because she’s there.

Leaning against the wall, arms crossed, green eyes watching me like she’s studying prey.

Len.

Not the husk. Not a ghost flickering at the edge of my vision. Her.

Her lips curl into something wicked.

“Creative,” she says softly. Almost approving.

My throat dries. I can’t breathe. Because I don’t know if I’m hallucinating her, if grief’s finally cracked me open—

Or if my wife is standing there, watching me revel in blood.

I can’t move.
The knife hangs loose in my hand, dripping. My lungs burn, my heart slams, and for the first time in months, I’m afraid—not of Aetos, not of Myrnin’s warnings, not of the war. Of her. Of what she’ll see when she looks at me like this.

But Len doesn’t recoil.

She creeps forward, her bare feet silent on the stone, her head tilting as she hums under her breath—an eerie, tuneless sound that vibrates in my bones. Her eyes sweep over the blood, the cuts, the chains, the broken man wheezing in the corner like he’s already half-dead.

Her lips part, curling into something unholy. Admiration.

“Gods,” she whispers, almost a purr, “look what you’ve done.”

I can’t breathe. “Len…” My voice cracks, thick with guilt and the copper stench of blood. “I—”

But she closes the distance before I can stumble through an excuse. Before I can try to explain that grief made me this way, that losing her hollowed me out, that torturing Aetos was the only thing that made me feel alive again.

She takes my blood-soaked hand in hers, looks down at it like it’s art instead of sin—then lifts it to her mouth and kisses the crimson knuckles.

My knees nearly buckle.

Her other hand slides to the back of my neck, tugging me down, and before I can think, before I can even try to stop myself, her mouth is on mine.

Hot. Fierce. Tasting of copper and fire.

I drop the knife. It clatters to the floor, forgotten, as my bloodied hands find her waist, her back, pulling her into me like if I don’t hold on she’ll vanish again.

She doesn’t flinch at the blood smearing her skin. Doesn’t shy away from the violence still hot in my veins.

She kisses me harder.

And for the first time in months, I don’t feel guilty. I feel hers.

ELEANOR

The fire crackles low, shadows licking across the Lennox estate walls, when Garrick presses something heavy into my lap.

A leather-bound journal. Scarred. Worn.

“What’s this?” I ask, suspicion curling sharp in my gut.

His mouth presses into that tight line he gets when he’s holding something in. “I… kept it while you were gone.”

“Gone,” I echo, because that’s the polite word for dead.

He sits across from me, elbows braced on his knees, staring into the flames like he can’t quite look at me. “I didn’t know you’d be… a ghost, or whatever the hell that was. But I thought—if you came back, you’d want to know. What happened. What you missed. What you… forgot.”

My pulse stutters. My hand shakes when I open the first page. His handwriting—strong, jagged, so very him.

Day eighteen without you. You tried to claw your own eyes out today. Screaming about the Serpent. I don’t think you knew who I was. I’m not sure you even knew you had eyes. I held you until you stopped. I’m sorry if I hurt you. I didn’t know what else to do.

I slam the book shut. My chest feels like it’s caving in. “Garrick—”

“Keep reading.” His voice is quiet. Gentle. But his jaw is clenched, and I know he’s bracing for me to shatter.

So I do.

Day fifty-four. You haven’t eaten in three days. I tried broth. Bread. Wine. Nothing. You spit it back at me and laughed like a child. I don’t know how to reach you anymore. I don’t even know if you’re in there. Gods, Len. I’d give anything to trade places with you.

My throat closes. The room tilts.

Another page.

Day seventy-three. I turned my back for a second. One second. You fell down the stairs. Hit your head. Bled everywhere. I thought I lost you all over again. I carried you back to bed and sat there until morning, waiting for you to breathe. You scared me.

A broken laugh rips out of me. “Fuck, Garrick.”

His eyes snap to mine, dark, storming, but soft with that relentless love that’s been killing me for years.

I flip more pages, faster now, devouring the words. His voice bleeds through every line. His pain. His fury. His devotion.

I shake, sobbing and gasping all at once. Gods, what kind of nightmare have I left in my wake?

“Len.” Garrick’s beside me now, his hand covering mine, steady, grounding. “It’s over. You’re here. You’re you again.”

But I can’t stop. I flip to the last page.

Day eighty-nine. I don’t know how to do this without you. I thought I was strong enough. I thought I could carry you, even if you were gone. But I can’t. Every day I lose another piece of myself. Please, gods. Give her back to me. Please.

My vision blurs. The ink smears where my tears hit the page.

I slam the book shut again, trembling, feral with grief and love. “You stupid, stubborn bastard.”

He blinks. “What?”

I lunge at him, kiss him hard, messy, broken. Tasting salt and ash and blood that isn’t even here.

“You begged for me,” I hiss against his lips. “And I came back. You hear me, Garrick Tavis? You begged, and I clawed my way through death itself, because you’re mine. And if you ever—ever—think you get to die before me again, I’ll burn the world themselves to ash.”

He groans, half-laugh, half-sob, his arms crushing me to him. “You’re insane.”

“Your insane,” I shoot back, wild and shaking.

And then I bury my face in his neck and sob until the fire dies, clutching his journal like a lifeline, because gods help me—this man wrote me back into existence.

I’m still kissing Garrick, curled in his lap like he’s my throne, when the air hums wrong. That tell-tale ripple, like time itself just shifted.

I jerk, flinching away, and—yep.

God of Fate. Right fucking there.

“Myrnin?” My voice cracks halfway between a snarl and a groan.

He cocks his head, completely unbothered, holding up a small pouch like this is some casual neighbourly drop-in.

“Hungry?”

I blink. Then frown. “What the fuck is going on?”

Beside me, Garrick doesn’t even flinch. He just leans back on the couch with the most infuriating little smile. “Is it Tuesday already?”

…What?

My mouth drops open. “Excuse me—Tuesday? What the hell is—”

Myrnin shrugs, stepping closer, setting the pouch neatly on the table like this is a fucking picnic.

“Not Tuesday. But it felt like a Tuesday.”

I whip my head to Garrick, who’s smirking like he’s in on a joke I never got the fucking memo about. “Explain. Now.”

He has the audacity to grin wider. “Myrnin’s been dropping by every few days. Cooking. Watching over the husk when I needed time with the dragons. Or just… breathing.” His eyes flicker with something softer, and my chest squeezes. “He gave me a chance to not just be your babysitter.”

My brain short-circuits. “Wait. Wait, wait, wait.” I point at the god, who’s now rummaging through my kitchen like he owns the place. “You’ve been hanging out with my husband?”

Myrnin doesn’t even look up. “Someone had to keep him alive. You were busy being dead. Or… half-dead. Or very angry and incorporeal. Honestly, it got hard to keep track. Didn’t you notice me cooking every week when you were an angry ghost?”

I gape. “You two have—what, a schedule? Tuesday dinners with the God of Fate?”

Garrick’s grin turns smug. “Sometimes Thursdays, if he brings wine.”

My jaw hits the floor.

Myrnin finally turns, loaf of bread in hand, completely unrepentant. “You’re welcome, by the way. He’d have burned himself out chasing your ghost if I hadn’t given him something else to do. A man can’t live on grief alone – believe me, I know.”

I slump back against Garrick’s chest, still glaring between the two of them. Myrnin. Myrnin, who I once threatened to stab, now casually bringing groceries to my kitchen like he’s part of the family.

And Garrick just… letting him.

“You trust him?” I whisper to Garrick, because this is Garrick. He doesn’t trust people. Especially the gods.

Garrick squeezes my waist, kissing the side of my head. “I do now.”

I close my eyes, breathing out hard. Gods. My husband has tea parties with a god while I’ve been haunting our house like a feral poltergeist.

I don’t know if I want to laugh, scream, or start drinking.

So I just mutter, “Fucking Tuesdays,” and Garrick chuckles like I just made the joke of the century.

We shuffle into the kitchen, Garrick’s hand warm on my hip like he thinks I’ll collapse any second (rude, but also not entirely wrong).

Myrnin is already unloading his little pouch onto the counter like some domestic god. A sack of potatoes, herbs I can’t name, and—oh holy shit—a whole chicken.

I narrow my eyes. “Alright, Fate-boy. What exactly are you making?”

He glances over his shoulder, deadpan as ever. “Your husband told me your favourite was chicken and potatoes. I figured, for a welcome-back dinner, we could start there.”

I freeze. My brain short-circuits. My mouth waters. And instantly, all my complaints about him waltzing into my house vanish like smoke.

“Oh,” I say, already leaning on the counter. “That sounds fucking fantastic. You can stay.”

Garrick sputters. “Excuse me—what happened to he’s not welcome in our house?”

I wave him off, still eyeing the chicken. “That was before he promised me potatoes.”

Garrick snorts. “Oh, so that’s what it takes? Food?”

I shoot him a look. “I love you, husband. But you can’t fucking cook.”

He gasps, hand to his chest like I stabbed him. “That’s not true.”

“It’s extremely true.”

Myrnin doesn’t even glance up from chopping. “That’s exactly why I started coming here in the first place. If I had to watch you burn one more loaf of bread, Garrick, I’d have smote you out of mercy.”

I choke on a laugh, leaning forward, gleeful. “Wait. Wait, wait. You mean to tell me this entire friendship started because Garrick can’t boil water without it tasting like ash?”

“Yes,” Myrnin says flatly. “And because grief makes men forget to eat. I wasn’t about to let the commander of Orlyth waste away because he was too busy staring at your husk to notice he was starving.”

Garrick groans. “Gods, not you too.”

“Gods,” I echo, smirking. “Plural. You’re getting roasted by fucking fate right now.”

Myrnin finally looks at me, those sharp, unsettling eyes locking with mine, his knife gleaming in the candlelight. “Eleanor, behave. Or you won’t get any chicken.”

I blink.

Then grin like a demon. “Okay, Dad.”

Garrick groans again, dragging a hand over his face. “I regret everything.”

But I don’t. Because suddenly, my kitchen smells like garlic and herbs, Garrick looks like he’s trying not to laugh himself sick, and Myrnin—the god who once scared the absolute shit out of me—is cooking me dinner like a stern father I never had.

Honestly? Could be worse.

I lean my chin into my palm and just…watch. Myrnin is actually cooking in my kitchen. The God of Fate, Fate Himself, slicing garlic like a bored househusband while Garrick, who used to spit curses every time a god’s name came up, hums to himself and pours three glasses of wine.

What the fuck kind of timeline is this?

Noodle perches on the counter like he owns the place, coiled in smug little knots, hissing in excitement whenever Myrnin tosses him scraps of chicken. My parasite. My son. Besties with the God of Fate. Wholesome. Weird. Absolutely cursed.

“Myrnin.”

“Yes, Eleanor?” he replies smoothly without looking up, herbs falling from his knife in perfect slices.

“How the hell do you know how to cook?”

That makes him pause, just for a second. Then his voice is softer. “I’ve spent centuries on the mortal plane.” His shoulders shift, heavy. “You watch mortals long enough, you learn their habits. Their tricks.”

I raise a brow. “Cooking isn’t a trick.”

He hums, a hollow little sound. “It is when it keeps your hands busy. Keeps the mind quiet. Centuries are long. Loneliness is longer. Cooking helped.”

The room goes still. Even Noodle stops flicking his tongue, like he’s listening too.

And gods. I don’t know what to say. Because the thought of Fate, alone in some dusty kitchen, teaching himself to cook just so he doesn’t lose his mind? It’s so painfully…human.

I blink, biting down on my lip. “Well. At least you’re good at it.”

For the first time, Myrnin actually smiles. Just a small curl of lips, gone as quickly as it came.

Garrick clinks his glass against mine, his eyes warm. “See? Told you he wasn’t that bad.”

I mutter into my wine, “Still creepy,” but inside? My ribs ache with something like reluctant fondness.

The smell of garlic and herbs thickens in the kitchen, warmth seeping through the air. For a moment it almost feels normal—like this could be any dinner, in any house, with Garrick humming low and Myrnin pretending he doesn’t notice Noodle climbing onto his shoulder like he’s trying to taste-test the chicken.

And then Myrnin ruins it.

“Malek is glad to know you’re back,” he says simply, sliding the pan onto the counter. His voice is even, but his eyes flick to me like he’s gauging my reaction. “He felt your soul cross back over. He says his power is still weak, but it’s growing again.”

I blink into my wine glass, heart squeezing. Malek. The God of Death. The bastard who’s ruined and saved me more times than I can count.

“Tell him…” My throat catches, and I swallow hard. “Tell him thank you. For saving them. For saving Garrick. For saving me.”

Myrnin inclines his head, solemn as a priest. “I will.”

He pours the sizzling chicken onto a platter, the steam rising between us like smoke from an offering. “We meant it, Eleanor. Both of us. We swore to fight beside you. That vow still stands. My brother has made…mistakes. Too many. Some he wishes to confess himself.”

“Mistakes,” I echo flatly. “Cute word for centuries of fucked-up choices.”

A ghost of a smile crosses Myrnin’s mouth. “Indeed.”

“And when Izara comes back?” I push, watching him closely. “What then? Do you both start fighting again? Rip the world in half over her?”

The kitchen goes still. Even Noodle freezes mid-chirp, head swiveling like he knows the weight of what I’ve said.

Garrick exhales, low and tired, running a hand over his face.

Myrnin doesn’t answer right away. He just sets down the platter, wipes his hands on a cloth, and stares at the floor for a long moment. His voice is quieter when it comes.

“I don’t know what will happen when Izara is freed,” he admits. “For now…I am glad to have my brother back. I spent centuries hating him. Centuries grieving her. Hating myself for the monster I became. I thought vengeance would heal me. I thought if I made Malek bleed for what I believed he’d done, it would silence the rot inside me.”

He finally lifts his gaze. There’s no godlike fire in it—just bone-deep weariness.

“But vengeance rots the vessel. I learned that too late. And now?” His shoulders sag. “Now I just want peace.”

The silence is heavier than the steam rising from the food.

I sip my wine, the bitterness coating my tongue, and watch him. The God of Fate. My one-time enemy. My reluctant ally. Sitting in my kitchen like a broken man begging the universe to let him rest.

For once, I don’t have a smart remark.

I just drink, and wonder how the fuck this became my life.

The scent of roasting chicken fills the kitchen, buttery and rich, and the sound of Myrnin’s knife cutting into potatoes is almost hypnotic. For a second, it feels domestic—like something normal. And then my mouth opens.

“When I was a ghost,” I say, swirling the wine in my glass, “something forced me back into my body.”

Myrnin pauses mid-slice. His dark eyes flicker to me. “Forced you?”

“Yeah.” I lean back in the chair, letting the firelight catch the glass. “A woman’s voice. Whispered to me. Told me it was time to go home.”

The knife stills against the cutting board. Myrnin’s expression is unreadable, but his hand tightens just slightly around the handle.

“That’s impossible,” he says at last. His tone is clipped. Certain.

I shrug. “Sounded like Izara.”

The word hangs heavy in the room. Garrick stiffens in the chair beside me, his thumb dragging absently over the rim of his own glass.

Myrnin sets the knife down carefully, like it might burn him. “Izara doesn’t hold that kind of power.”

Silence stretches. My throat is dry. I tip the glass back and swig again, the wine sharp against my tongue. “Then I don’t know what to tell you. Maybe I was delirious. Maybe I imagined it. But I heard her.”

Myrnin studies me, his gaze sharper now, weighing every word. “Are you hiding something from me, Eleanor?”

I meet his stare dead-on, smirking even though the pit of my stomach twists. “I’m not hiding anything. I’m just… cautious.”

“Cautious,” he repeats flatly.

“Yeah. You and Malek might have sworn yourselves my allies. Fine. Great. But that doesn’t mean I trust Izara. If she’s really still out there—whatever she is now—then she has her own games. And I’m not playing blind.”

A frown cuts across his face. His voice dips lower, steady, like iron. “My wife dedicated her existence to preserving the Balance. It is the whole reason she went into the Void.”

I shrug again, feigning nonchalance even though my pulse stutters. “Maybe. Or maybe she had her own reasons. Gods always do.”

His frown deepens, disappointment shadowing his expression. “You are the most untrusting mortal I’ve ever met.”

“Good survival tactic,” I shoot back.

Across from me, Garrick snorts into his wine, shaking his head like he can’t believe he’s sitting at a kitchen table while his wife argues philosophy with the God of Fate.

I grin at him, wicked and tired. “What? You’re only realising now you married a paranoid bitch?”

“Not paranoid,” Garrick mutters. “Just feral.”

“Same thing,” I purr, and take another drink.

Myrnin sets the plates down with a flourish that’s entirely too smug for a god. Chicken glistening, potatoes golden and steaming, even a small bowl set on the counter for Noodle—who chitters like he’s just been crowned Emperor of the World. My heart squeezes. The bastard made a plate for my son.

I slide into a chair, dragging Garrick with me by the hand, because gods, if my feral parasite gets treated like royalty, so do I.

Halfway through cutting his meat, Garrick pauses, brows furrowing. “You know what I don’t get? How the fuck didn’t you notice how often Myrnin was here, when you were a ghost?”

I freeze with a fork halfway to my mouth. “Wait. What?”

Myrnin doesn’t even look at me. Just carves into his food with precise, practised movements. “Because I often came when your spirit was elsewhere.”

Garrick’s frown deepens, his gaze snapping to me.

Myrnin sets his knife down and finally lifts his eyes to mine. His expression is all stern patriarch now. “Eleanor. We had a deal. Remember? That we’d bring you back. But your friends weren’t supposed to know. Not yet. Not until the Balance steadied again.”

I blink at him. “Excuse me?”

“You’re lucky,” Myrnin continues, ignoring the absolute rage in my voice. “Because they all assume you’re still a ghost. Trapped. Lingering. And as usual—” his tone sharpens, stabbing as effectively as any blade—“you’ve ignored our warnings.”

I slam my fork down on the table. “Warnings? What fucking warnings?”

Myrnin narrows his eyes. “Don’t play coy.”

“I’m not—” I stop, running a hand through my hair, frustration buzzing under my skin. “I don’t remember, all right? I remember dying. I remember waking up as a ghost in Aretia, watching everyone mourn me. Listening to Bodhi and Vi and the others talk about how I’d died in Draithus. That’s it. That’s my first memory. I don’t remember making some bloody promise to you or your cryptic brother.”

The silence in the room is heavy. Garrick’s staring at me like I’ve just confessed to murder. Myrnin’s face, for once, looks genuinely unsettled.

He leans forward slowly. “You don’t remember the pact?”

I spread my hands. “Myrnin, I barely remembered my own name for the first week of being a ghost. You think I’d remember signing up for one of your cosmic contracts?”

Myrnin mutters something low under his breath that I don’t catch. Then he pinches the bridge of his nose like a disappointed parent.

Garrick leans back in his chair, his arms folding tight across his chest, eyes narrowing like a blade edge fixed on me.

“What do you mean you don’t remember?”

I open my mouth. Close it again. Gods, I hate that look on his face—the mix of suspicion and worry, like I’ve just announced I’ve been casually drinking venin blood for fun.

But before I can answer, Myrnin sighs like the weight of eternity rests solely on his shoulders. He sets down his wine glass and steeples his fingers under his chin. “Then I’ll remind you.”

The air in the kitchen goes heavy, like it always does when Myrnin decides to speak with the Voice of Fate itself.

“When you fell in Draithus, Eleanor, your soul didn’t cross to the After. It didn’t go to the Void either. The right venin blades—those forged to wound beyond flesh—shredded you. Eight pieces. Your essence scattered into nothing. You weren’t just gone. You were broken.”

My blood runs cold. I grip the edge of the table, knuckles white.

“We couldn’t let that stand,” he continues, his voice low and steady. “Malek and I—we gave a kernel of our power. A spark each. To call the fragments back. To force them together enough that you could fight your way home. Piece by piece. That’s why you came back as a ghost first. That’s why you lingered.”

Garrick’s jaw flexes. His hand slides across the table, catching mine, grounding me.

Myrnin’s eyes sharpen, pinning me in place. “But there was a cost. There always is. You weren’t supposed to survive Draithus. The Balance demanded your death. By bringing you back, by breaking the law of endings and beginnings, you became something unnatural. You are a fracture in the order of the world. A weight dragging against the Balance itself.”

The room feels too small. Too hot. Noodle chitters nervously, tail lashing against the counter.

“So we made a pact,” Myrnin says. “You and I. And Malek. That you and your husband would remain dead to the world until you regained full strength. That you would not reveal yourselves—not to your friends, not to your allies—because if the Balance recognises you too soon, it may tear you apart for good. You understand? This resurrection is… temporary. Unstable. If the Balance notices, it will correct itself.”

His words land like blades in my gut.

I stare down at my plate, the food blurring.

“I don’t remember,” I whisper. My voice shakes. “I don’t remember any of that.”

Myrnin’s gaze doesn’t soften. “And yet you swore it.”

I shove my chair back, the legs scraping against the floorboards. And then the truth claws through me like venom.

Because I’ve already broken it.

I haunted them. I gave them signs. I let Bodhi, Violet, Kat—I let them hope. I let them think I was still with them. That was never supposed to happen. I was supposed to fade into myth. To let them grieve and move on.

“Oh, fuck.” I stagger to my feet, clutching my hair. “I’ve fucked up. I’ve fucked everything up.”

Garrick’s out of his chair in an instant, his hands gripping my arms. “Len. Stop. Breathe.”

But I can’t. Because the truth is searing me raw.

“If they find out I’m alive again—before the Balance heals—I’m dead. For good this time.”

The room falls into silence. Myrnin just watches me, inscrutable, like the ticking of some cosmic clock I’ve never once managed to beat.

And all I can think is—I’ve survived death twice. But one more mistake, and the Balance will take me for good.

Myrnin’s voice slices through the silence, sharp as truth. “Breathe, little viper. You’ve not doomed yourself. Not yet.”

I choke on a bitter laugh. “Not yet? That’s comforting.”

His gaze fixes on me, unblinking. “Your friends believing you are a ghost does not alter the Balance. Not truly. It is grief, hope, imagination. But if they find some way to prove it? If they call to your soul, drag it toward them with blood or prayer? Then the Balance will take note. And then…” He lets the sentence hang, like the axe it is.

I clench my fists, shaking. “Then what?”

“Then you will be torn apart. Permanently. No After. No Void. Just nothing.”

My knees weaken. Garrick’s hands tighten on my shoulders, steadying me, but it’s not enough. I feel hollow, like my insides have been scraped clean.

“So what do I do?” I whisper.

“You wait,” Myrnin says. His tone softens, but only slightly. “You stay hidden. You mend. You give your body, your mind, your soul time to weave itself whole again. That will take months, Eleanor. Months. And you must resist your own worst nature—your restlessness, your rage. Your hunger to act. Because if you step onto a battlefield before you are ready… if you set one foot into Riorson House while you are still weak… the Balance will feel the fracture. And it will tear you to ash.”

I shake my head, tears burning my eyes. “I can’t just sit here. They need me. Bodhi. Vi. Kat. All of them are out there drowning, and I’m supposed to—what? Pretend I’m dead? Watch them suffer while I play house and learn how to eat potatoes again?”

Myrnin doesn’t flinch. “Yes.”

The single word crushes me.

“Your soul was shattered into eight pieces,” he says, his voice calm but relentless. “Your power is weakened. Your mind ruined. Your body destroyed and reformed by hands that should never have touched you. You are not what you were. Not yet. You are something else. Something unnatural. A creature that has spat in the face of every ending offered to you—the Veil, the Void, even the After. You have beaten death three times, Eleanor.”

His eyes glint with something like awe. Or maybe warning. “You are not mortal anymore. And the Balance knows it.”

I wipe at my face with shaking hands. “I was meant to keep the Balance.”

“And instead?” His voice is low, final. “You’ve broken it.”

The words sink like venom into my blood.

I glance at Garrick, desperate for him to argue, to call this god a liar. But his eyes—stormy, wet, fierce—only meet mine, and I see it. He knows. He’s known for months.

And for the first time since I clawed my way back, I wonder if maybe I shouldn’t have.

“No.”

The word rips out of me like glass. My chest heaves. My nails dig crescents into my palms. “No, I can’t—I won’t—stay here.”

Garrick’s already reaching for me, his voice low, steady, begging me to listen.

“Len. Breathe. You’re not caged. You’re home. With me. With us.”

“Home?” I laugh, broken, feral. “Don’t you fucking dare call this a home. You know what’s in the basement? Do you know what’s under our feet right now?”

His jaw tightens. He knows. Of course he knows. He’s the one who dragged Aetos down there, the one who turned that chamber into payback. But my ghosts don’t care about his justice. My ghosts only remember the cage.

“I can still feel the chains,” I choke, clawing at my own wrists. “I can still smell the rot, hear the screaming. I slept on stone, Garrick. I bled on stone. For months. And when I finally crawled out? I spent years hunted, cornered, manipulated by gods who won’t leave me the fuck alone. And now you want me to sit here? In another gilded cage? To wait until I’m whole enough for the Balance to stop trying to kill me? No. No. I can’t.”

Myrnin watches from the table, silent, sharp-eyed, as if he’s weighing whether to intervene. But Garrick doesn’t let him.

He cups my face, forcing me to meet his eyes. Storm-grey, trembling. “Len. Look at me. You are not trapped. Not this time. You’re here because you’re alive. Because you fought your way back to me. This house? These walls? They’re not cages. They’re ours. You’re not chained. You’re not hunted. You’re not alone.”

I try to look away, but he doesn’t let me.

“You’re free, baby.” His voice cracks. “Don’t let your ghosts convince you otherwise.”

But my chest is still a cavern of panic. My breath still saws sharp and shallow. Because no matter what he says, no matter how gentle his hands feel on my skin, I know the truth.

I’ve been caged too many times to believe this gilded quiet isn’t just another trap.

“I can’t just sit here,” I snap, pacing, every nerve in me a wire about to snap. “I can’t do nothing while they—while everyone out there bleeds and burns—”

“Staying hidden,” Myrnin cuts in, his voice sharp as a blade, “does not mean staying weak.”

I freeze.

His eyes gleam like the void itself, endless and knowing. “You have a mentor now, Eleanor. Someone willing to teach you the truth of what you carry. Who better than the God of Fate himself to show you how to wield Voidfire without losing yourself?”

I stare, heart stuttering. Myrnin. My mentor.

I want to scoff. I want to spit in his face. But gods, the thought coils into me like a hook. Because I’ve felt it. The fire burning through me, untamed, feral, stronger than I can hold. I’ve felt the edge of madness when I’ve lost control. If anyone could teach me how to leash it, how to master it—

“Besides,” Myrnin goes on, almost casually, “your parasite can keep an eye on your family while they think you’re dead. The snake is cleverer than most mortals I’ve met. He’ll watch. He’ll warn. You can trust him.”

Noodle chitters from the corner as if proud of the compliment.

“And you and Garrick?” Myrnin leans forward, folding his hands. “You have work to do.”

I blink. “Work?”

Garrick exhales beside me, rubbing a hand down his face. “Talladium.”

My gut twists. The alloy. The only thing strong enough to kill venin. “We’re running out.”

He nods. “Daggers are breaking faster than they can be reforged. There isn’t enough talladium left to arm an army. We need an alternative.” His voice breaks low, tired. “I’ve been looking. Months. Nothing.”

Myrnin tilts his head, lips curving like he already knows the answer. “The alloy is only part of it. But tell me, Eleanor—are you not curious about the runes?”

My blood runs cold.

“The runes the venin carved into the Shadewings’ scales. The ones that bound them. The ones that bent Darius Kasten into their puppet.” His voice is soft now, coaxing. “Do you not wish to learn the language of your enemy? To know their magic better than they know it themselves?”

My chest is heaving. Because yes. Fuck. Yes, I want that.

He sees it in my face. The hunger. The fury. The curiosity that’s always been my ruin.

Myrnin’s smile is razor thin. “Good. Then you see. Taking a few months to grow stronger does not weaken you. It ensures that the next time you walk onto a battlefield, Eleanor—” His eyes flash, sharp as prophecy. “—you will not fight it. You will annihilate it.”

The words land in me like a brand.

And for the first time since I came back, I don’t feel caged.

I feel dangerous.

Noodle blinks at me from his perch on the dresser, head tilting, forked tongue flicking in and out like he already knows what I’m about to say.

I crouch down until we’re eye to eye. “Listen to me, little terror.” My voice drops to a whisper, the same tone I used when we used to sneak him scraps under Garrick’s nose. “I need you to do something for me.”

His body coils tighter, tail twitching with excitement.

“Go check on our family,” I murmur. “Don’t let them see you. Don’t let them know. Just… watch. Just make sure they’re still breathing.”

For a moment he’s silent, still as carved bone. And then—he chitters, loud and frantic, wriggling his whole body like a child told they’re finally allowed outside.

“Good boy,” I whisper, pressing my forehead to his scaled head. “Go on, Noods. Do what you do best.”

A shadow falls over me. “Are you seriously sending the demon worm out on recon?”

I glance up to see Garrick leaning against the doorframe, arms folded, one eyebrow raised so high it might fly clean off his face.

“He’s fast,” I argue. “Small. Nobody’s going to notice him.”

“He’s loud. And unhinged. And addicted to murder.” Garrick drags a hand down his face. “Len, this is a terrible idea.”

Noodle chitters indignantly, clearly offended.

Garrick sighs like the weight of husbandhood is crushing him, then crouches down too, pinning the parasite with his sternest dad-glare. “Fine. You can go. But there are rules.”

I smirk. Here we go.

“One,” Garrick says, holding up a finger. “Check on Bodhi, Xaden, Kat, Elias, and Violet. Also Veylor and the Shadewing eggs. That’s it.”

Noodle wiggles in agreement.

“Two,” Garrick continues, sharper. “Don’t let anyone see you. Nobody can know you’re alive. Not yet.”

A long hiss of protest.

“No arguments,” Garrick snaps. “Rule three—don’t steal anything.”

I snort. “Good luck with that one.”

Noodle tilts his head, as if to say define steal.

“Four.” Garrick’s voice drops. “Don’t bite anyone.”

I grin. “He’s not going to like that one.”

“Five,” Garrick growls, glaring hard enough to scorch stone. “Don’t be a dick.”

I laugh outright. “Garrick. He’s literally a dick with teeth.”

Noodle chitters smugly, clearly pleased with himself.

“And six.” Garrick’s voice softens. He leans closer, pressing a hand against Noodle’s scaled head. “Stay safe. Come home in one piece. Please.”

For once, Noodle doesn’t argue. He presses into Garrick’s palm with something like affection.

And then, with one last wriggle, he vanishes into the shadows.

I lean back on my heels, grinning. “See? He’s perfect for recon.”

Garrick mutters something about regretting marrying into a family of maniacs.

I blow him a kiss.

Before I can step away, he catches me—literally. One hand at my waist, the other cupping my jaw, pulling me into a kiss that steals the air right out of me. Gods, he kisses like he means to drown me in him.

When he pulls back, his forehead rests against mine, his voice low. “You okay? After dinner. After everything.”

I shrug, though the knot in my chest says otherwise. “I don’t like it. Being stuck here. Hidden. Weak.” My throat tightens, but I force the words out. “But you and Myrnin are right. I have to. For the sake of everyone else.”

He searches my face, those storm-dark eyes seeing too much. I tilt my head, force a smirk, because vulnerability isn’t my strong suit. “So you’ll just have to keep me busy.”

His brow arches, slow and dangerous. “Busy?”

“Mm.” I drag my lips against his jaw, my voice a whisper of wickedness. “Distracted. Occupied. Thoroughly entertained.”

His laugh is low, rough, the kind that vibrates against my skin and makes me shiver. He lifts me like I weigh nothing, and I immediately wrap my legs around his waist. His mouth crashes against mine, hot and hungry, and a groan slips free before I can bite it back.

“Gods,” he growls against my lips, “you were dead for three months, Len.” He bites my lower lip, gentle but firm. “We’ve got a lot of catching up to do.”

My grin is feral, breathless, already arching into him. “Then stop talking, soldier.”

And he doesn’t need telling twice.

Chapter Text

"Lady Talia Riorson of Hedotis.

You have every reason to hate me for writing this. Every reason to despise all of us, after Eleanor left you a widow. If you burn this letter without reading another word, I will not blame you.

But if you still carry even a shadow of who you once were, I beg you—read.

Once, you were a mother to more than just Xaden. You were a mother to Garrick, to Bodhi, to Eleanor too. They were yours in the ways that matter more than blood—because you held them when they broke, and you told them family was sacred. And now? That family is shattered. Eleanor and Garrick are dead, their bodies ash and ruin, their souls perhaps not at peace but trapped in the Veil. Xaden is Venin, hunted and lost. Bodhi is the last of them still standing, and gods, he is breaking under the weight of carrying all of us.

You once loved them. Don’t deny it. You once loved them like they were your own. And if that love meant anything at all—if any of it was real—then you know how unbearable this silence is. How wrong it feels to still breathe when they do not. How empty the world is without Eleanor’s laughter, Garrick’s steadiness, Xaden’s brooding loyalty. You know how lost we are without them.

In two weeks’ time, Bodhi will stand in Deverelli with King Courtlyn and Queen Marlis. I am begging you to stand there with him. Bring what knowledge you have—on the Veil, on ghosts, on the Venin, on anything that might save them. Do not let this be another failure, another grave to add to the Riorson name.

You turned your back on Xaden once. And he learned to live without you. But now you have a chance to make the right choice. To save him. To save the sister he still mourns. To save Garrick, who would have died a thousand deaths for them all.

If you ever loved them—if you ever loved him—do not look away. Do not let them be forgotten. Do not damn them to the silence of the Veil.

You always told Xaden that family was sacred. Then prove it, Talia. Prove it now, when it matters most.

- Duchess Violet Riorson of Tyrrendor"

BODHI

The morning light drags itself through the curtains like it doesn’t want to be here any more than I do.

I’m supposed to be packing. Supposed to be preparing for the long ride to the coast, then the ship to the Southern Isles with Aaric fucking Tauri, of all people. Supposed to be thinking about trade and politics and dragon eggs and how I’m somehow trusted to speak to kings now.

But instead, I’m in bed.

With Ridoc.

He’s flat on his stomach, cheek pressed against the pillow, hair sticking up at an angle that would make Violet laugh herself sick. His hand is sprawled over my chest, heavy and warm, like even in sleep he doesn’t trust me not to bolt. His snore is soft, uneven. Infuriatingly endearing.

I should get up. Gods know I should. But I don’t. Because this is the last morning in Riorson House for a while, maybe the last time I’ll wake up in this room with him for months, and I’m not ready to move yet.

I stare at the ceiling beams, at the familiar cracks and shadows, and for a second I let myself imagine it’s years ago. Before Draithus. Before death and ghosts and all this crushing weight. Back when we were just cadets sneaking into each other’s beds for warmth and not talking about what it meant.

“Stop staring,” Ridoc mumbles without opening his eyes. His voice is sleep-rough, muffled into the pillow. “It’s creepy.”

I huff a laugh. “You were snoring.”

He cracks one eye open, grinning, because he knows damn well I was staring at him. “Was it cute snoring at least?”

“Like a dying wyvern.”

“Sexy.” He yawns, stretches, then flops back against me like a smug cat. “So. When do you leave me for your grand diplomatic adventure?”

I sigh, pressing my palm to the back of his neck, grounding myself before I answer. “Couple of hours.”

“Ugh.” He groans dramatically, burying his face in my chest. “Coward. You’re leaving me to deal with Vi and Dain alone.”

“They’ll probably kill each other.”

“Exactly. And then their ghosts will haunt me. I’m too pretty for that.”

I laugh, but it dies quickly. Because the truth is, I don’t want to go either. Not without him. Not without all of us together. But if there’s even a chance these eggs, this trade, this insane plan of Eleanor’s can save us… I have to.

Ridoc must feel the shift in me, because he lifts his head, studies me with an expression I hate—serious. “Hey. You’ll come back. I’ll still be here. You’re not losing me.”

My throat burns. I don’t say anything, because if I do, I’ll choke.

Instead, I pull him closer and bury my face in his hair, breathing him in like I can store him in my chest and carry him with me across the sea.

And for one last morning, I let myself stay in bed.

XADEN

The shadows stir before the knock ever comes.

Sygael’s voice cuts through my skull, low and sharp: Outside.

By the time Elias barrels into the hall, his axe already in hand, I’m at the front doors, shadows spilling between my fingers like blood.

The manor groans as I pull the doors open.

And they’re just… standing there.

Two venin.

Eyes glowing like embers, skin stretched too tight over bones that used to be human. They aren’t armed. They aren’t even cloaked in magic. They just wait, still as statues, like they’ve been here all along.

Elias snarls, but I hold up a hand, my jaw locked. “Why are you here?”

The taller one smiles, a corpse’s grin. “You know why.”

The other leans forward, his voice smooth, coaxing. “You’ve already taken the first step. You burned out for them. You chose power. You chose survival. And now? You can choose more.”

Elias spits on the ground, the sound vicious. “Fuck you.”

The venin don’t flinch. “Why fight us,” the first continues, “when you are us?” His eyes flash toward me. “We could use generals like you. Men who have already given up everything for their people. Why not give up the last illusion of resistance?”

For a heartbeat, I can’t move. Because part of me—part I’ll never admit aloud—feels the truth in his words. We are like them now. Changed. Tainted. Monsters walking around in our lovers’ faces.

But then I think of her.

Of Lenny, feral grin carved into her scarred face, calling me Broody Bastard, telling me to stop wallowing and fight.

Of Violet, still breathing despite every godsdamn thing the world has thrown at her.

Of Garrick, who swore to protect her, even in death.

My shadows whip out before the bastard even finishes his sentence. They slice through bone, through sinew, through whatever mockery of humanity is left. Elias moves too—axe a blur, cleaving the second venin’s head clean off.

The bodies crumple, leaking that reeking black ichor into the dirt.

The silence after is worse than the fight.

Elias breathes hard, his chest rising and falling like a war drum. “They wanted us.”

I stare down at the mess we’ve made. The truth lodges in my throat like a blade. “They think we’re theirs.”

Elias meets my gaze. For once, there’s no bite, no bitterness. Just raw understanding.

Because the bastards are right about one thing. We’ve already crossed the line. There’s no going back.

But we’re not theirs.

Never.

I wipe the ichor from my blade, my voice flat, final. “We don’t fight for them. We never will. We fight for ours.”

Elias grips his axe tighter, nodding once. His voice is rough, ragged, but steady. “At any cost.”

The shadows shiver around me, and for the first time since Draithus, I almost feel certain again.

Even monsters can bleed for love.

KATHERINE

It turns out having a panther in the house is… less catastrophic than I expected.

Fluffy—because of course Lenny named her Fluffy—pads silently across the floors like she owns the place, tail swishing with all the arrogance of royalty. Kingston mutters every time he sees her, still not convinced she won’t eat us all in our sleep, but I’ve noticed he’s the first to sneak her scraps when he thinks I’m not looking.

And Elara?

Elara adores her.

My daughter, four months old and barely able to hold her own body steady, lights up every time Fluffy prowls into the room. Giggles. Little hands reaching. And gods, Fluffy answers. As if she understands. She crouches low, eyes soft, and lets Elara pat her nose, her whiskers twitching as though this tiny human already belongs to her.

It’s uncanny. A bond. A tether.

The way Nox and Lenny were. The way Elias and Miroth were.

I should be terrified. A panther at my baby’s crib? A predator licking her tiny fingers? But I’m not. Because every time I see them together, some broken part of me believes what Lenny wrote in that letter—that she chose Fluffy for Elara. That even dead, she’s still watching. Protecting. Making sure her goddaughter is never without a monster to guard her.

I can almost hear Elias’s voice though, sharp with panic, loud with that bone-deep fear only a father knows. A panther, Kat? Our baby has a fucking panther as a pet?

But Elias isn’t here.

And neither is Lenny.

So, it’s me and Kingston and this wild, impossible life.

Kingston leans against the doorway now, arms folded, eyebrows raised as Fluffy sprawls at the base of Elara’s crib, tail flicking, head nestled against the wood as though she’s standing watch.

“You know she’s going to terrify half the town when she’s older,” Kingston mutters.

I smile faintly, rocking Elara against my shoulder. “Good. Maybe they’ll think twice before crossing her.”

He snorts, but there’s no fight in it. Just tired affection.

Elara burbles, and I press my lips to her soft hair, breathing her in. She smells of milk and warmth, of the only piece of Elias I have left.

Fluffy raises her head, golden eyes locking on mine. She doesn’t blink. Doesn’t flinch. And in that moment, I swear she understands what I can’t say out loud.

That this house is quieter now. Emptier.

That we’re missing too much.

That grief still lives here, prowling our halls as surely as she does.

But at least… at least my daughter will never be unprotected.

Because Eleanor Lennox-Riorson-Tavis might be gone. But her chaos lingers.

And her chaos gave Elara a panther.

Elara finally drifts off, cheek pressed to my collarbone, breath warm and even. I lower her gently into the crib, and Fluffy shifts, pressing closer, like she’s already sworn an oath no blade or beast could break.

I linger there too long. My hand rests on the crib’s edge, my eyes fixed on the tiny rise and fall of my daughter’s chest.

And that’s when Kingston speaks.

“Kat.” His voice is soft, almost careful. Like he’s afraid I’ll shatter.

I straighten, brushing stray hair from my face, forcing a smile. “What?”

He doesn’t smile back. Just studies me with that steady gaze that’s always seen too much. “You’ve been better. Since… since she came.” He tilts his chin toward Fluffy. “Since Lenny made her presence known. But you’re still… here.” He gestures to the walls. To the shadows. “And not here.”

I go still. My throat locks.

“Kat,” he tries again, gentler now. “Elara needs you. Not half of you. Not the part that survives the day until the next one comes. She needs her mother. All of her.”

The words slice. Clean and merciless.

I sink onto the edge of the chair, pressing my palms against my knees, staring at the floorboards. My chest is tight, a weight pressing down hard enough I think it might break me.

“I don’t know how,” I whisper.

“You don’t have to know.” Kingston crosses the room, crouches in front of me, his rough hands bracing on my knees. “You just have to try. One day at a time. One breath at a time. Elara doesn’t need perfection. She just needs you.”

I bite my lip, tears pricking at my eyes. “And what about me, King? What if I need him?”

His jaw works. Pain flickers across his face. But his grip on me tightens. “Then lean on me. That’s what I’m here for.”

The tears spill, hot and silent. I cover his hand with mine, squeezing hard, grounding myself in that simple, steady warmth.

“Thank you,” I whisper. My voice cracks. “For staying. For being her uncle. For being my friend.”

His expression softens, the tension in his shoulders easing just enough for him to smile. “Always, Kat.”

I let out a shaky laugh, swiping at my cheeks. “Gods, Elias would hate this, wouldn’t he? You playing house with me and his daughter.”

Kingston’s smile fades into something heavier. “Then it’s a good thing Elias isn’t here to argue. Because someone has to stay. And I’m not going anywhere.”

I nod, swallowing hard. For the first time in weeks, I almost believe it—that maybe, just maybe, I won’t have to do this alone.

Kingston doesn’t move his hands from mine. Doesn’t look away. His voice is low, steady—like it always is when he’s saying something that matters.

“Kat… Elias and I made a pact years ago.”

My chest tightens. “What kind of pact?”

He swallows, and his thumb brushes across my knuckles. “That if anything ever happened to him, I’d look after you. And if anything ever happened to me, he’d do the same for my family. That’s the kind of men we were. The kind of brothers we were.”

I blink at him, hard. My vision blurs, tears stinging fresh.

“He made me promise,” Kingston continues, his jaw tight. “And I intend to keep it. Because if it were me lying out there, if it were me that didn’t come home? I know Elias would be here. For them. For me. For you.”

The sob rips through me before I can stop it. My head drops forward, and Kingston catches me, pulls me against his chest. My fingers curl in his shirt as the tears come fast and ugly, soaking his collar.

“I can’t do this without him,” I whisper, broken.

“I know,” Kingston murmurs into my hair. “But you won’t have to. Not while I’m here. Not while Elara’s here.”

I cling to him like I’m drowning. Because maybe I am. And maybe this—his arms, his steady presence, his promise—is the only lifeline I’ve got left.

And for the first time since Elias vanished into the shadows of Draithus, I let myself believe it. Just for a moment. That maybe I’m not entirely alone.

My sobs get worse, ragged, breaking open pieces of me I’ve been holding shut for months. And then—soft fur presses into my cheek.

Fluffy.

The panther leans her massive head against my shoulder, her breath warm, her purr a low, rumbling thunder in my bones. Elara babbles from her cot nearby, like she knows. Like she feels it too.

I clutch at Fluffy’s thick white fur, shaking. “Gods, Lenny would have loved you,” I choke out.

And it hits me, sharp and brutal—how much she’s missed. How much Elias has missed.

I’ve never hidden my depression. I never could. Elias knew the storm in me better than anyone. He steadied me. He anchored me. And when Lenny came crashing into our lives, I saw it in her too. The same darkness. The same war. She was fire and rage, but underneath, she was broken like me. And I knew it because I was the same.

But now? They’re both gone.

And I’m here.

Just me. Just the storm.

Elara gurgles again, kicking her feet like she’s laughing. Kingston’s hand stays on my back. Fluffy presses harder against me. And for the first time, I feel it. The weight of them all, tethering me here.

For Elara.

For Kingston.

For Fluffy.

For Bodhi and Vi. For Rhiannon. For everyone still fighting.

For all of them.

I drag in a shaky breath and wipe my face on my sleeve. “I have to stand back up,” I whisper, more to myself than anyone else.

Because Lenny refused to die on her knees.

So Katherine Ryder won’t live on hers.

Not anymore.

ELEANOR

The office still smells faintly of ink, dust, and old fire. My father’s ghost lingers in the ink-stained desk, in the stacks of leather-bound journals scattered across the shelves. Lorenzo Lennox, the mad bastard who catalogued runes and talladium experiments like his life depended on it. Maybe it did.

Garrick’s sitting at the desk now, my husband in my father’s chair, flipping through brittle pages with those rough hands that have always known how to hold me steady.

And I should be paying attention. Really. Talladium shortages, venin-killing alloys, saving our people and all that. Big important shit.

But I’m not paying attention.

Because—holy gods—he’s hot.

His tunic sleeves are rolled to his elbows, showing off forearms that could kill a man. His rebellion relic winds across one bicep, flexing when he shifts his hand. Dark ink carved against sun-browned skin, and I swear I choke on air.

And that frown. That little crease between his brows when he’s focused? Unfair. Illegal. His hazel eyes flick over the page like the words themselves might bend under his command. His curls are a dark mess, like he’s run his hands through them too many times. I want to tug them until he groans.

I should be thinking about talladium. Instead, I’m thinking about biting his arm. Like, full feral bite.

Gods, he looks good sitting there, serious and scholarly. Like he’s meant to be behind a desk, lecturing cadets on strategy, correcting their stances, making them sweat with nothing but a sharp look.

All I can think is: if Garrick was a professor, I’d be the worst student he ever had. Taking terrible notes. Doodling voidfire snakes in the margins. Raising my hand every five minutes just to ask if I could sit in his lap for “a clearer view of the lesson.”

“Len?” Garrick’s voice is low, stern, distracted. He’s still reading, hasn’t even noticed that I’m practically drooling. “You’ve been staring at the same page for ten minutes. Did you find something useful?”

Yes. Your fucking biceps.

“Nope,” I say brightly, snapping my book shut and tossing it aside. “Not a single thing.”

He sighs, muttering something about me being useless, still flipping through a leather-bound journal like he’s married to it.

And I stare at him some more.

Smart. Hot. Focused. My husband.

Professor Tavis.

Gods help me, I am about to fail every class.

I last approximately thirty seconds before my self-control combusts.

“Gods,” I mutter, throwing my quill aside and leaning forward across the desk. “You’re so fucking hot like this.”

Garrick doesn’t even look up from the journal. “Like what?”

I gesture wildly at him. At all of him. “This. Sitting there. Focused. All… smart and serious with your sleeves rolled up and your relic glowing. You look like a godsdamned professor, and I’m about to make some very poor academic decisions.”

That gets his eyes up. Hazel and sharp, blinking at me like I just announced I’d joined the venin. “Wait—you’re turned on right now?”

“Yes,” I say flatly. “Of course I am. Have you seen yourself?”

His mouth twitches, like he’s trying not to laugh. “Len—”

“No, don’t ‘Len’ me. You sit there, all broody and brilliant and muscly, reading like knowledge is your lover, and what the fuck do you expect me to do? I’m only human. Well—mostly.”

He finally puts the book down, rubbing his face with one hand, sighing like a man who regrets every life choice that led him here. “Lenny. I’ve literally been a professor. At Basgiath. Combat instructor. Remember?”

Oh, I remember. I remember him pinning me to the mats, bruises and sweat, his voice low and taunting while he corrected my stance. I also remember wanting to rip his shirt off right there in front of half the quadrant.

“Yeah, that was hot,” I admit, leaning back in my chair with a grin. “But this? This is different. This is books and ink and a desk. This is academic corruption, Garrick. You’re ruining libraries for me.”

He stares at me, exasperated. “Len, we’re supposed to be researching talladium, not role-playing your weird professor fantasy.”

“Then stop looking like that,” I shoot back, smirking. “Or put your sleeves down. Or better yet, take them off.”

He sighs again—long, suffering, beautiful—and mutters, “I married a menace.”

I grin. “And you love me for it.”

I give it a whole two minutes of “research” before my brain combusts again. Garrick’s bent over Lorenzo’s notes, jaw sharp in the firelight, relic flickering with every twitch of his hand. That frown could carve marble. His sleeves are rolled up just enough to show the vein in his forearm, and—yeah. I’m done for.

I push back from my chair and climb onto the desk. His head jerks up.

“Len,” he warns.

I grin, swinging my legs so my heels thud against the drawers. “Yes, Professor?”

The vein in his temple actually throbs. “Get off the desk.”

“Gladly,” I purr, crooking a finger. “But only if you come with me.”

He exhales like he’s negotiating peace treaties with godsdamn dragons, then pinches the bridge of his nose. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Unbelievably hot for you, yeah.”

Before he can protest, I tug his collar and pull him forward. My knees part, his hips slotting between them, and suddenly I’ve got his mouth against mine. For one, delicious second he resists—hands braced on the desk, muscles taut. Then he groans into the kiss, deep and guttural, like he’s surrendering to inevitable chaos.

When he pulls back, he’s breathless. His hazel eyes are molten. “This isn’t research,” he rasps.

I smirk, tugging his tunic higher to show more skin. “Depends what you’re studying.”

And just like that, the journal is abandoned. His hands grip my thighs, his mouth returns to mine, and all thoughts of talladium vanish under the heat of Garrick fucking Tavis finally giving in to my terrible, wonderful little fantasy.

I fist the hem of his tunic, tugging it upward like it offends me. Which it does. It’s hiding far too much skin.

But Garrick catches my wrists, steady, unyielding. “Len,” he warns, voice low. “We need to focus on the research.”

I pout. Full lips, big eyes, the works. “I was dead for three months.”

His jaw ticks. “And?”

“And,” I purr, tugging at him again, “you’ve got catching up to do.”

He stares at me. Hazel eyes narrowing. “Are you manipulating me right now?”

I flash him all my teeth. “Is it working?”

The air shifts.

In the space of a heartbeat he flips me, hands sure and rough, pressing me face-down against the desk. The papers scatter like ash. The wood is cool under my cheek, Garrick’s weight warm against my back.

His voice rumbles low at my ear. “Tell me, Viper. What happens to bad students?”

A shiver snakes down my spine. I twist just enough to grin at him. “I don’t know, Professor. What does happen to bad students?”

The smile that spreads across his face is equal parts promise and threat, his breath hot against my skin. And gods help me, I know I’ve won.

His body pins me to the desk, the press of him grounding and overwhelming all at once.

The smug grin spreads across my face, even with my cheek pressed to cool wood. “You’re actually doing it,” I taunt, breathless already. “You’re really going for the whole professor act—”

The sharp sting of his palm meeting my ass cuts me off mid-sentence. My gasp echoes in the room, and then I’m laughing, wriggling under him. “Oh, fuck, you didn’t—”

He leans down, his lips brushing the shell of my ear. “Bad students get punished.” His voice is a dark velvet growl.

Heat floods me. My tunic is yanked up, gathered quick in his fists, and the scrape of his knuckles against my ribs has my knees buckling. He makes a low, approving sound when he feels the shiver run through me.

“Garrick,” I breathe, trying to turn my head toward him.

Another smack, harder this time. My cry is half-moan, half-laughter.

“Professor,” he corrects, dragging the word out slow, deliberate, dangerous. “Say it properly, Viper.”

I clench my fists against the scattered notes on the desk, my grin wicked even as my skin stings deliciously. “Yes, Professor.”

He hums, satisfied, before tugging at the laces of my pants. They slip down over my hips with a rough pull, baring me completely to him. I push back into his hands, shameless.

“You’re insatiable,” he mutters, but his own breathing is ragged, betraying just how undone he is.

I lift my head, hair wild around my face, my voice thick with want. “I told you—I was dead for three months. You’ve got a lot of catching up to do.”

His laugh is low and dark, and then his hand smooths over my spine, steady, reverent, before coming down hard again across my ass. My cry breaks into a moan.

He bends over me, pressing his mouth to the back of my neck, whispering between each kiss: “Then let’s make up for lost time.”

His hand drags me upright, spinning me in his grip until I’m perched on the desk again, breathless and flushed.

His mouth claims mine, deep and hot, and I fist his shirt, desperate, hungry. But he doesn’t let me win. He breaks the kiss first, smirking at my growl of protest, and drags his knuckles along the inside of my thigh until I’m trembling.

“Gods, you’re already ruined,” he says low, almost to himself, eyes burning as they roam over me. “All from a little discipline.”

I bare my teeth in a grin. “Maybe you should spank me more often then.”

The look he gives me in return is pure, feral heat. And then he’s dropping to his knees before me, tugging me forward until I’m perched on the very edge of the desk, thighs open, breath choking in my throat. His hands spread firm and steady at my hips.

“Are you gonna be a good girl for me?” he asks, voice dark silk.

I arch a brow, because of course he’d try this. “Why?”

His smirk deepens as he presses a kiss to the soft skin of my inner thigh. “Because only good girls get to come.”

My laugh cracks into a gasp when his mouth finally replaces his hands. The world tilts, my spine bowing, my fists tangling in his curls as his tongue and teeth worship me like I’m his only religion.

Gods, I should be embarrassed. I should be ashamed of how quick I come undone for him.

But shame doesn’t exist when Garrick’s on his knees. Not when he’s devouring me like this—like he’s starved and I’m the only meal he’ll ever take again.

I grip his curls with both hands, pulling him closer, dragging him against me, my back arching until I swear I’ll break in two.

“Please,” I gasp, half-growl, half-beg. “Please, Garrick—”

He pauses just long enough to lift his head, lips wet, eyes burning up at me. “Professor,” he corrects, low and wicked, his smirk daring me.

“Professor,” I breathe, the word catching in my throat as my body trembles with it. “Please—”

His teeth scrape, his tongue follows, and gods, I shatter. The heat, the tension, the ache all snapping at once as the world falls out beneath me. I choke out his name—his real one, because fuck the titles—riding it, holding him tighter, as if I can fuse his mouth to me forever.

And when I’m gasping, twitching, raw in the aftermath—he doesn’t give me a second to recover. He’s up, towering over me, hauling me back down against the desk.

My wrists hit wood, pinned. His mouth crashes into mine, hard and claiming, and I taste myself on his tongue.

The kiss is rough, hungry, filthy. His body cages mine, chest heaving against my breasts, his curls brushing my cheek as he groans into me.

“You taste like mine,” he growls into my mouth, nipping my bottom lip until I whimper.

“You—” I pant, still half-wrecked, my nails clawing his back. “You are a menace.”

He presses harder, keeping me flush against the desk, the weight of him reminding me exactly who I belong to. His smirk is feral, dangerous, as he kisses me again—deep, slow, drowning.

“Good girl,” he whispers against my lips.

And I swear, I’d let him break me a thousand times over, just to hear that again.

The desk’s cool against my back. His weight is hot against my chest. And my lungs? Fuck, they can’t keep up. Not with this man. Not with my husband.

I claw at his shirt, growling when he takes too long, and he laughs. Actually laughs. Like I’m not seconds from setting the room on fire with my void.

“Patience, little viper,” he taunts, dragging the words out like smoke.

“Patience is for saints,” I hiss, nipping his jaw. “And you didn’t marry one.”

That smirk. Gods, that fucking smirk. It’s the one he gives me right before he snaps.

And then the shirt is gone. The trousers follow. Hazelnut eyes glinting down at me like he’s ready to tear me apart again.

But I’ve got my own ideas.

I shove him back with a wicked grin, sliding off the desk to my knees, my hands trailing down his thighs like I own every inch. Because I do.

“Eleanor—” His voice cracks low, warning and need in equal measure.

I glance up, green eyes wicked, mouth hovering close. “Professor,” I purr, tongue darting out just to tease him. “Don’t you want to see if your student’s been paying attention?”

His curse is guttural, filthy, dragged from his chest. His hand fists in my hair instantly, but not to stop me—to anchor me.

I take my time. Slow. Torturous. Letting him feel every inch of me, lips and tongue working him until his composure frays. He groans, head tipping back, the tendons in his neck straining like I’ve ruined him.

“Gods, Lenny—” His grip tightens, hips jerking despite himself.

I pull back just enough to smirk up at him, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. “Careful, Professor. You’re the one who told me bad students need discipline.”

His eyes snap open—dark, feral, his smirk twisting into something dangerous.

And then I’m not on the floor anymore. I’m slammed back onto the desk, pinned beneath him, his weight stealing my breath as he growls against my mouth:

“Then it’s time for your punishment.”

And gods, I’m ready to fail every fucking test he gives me.

The desk creaks under us as he flips me, hard enough that my breath whooshes out of me. My palms slam into the wood, cool and steady under my fingers. His hand presses into the middle of my back, pinning me there, forcing me to feel the authority in his touch.

Every nerve in me ignites. Gods, yes. This. This is what I’ve missed. The roughness. The claim. The reminder that I don’t kneel for kings or gods or generals. I only kneel for him.

I push my hips back, defiant, and he smacks me once, sharp and stinging. The sound echoes through the room, through my chest, straight into the pit of my stomach. I gasp, then laugh breathlessly, “That all you’ve got, Professor?”

His laugh is dark. Feral. And then he bends low, his lips brushing my ear. “You’ll regret that.”

He drives into me hard. Deep. Enough to knock the sound out of me. My fingers claw across the desk, searching for purchase, finding nothing but splinters and parchment. I moan, loud, shameless.

“Fuck, Garrick.”

“No.” His hand fists in my hair, yanking my head back so I’m forced to meet his gaze when he angles around. Hazelnut eyes, wild and merciless. “That’s Professor to you, viper.”

My laugh breaks on a moan. Gods, he’s lethal like this. Every thrust is punishment, a brutal reminder of everything I’ve survived, of the only man who can ever break me and put me back together in the same heartbeat.

The only man I’ll ever let this close.

His hand leaves my hair to close around my throat—not choking, just there, firm, anchoring. Possessive. Mine.

And gods help me, I lean into it. I want more. I want the weight of his claim branded into my skin.

“You’re mine, Eleanor.” His voice is sharp steel, unyielding. “Your heart. Your soul. Your fire. Every inch of you belongs to me.”

“Always,” I gasp, arching against him, desperate. “Fuck, Garrick—always.”

His thumb brushes over my pulse, feeling the frantic beat beneath. His smile is wicked, dark, a mirror of the man I fell in love with—the man who matches my chaos blow for blow.

He snaps his hips harder, and I scream his name, raw, broken, whole.

The desk rattles, the old wood groaning, but neither of us care. He’s relentless, dragging every sound from me, wringing every ounce of submission out of my feral soul until I’m unraveling under him, sobbing with the force of it.

When I fall apart, when the world goes white-hot and blinding, he doesn’t let me slip away. His grip on my throat tightens just enough, his mouth against my ear.

“Good girl,” he breathes.

And gods—those two words destroy me all over again.

The desk is a wreck. Papers scattered. Ink spilled. My thighs trembling so hard I can barely hold myself up.

And Garrick—my husband, my general, my ruin—scoops me off the desk like I weigh nothing, collapsing into the chair with me straddling him. Neither of us care about the mess, or the fact that he’s still inside me, spilling warmth into me with every shift.

His arms cage me in, iron and desperate, like if he lets go for even a second I’ll vanish again. His mouth finds my neck, peppering kisses along my jaw, into my hair, down the curve of my shoulder.

“I love you,” I whisper, voice broken but sure. “I missed you.”

He groans against my skin, one massive hand sliding up my spine, pressing me closer until there’s no space left between us. “Don’t you ever leave me again.” His voice is ragged, guttural, like it’s ripped from his chest.

“I won’t.” My fingers curl into his curls, tugging his head back so I can look at him, really look. Hazel eyes wet, rimmed with red. The kind of eyes that haunt and heal me in the same breath. “You’re stuck with me. Always.”

His forehead drops to mine, our breaths tangled, hearts still racing. “You’re my other half, baby. My madness. My salvation. My wife. My mate.”

“Always,” I murmur, kissing him again. Soft this time. No teeth. No battle. Just us.

He exhales, deep and shaky, and buries his face in my neck again. I stroke his back, the muscles still tense, still wound up like he thinks this is a dream that’ll crack apart if he breathes wrong.

But it’s real. I’m here. Alive. Whole. And his.

Always his.

We’re still naked, still wrapped around each other, sticky and wrecked, when Garrick finally exhales that long-suffering sigh of his.

“I can’t believe,” he mutters into my hair, voice equal parts exhausted and amused, “we just fucked on your dead father’s desk.”

I blink at him, then snort so hard it comes out like a cackle. “What? He tortured me in this house, on this estate. It’s only fair I torture his ghost with the knowledge his precious desk is ruined forever now.”

Garrick groans, dragging a hand down his face. “Len—”

“No, think about it.” I grin, feral and unapologetic, twirling a stray quill between my fingers before tossing it across the room. “Every time Lorenzo Lennox rolls over in whatever hell he’s rotting in, he’ll know his favourite desk isn’t just stained with ink and blood anymore. It’s ours.”

Garrick chokes on a laugh, pressing his forehead into my shoulder like he’s trying to smother it.

“In fact…” I glance down between us, still joined, still warm. A wicked smirk spreads across my face. “Maybe we should go another round. Really make sure the wood’s cursed forever.”

“Gods.” He tips his head back, finally letting the laughter burst out. “You are—”

“Unhinged?” I offer sweetly.

“—mine,” he corrects, crushing me closer, lips brushing my temple as he shakes with laughter. “Absolutely fucking mine.”

“Damn right I am.”

XADEN

Three days.

Three days since the Venin showed their ugly faces, since they stood there like vultures waiting to feed, daring to recruit us. Three days since Elias and I cut them down and realised something cold and ugly—those bastards think we’re theirs now.

They’re wrong.

The grief isn’t gone, but it’s dulled—sharpened into something I can use. Something Elias can use too, though he won’t admit it. We can’t go home. We can’t fight beside them. But we’re not corpses rotting in some Venin war camp either. We’re still soldiers. And that means we fight—even if it’s from the shadows.

The floor creaks under my boots as I pace the length of the room. It’s small—stone walls, stale air, dust that clings to my throat—but it’s safe. One of many places Len showed me before she…

My chest tightens. I force the thought down.

She’d worked with Courtlyn in secret, setting up safehouses across the continent. Not for herself. Not even for Garrick. For me. Her contingency plan, like she knew I’d need them someday.

I grit my teeth and keep pacing. She hadn’t known Elias would turn Venin too. But still—she’d been planning for this. Godsdamn her. She always planned ten steps ahead. Even for me.

The air shifts, shadows stretching as Sygael circles overhead. She’s restless too. She doesn’t like us staying in one place. Neither do I.

The door creaks open. My head snaps up.

Elias steps inside, hood pulled low, pack slung across one shoulder. His eyes gleam in the dim light, red threaded with red-black veins, but his grin is sharp, alive. “Supplies. And news.”

I cross the room in two strides. “Well?”

Elias drops the pack with a dull thud, dust kicking up from the floorboards. Then he pulls out a rolled scrap of parchment and spreads it flat across the rickety table.

The map.

“Here.” His finger taps a spot east of us, near the foothills. His eyes gleam red, veins pulsing faintly against his skin, but his grin is sharp. Alive. “Miroth saw it. A Venin encampment. Small, mobile. They’re moving east with a shipment.”

“What kind of shipment?” My voice is already tight, shadows writhing, aching for a target.

Elias’s grin widens, wicked and bright. “Talladium.”

My chest goes still. For a second, I almost forget to breathe.

“You’re sure?”

“I’m not a fucking idiot.” Elias says, his tone all mock-casual, but his eyes are burning. “They stole it. Probably raided a convoy meant for Navarre or Aretia.”

Talladium. The one thing that can cut through Venin like rot through wood. The one thing the others need more than air, more than sleep, more than anything.

And those bastards have it.

I stare at the map, at the scratch of Elias’s ink. Then I meet his eyes, and for once there’s no need for words.

We’re of the same mind.

“We take it,” I say.

Elias’s grin flashes wider. “We take it. And we make sure it gets back to Violet and the others.”

My shadows shiver with hunger, licking the walls, clawing toward the ceiling. “We can’t be with them.”

“No.” Elias shakes his head, his expression hardening. “But we can fight for them. In the dark. In the places they’ll never see us.”

I lean over the table, planting my palms against the wood, glaring down at the map like I can already see the camp burning. “We get that talladium. We bleed every Venin in our path if we have to.”

Elias’s voice is low, dangerous. “Then we send it home.”

And for the first time in months, I feel it.

Purpose.

If we can’t stand in the light, then we’ll fight in the shadows.

For Violet. For Bodhi. For Len. For Garrick.

For all of them.

The map blurs under my stare, Elias still talking strategy, but my chest goes tight.

Because there—up in the rafters—something shifts.

A ripple of black against the beams. Quick. Fluid. Too smooth to be just a draft.

For half a second my heart fucking stops.

Noodle.

It looks like Noodle. The sharp coil of a tail, the flash of sleek movement, the glint of eyes that always looked like holes in the void.

My breath catches, choking me.

But no.

No.

Noodle’s dead. He died at Draithus with her—with them all. Torn apart, consumed, gone. I watched them fall. I saw the ruin left behind.

I squeeze my eyes shut and drag a hand down my face.

Fuck.

The grief’s clawing deeper now, bleeding into my vision, making ghosts out of shadows.

“You good?” Elias’s voice cuts sharp, suspicious.

I force my hands flat on the table, will the tremor out of them. “Fine.”

Elias tilts his head, eyes narrowing. “You don’t look fine.”

I glance back up at the rafters. Empty. Just beams and dust and the faint crawl of my own shadows.

Nothing there.

Just me. My broken fucking brain.

“I’m fine,” I repeat, though my throat’s raw. “Let’s stick to the plan.”

Elias doesn’t push. But he watches me. Always watching, like he’s waiting for me to crack open and admit the truth.

That sometimes—I still see them. All of them.

And gods help me, sometimes I almost believe they’re still here.

VIOLET

The first thing I notice is the fire.

Not warm, golden fire, but black-violet flame that eats the air around it, warping the cliffside in waves of heat. It coils and snaps, a storm held barely in check, and in the center of it all—legs folded, palms open, hair wild and red even in the stormlight—sits Lenny.

Eleanor fucking Lennox.

Meditating like some unhinged goddess of ruin while the world burns around her.

My stomach plummets.

This is a dream. It has to be. I’ve been working at this dreamwalking thing, fumbling and stumbling, but I’m learning. Slowly. Carefully. But… whose dream is this? Not mine. Not anyone I know. Because if this is hers—if I’m in Lenny’s dream—then how is that possible when she’s dead?

I step forward, the cliff crunching beneath my boots. The fire hisses as though it knows I don’t belong.

And then—A ripple. Shadows peeling open like a veil.

Myrnin.

The god of fate materialises in the storm, calm as a serpent in sunlight, watching her with eyes that reflect too much. His presence makes the fire lean toward him, flare brighter. He doesn’t speak at first. Just observes.

I freeze. My heart’s in my throat. Because there’s no one else here. No Bodhi. No Ridoc. No Garrick. Just me. Just Lenny and Myrnin.

Which means—Oh gods.

If this isn’t her dream… is this the Veil?

Am I walking somewhere I shouldn’t? Somewhere no mortal should?

The wind howls across the cliff, whipping at my hair, carrying sparks that sting against my skin. My boots crunch forward, and I catch pieces of Myrnin’s voice.

“…the Void stirs… the Balance is restless. They whisper your name. Unnatural.”

My chest goes tight. Unnatural? Balance? I inch closer. The flames spit, sear the edges of the dream, and then—

“Lenny?” The word rips out of me before I can stop it.

Her head jerks up. Green eyes wide. Terrified.

“You shouldn’t be here.”

Her voice—gods, her voice. It’s broken glass and desperation, and it crushes me. She scrambles to her feet, fire flaring wild, but Myrnin is already stepping in front of her. His silhouette cuts the storm in half, calm and cold, head tilted like a predator scenting prey.

“You’re a dreamwalker.”

The words curl around me like chains. I can’t breathe. I can’t even deny it. My throat is too tight.

I stare at him. At her.

And then he moves, not violently, but with finality. His hand gestures once, sharp. “Go.”

Eleanor doesn’t hesitate. Of course she doesn’t. She never did. She just shoots me one last shattered look—fear, fury, love all tangled—and then she jumps. Straight off the cliff, into fire, into nothing.

Gone.

My scream lodges in my chest.

The firestorm collapses around us, shrinking until only Myrnin and I remain, the cliff dissolving into endless dark. His eyes glint with something too sharp to be human.

“How many times have you been here?”

“What—what do you mean?” My voice cracks.

“Here.” His gaze pierces through me. “This place is not for mortals.”

My knees nearly give out. “I don’t even know where I am.”

His smile is thin. Cruel. “You’ve walked into me. Into my mind. That should not be possible, Violet.”

I shake my head, swallowing hard. “Then—then Lenny—”

“Dead.” The word is a blade. His tone leaves no room for softness. “Do not twist yourself with false hope.”

“No.” My chest heaves. “I saw her. She was—”

“A remnant,” he interrupts. “An echo of what she was. Nothing more.”

The world shudders, and I feel myself slipping, the dream fraying at the edges. His last words follow me into the dark:

“Eleanor Tavis is dead. Remember that.”

But gods—my heart refuses to believe it.

I jolt awake with a gasp, the sheets tangling around my legs, sweat sticking to my skin. My heart’s a hammer, my lungs are knives, and for a second I don’t even know where I am.

Aretia. Riorson House. Here I am, playing Duchess in a place that still smells like ash and ghosts.

But it’s not the bed or the walls or the suffocating silence that’s got me shaking. It’s her.
Lenny.

Gods, I saw her. Heard her. Felt her. That wasn’t just an echo. That wasn’t just my grief clawing at me in a dream.

I fling the covers back and shove my feet into boots, not even bothering with laces. My hands are shaking so badly I nearly rip the door off its hinges as I stumble into the corridor.

Bodhi’s room is just down the hall. I don’t bother knocking—I slam the door open, and he nearly falls out of bed, wild-eyed, his dagger halfway up before he realises it’s me.

“Vi?” His voice is groggy, pissed, and worried all at once. Ridoc groans from the other side of the bed, muttering something about “rude duchesses at dawn.”

I don’t care. I’m already across the room, grabbing Bodhi’s wrist like it’s the only thing tethering me to the world. “I saw her.”

He freezes. The words are blades, sharp enough to wake him faster than cold steel ever could. “Who?”

“Lenny,” I choke out. “I—I swear it was her. I was dreaming, only it wasn’t a dream, it was… it was Myrnin. I was in his mind, or—or somewhere, I don’t know. She was there, Bodhi. She was right there.”

His face crumples, a thousand things warring across it—hope, fear, the kind of grief that never leaves. He shakes his head, trying to stay steady. “Vi…”

“No,” I snap, too loud, too desperate. Ridoc stirs again, but I don’t care. “It wasn’t just an echo, Bodhi. Myrnin said it was—but gods, it felt like her. She looked at me. She saw me. She told me I shouldn’t be there. And then she—she jumped—” My voice breaks. “She jumped off a cliff.”

Silence.

Bodhi’s staring at me like I just split him open. His throat works as he swallows, his hand clamping over mine hard enough to hurt. “You’re sure?”

I nod, tears pricking hot and sharp. “I don’t care what that god says. It was her. I know it was her.”

Ridoc groans from his bed, voice muffled in the pillow. “If ghost-Lenny’s haunting your dreams now too, we’re all fucked.”

But Bodhi doesn’t even crack a smile. He just grips my hand tighter, his eyes blazing with something I haven’t seen in weeks.

Hope.

ELEANOR

I wake choking on air.

My chest heaves like someone’s shoving knives between my ribs, my fingers clawing at the blankets as Garrick’s hands grip my shoulders.

“Len. Len, breathe. Godsdammit, baby, breathe.” His voice is raw, breaking. His eyes are wide and frantic, his curls damp with sweat like he’s been holding me through a storm.

I suck in air, but it doesn’t feel like enough. My lungs burn. My skin burns.

And then—he’s just there.

Myrnin. Standing in the corner of my bedroom, shadows flickering around him like they know better than to touch his robes. His expression is thunder. “Did you know?”

My breath stutters. “Did I—did I know what?”

He takes a step closer, and even Garrick tenses, half-shoving himself in front of me like he thinks he can shield me from a god.

Myrnin’s eyes narrow, glinting like knives. “Did you know Violet Sorrengail is a dreamwalker?”

The words hit like a blade to the chest. My throat closes. “What?”

“You didn’t know?” His tone is sharp, testing.

“No!” I snap, my voice hoarse. “I fucking didn’t.”

Garrick looks between us, his brow furrowed, voice low. “What the hell are you talking about?”

Myrnin doesn’t even look at him. His gaze is fixed on me, heavy, suffocating. “You were dreaming. But you weren’t alone. She found you. She sensed you, even across kingdoms, and entered your mind. Which means—” His teeth bare in something that isn’t quite a snarl, “—sleep is no longer safe for you. Not when your little Duchess friend can stumble into your head like she’s walking into a bloody library.”

My stomach drops. I remember it now—the cliff, the firestorm, Myrnin’s voice. Violet’s face. Her broken whisper. Lenny?

I squeeze my eyes shut, a sob clawing at my throat. “No. No, no, no…”

Because if Violet can find me in dreams—if she can feel me—it means the walls we’ve built around this secret are already cracking.

And if the Balance senses that crack? I won’t survive it.

Garrick’s voice cuts through the panic, low and dangerous. “What happens if she tries again? What happens if she tells the others?”

Myrnin exhales slowly, like a man who’s had centuries to perfect his patience and still finds me intolerable. “I told her she was inside my mind. Not yours. I told her what she saw was only a remnant of you, a fragment. An echo, nothing more.” His eyes flick to mine, sharp as a blade. “I told her you are dead.”

The words lance through me, cruel even though I know they’re necessary.

“But she won’t believe that,” I whisper, my voice shaking. I clutch at Garrick’s arm, nails digging in. “I know Vi. I know her. She’ll think it was me. She’ll know it was me.”

Myrnin sighs, tilting his head back toward the ceiling as if he’s asking the stars for patience. “And that is precisely the problem. We cannot risk this happening again. We cannot risk Violet Sorrengail finding you—or Garrick—through her dreams.”

Garrick takes a step forward, his body taut like a bow drawn too tight. “So what? You’re saying every time we close our eyes, we run the risk of Vi stumbling in?”

“Yes.” Myrnin doesn’t even flinch. “Dreamwalkers are rare. Powerful. Dangerous. And if Violet suspects—if she knows—Eleanor lives, the Balance will sense it too.”

“She won’t let it go,” I rasp. My throat burns, but I can’t stop. “She’ll come back. Again and again until she’s sure. Until she proves I’m not just an echo.”

Myrnin’s gaze sharpens, a flicker of something almost like pity crossing his face. “Then we must make sure she cannot.”

The silence that follows is heavy, suffocating. Garrick grips my hand like he can anchor me to this moment, like he can keep me from unraveling completely.

But all I can think is—how the fuck am I supposed to sleep now, knowing Violet might be waiting for me on the other side of my eyelids?

Myrnin is quiet for too long. That’s how I know whatever’s about to come out of his mouth is going to be vile.

At last, he says, calm and deliberate: “Then we ward the house. Runes strong enough to repel dreamwalkers. She will not be able to slip inside your minds again.”

My stomach twists. “Repel… how?”

His gaze lands on me, merciless. “The wards will turn her gift back on her. Not fatally. But the next time she tries, she will be burned by her own intrusion. Painful enough to make her hesitate. Painful enough to stop her.”

I blink, breath catching. Violet—my Violet—flinching, screaming, thinking it’s her fault for daring to try. “No,” I whisper. “No, we can’t do that.”

Garrick’s voice cuts hard across mine. “Yes. We can. We will.”

I whip my head toward him, shocked, but he isn’t looking at me. He’s staring at Myrnin, jaw like stone. “Do it.”

“Garrick—”

His eyes snap to me, blazing with something raw. Fear. “She won’t stop, Len. You know she won’t. And I can’t—” His voice cracks, and he swallows hard. “I can’t risk you. Not after everything. Violet can handle a little pain. She’s strong. But I can’t handle losing you. Not again.”

The room feels like it’s closing in, my lungs scraping like fire. I picture Violet clutching her head, wondering why the world suddenly burns, and my chest aches. But Garrick—my husband, my general, my anchor—is unflinching.

He grips my hand tighter, steady and ruthless. “I won’t let her take you from me, Len. Not even by accident.”

And gods help me—part of me agrees.

Because he’s right. Violet won’t stop. And if the Balance notices me too soon, if it tears me apart… then all of this—all of Garrick’s love, all of Noodle’s devotion, all of Nox and Chradh’s grief—will have been for nothing.

Myrnin nods once, decisive. “Then it’s settled. I’ll carve the wards tomorrow.”

I can’t breathe. Because I love Violet. I love her. But my husband’s voice is still ringing in my head.

He can’t survive losing me again.

BODHI

The mess hall feels too big today. Too empty, even though it’s filled with half the people I care about most in the world.

Plates clatter, voices murmur, but all I can hear is Violet’s words from this morning. I saw her. I swear I did.

Gods. If Lenny really is out there, in some half-state of ghost and fire and rage—then how the fuck am I supposed to leave?

I glance across the table. Aaric sits stiff-backed as always, princely even when he’s trying not to be. He doesn’t touch the food, just keeps watching the crates stacked by the door. Six eggs. Six fragile miracles wrapped in cloth and protection spells, all because Lenny couldn’t stop scheming, even when death was stalking her.

Three days before Draithus, she was still planning. Still playing the long game.
And now she’s… gone.

Or maybe not.

The thought lodges in my chest like a blade.

Or maybe not.

The thought lodges in my chest like a blade, twisting with every breath.

The table’s gone quiet again. Too quiet. Then Violet clears her throat, shoulders squared like she’s ready for a fight. “I sent a letter this morning.”

Every eye swings to her.

She doesn’t flinch. “To Courtlyn. And to Hedotis.”

The silence splinters. Imogen curses under her breath. Mira’s brows knit like she’s just been slapped. Ridoc stiffens beside me.

Brennan sets his fork down with deliberate calm. “Why in the gods’ names would you write to Hedotis?”

Violet meets his stare without blinking. “Because we need answers. And because I asked Talia Riorson to meet Bodhi and Aaric in Deverelli. She might have something. Anything. Records on the veil. On ghosts.”

The air crackles.

Brennan leans forward, his voice sharp enough to cut. “We cannot trust Talia. Len killed her husband, remember? Faris was one of the Triumvirate.”

My chest tightens. I remember too. I remember the night Lenny came back with blood on her boots and a storm in her eyes.

Violet frowns, her voice quiet but firm. “True. But Talia… Talia loved them. Both of them. And they’re dead. Xaden’s turned venin. She’s lost everything. If there’s even a chance she’ll help us—”

“Or betray us,” Brennan snaps.

“Or help us,” Violet fires back. “I just want to try.”

The words hang heavy in the air. Hope and danger, sharp and tangled.

I slam my hand on the table before I even realise I’ve moved. “I’m with Vi.”

The words come out harsh, too sharp, but I don’t care. “We all know she’s out there. Trapped as… as something. A ghost. A remnant. Whatever the fuck you want to call it. If there’s a chance we can bring her back—or even help her move on—we owe it to her to try.”

Silence. Heavy and suffocating.

Imogen leans back in her chair, arms crossed, eyes dark. “Then explain this to me, Bodhi. Why hasn’t anyone seen her in almost two weeks? Not a whisper. Not a flicker of voidfire. Nothing. If she’s here, why the silence?”

Her words bite, but she’s not wrong.

“And what about Garrick?” she adds, sharper now. “We’ve all had signs of Len. Books thrown. Windows slammed. Magelights flaring. But nothing from him. Not once. Don’t you think Garrick would be fighting tooth and nail to tell us he’s stuck too?”

Her glare pins me, daring me to answer.

Violet leans forward, her voice low but fierce. “Because it’s her. It’s always been her. I felt her, Imogen. In a dream. And it wasn’t some figment, or my mind playing tricks. It was real.” Her voice cracks, just a little. “She was real.”

Imogen looks away, muttering under her breath, but she doesn’t argue again.

It’s Catriona—quiet, sharp-eyed Catriona—who sighs next, running a hand through her hair. “I’m going to say what everyone else is thinking…” She hesitates, and the pause is heavy enough to crush bone. “What if the reason Len’s ghost has gone quiet… is because she’s finally found peace?”

The words lance through me.

She swallows, softer now. “What if we meddle? What if we drag her back into pain she’s already escaped? What if we do something terrible?”

The table goes still.

I stare down at my hands, clenching and unclenching my fists. Because she’s right. Because part of me fears it too.

But another part of me—the bigger, louder part—burns with a single thought.

If Len’s found peace, then why the fuck can’t I feel it?

“I’d know,” I snap, my voice rawer than I mean it to be. “If she was gone, if Garrick was gone, if they were gone—I’d fucking know. Don’t tell me about peace, Cat. Don’t you dare. Because if they were dead, if they were really gone, I’d feel it. I’d feel it in my bones.”

Her eyes soften, but Brennan cuts in, voice calm and infuriating. “You did, Bodhi. For two months, you thought they were dead. You drowned yourself in drink and fury. You did believe they were gone.”

The words slice me open. Because he’s right. Because I did. And because I don’t have an answer that doesn’t make me sound like a desperate, grieving idiot.

“I—” My throat locks. I stare down at the table, fists trembling.

Violet slams her hand down, rattling the plates. “I don’t give a fuck what any of you think,” she snaps, fire in her eyes. “I know what I felt last night. That was Lenny. Don’t you dare stand here and tell me otherwise. I’m the Duchess, and I’m not asking—I’m telling you. I’m going to do everything I can to bring her back. Either you’re with me, or you’re not.”

The silence that follows is brutal.

And then—

A sound. Low. Slithering. Familiar.

The hair on my arms stands up.

“Was that—?” Imogen’s eyes go wide.

“Noodle?” I whisper, the name barely making it out of my throat.

Every muscle in my body locks. My heart stops dead.

Because gods. That sounded like him.

That sounded exactly like him.

Chairs scrape back all at once, steel and leather clattering as every one of us rises to our feet. Nobody breathes. Nobody moves. The mess hall, usually alive with noise and clatter, feels like a tomb.

Imogen’s already halfway to the hearth, knife drawn. Rhiannon’s scanning the shadows by the rafters. Brennan’s hand is raised, silencing everyone.

But there’s nothing.

No shimmer of movement. No hiss. No click of fangs.

Nothing.

Just the echo of that sound, etched into the marrow of my bones.

“That was him,” I whisper. My throat burns. My palms sweat. “That was Noodle.”

“There’s no trace,” Brennan says, voice sharp. “Nothing.”

“Because he’s smart,” Vi bites out. She’s trembling, but her chin’s high, her voice steel. “He’s hiding. Which means he’s alive.”

“Or it means we’re losing our minds,” Cat mutters, but there’s no conviction in her tone. She heard it too.

Imogen spins, eyes blazing. “No. No, I know what I heard. Don’t you dare tell me I didn’t.”

We stand there like idiots, circling a room that looks no different than it did five minutes ago, but every nerve in my body screams otherwise.

There was something here.

And gods, I’d swear on every dragon in the Vale—it was Noodle.

Vi swallows hard. “I don’t care if the rest of you think I’m mad. Bodhi’s right. We’re finding the truth. Even if we have to walk into the After ourselves.”

And I nod, because for the first time in weeks, I feel it. That spark. That old familiar pull in my chest that says she’s not gone.

Something’s going on.

We can feel it.

And by the gods, we’re going to find out what.

Chapter Text

"While little is recorded about the Veylthorn parasites, scattered accounts across centuries agree on one undeniable truth: they are apex predators in every sense. These aberrations possess an intellect far beyond what nature intended—cocky, arrogant, and bloodthirsty, with a cruel delight in the torment of prey. They will never turn their back on a meal, whether that meal bleeds, breathes, or begs. Witnesses describe them not as beasts, but as nightmares clothed in flesh, the kind that crawl into the marrow of your bones. To tame a Veylthorn is folly. To study one is suicide. If you ever glimpse their black eyes gleaming in the dark, do not run. Do not fight. Simply pray. For you will soon meet the gods upon death."

— Aretian Academy Archives, 4th Edition, 621

[Handwritten annotation in the margin, written by Eleanor Tavis]

“Noodle is ALL of the above—cocky, arrogant, bloodthirsty, terrifying, smug little shit—but ALSO the goodest boy. Best spy. Bestest child. Don’t listen to this book. Veylthorn are perfect, cute kids.” — E.T.

GARRICK

The gardens are quiet this morning, the air heavy with the scent of roses her mother once planted. They’ve grown wild these past months, climbing stone walls, curling through weeds, as if the estate itself has given up trying to be orderly.

I sit on the low wall at the edge of the lawn, hands braced on my knees, watching my wife.

She’s alive. Back in her body. Herself again.

And still too weak to even lift her scythe for more than a few minutes at a time.

That doesn’t stop her.

Gods, it never does.

Across the grass, she circles Myrnin like a feral cat. The God of Fate stands there with his hands behind his back, dark hair shining in the light, calm as a priest at prayer. He doesn’t even hold a weapon. He doesn’t need to.

Len lunges at him, her form sloppy but determined, voidfire flaring from her hands in little bursts she can’t quite control. Myrnin tilts his head, stepping aside with lazy grace, and the fire smashes into the stone fountain behind him, black and violet flames eating through carved marble.

“Again,” Myrnin says simply.

Len snarls, wiping sweat from her brow. She stumbles slightly on her left leg, the same one that trembles when she tries to walk too far. My chest tightens at the sight. She hasn’t even been back in her body a week. She should be resting. Healing. But she won’t listen to me.

“Again,” she growls back at him, and throws herself into another strike.

Her fire lashes like a whip this time, crackling in the air. Myrnin lifts a single hand, and the flames flicker out of existence. Like they were never there at all.

Len screams in frustration. A sound that shreds me down the middle.

She’s on her knees before she knows it, her body folding in on itself. I’m half up from the wall, ready to run to her, but Myrnin lifts a hand toward me without even looking.

“Don’t,” he says softly. “She doesn’t need you to save her. Not here. Not now.”

The words cut. Because saving her is all I’ve done for months.

Holding her down when she tried to hurt herself. Feeding her when she wouldn’t eat. Keeping her breathing when her fire nearly burned her alive.

But this—watching her fall to her knees, gasping and furious—I can’t stand it.

Len punches the dirt, shoulders shaking. Her voice is hoarse when she hisses, “Why…why can’t I control it?”

Myrnin crouches before her, expression calm but unyielding. “Because you are still fractured. Because you are still afraid.”

“I’m not afraid,” she spits.

“You are. You fear being weak. You fear not being enough. You fear losing him again.” His eyes flick briefly to me.

Her silence is louder than any scream.

I can see it in her—the way her throat works, the way her fists clench. He’s right. And she hates him for it.

I hate him for it too.

Because I know her better than anyone, and still—I couldn’t say it aloud like that.

Myrnin straightens, offering her a hand. “Get up, Eleanor.”

She glares at him, stubborn as ever, but takes it. She sways as she stands, her body trembling from the effort, and godsdammit, it takes everything in me not to run to her side.

“Again,” Myrnin says.

She bares her teeth like a wolf, sweat dripping down her temple. “Fine.”

And she does. Again. And again.

Each time she falters. Each time she falls. And each time, she drags herself back up, spitting blood, snarling curses, fire trembling in her hands.

She’s breaking herself for this. For me. For all of us.

And all I can do is sit on the wall, my hands shaking, my jaw clenched so tight it aches, and watch the woman I love fight until her body gives out.

When she finally collapses fully, flat on her back, chest heaving, voidfire crackling faintly around her fingers—Myrnin looks at me.

“Now,” he says. “Now, she needs you.”

I’m across the grass before the words finish leaving his mouth.

Dropping to my knees, I gather her against me, her body limp but still alive, still burning, still mine.

She laughs weakly, her voice cracked. “Did I…did I hit him at least once?”

I bury my face in her hair, choking on a sound that’s half sob, half laugh. “No, baby. Not once.”

Her hand curls weakly in my shirt. “Next time.”

Gods, she’s impossible. Gods, I love her.

And as I hold her there in the ruined garden, with the roses growing wild and the fountain cracked open by her flames, I think—

If sheer feral willpower could kill fate, my wife would have burned the gods to ash by now.

I carry her inside.

She’s muttering the whole godsdamned way.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not.”

“I can walk—”

“You can barely breathe.”

“I’ll spar again tomorrow.”

“You’ll rest tomorrow.”

Her voice is scratchy, ragged, but still sharp with that feral edge. I’ve missed it so much that I almost smile through the ache in my chest.

Almost.

Because her body is trembling in my arms like she’s been carved down to bones and stubbornness alone.

Myrnin follows us in at a leisurely pace, the bastard looking like he just strolled out of a tea garden instead of watching my wife try to burn herself to ash in front of him. His robes don’t even have a speck of dirt on them.

“You’ve a long way to go before you’re ready to wield Voidfire properly again,” he says, voice mild, as if he isn’t poking at an open wound.

Len snarls in my arms, baring her teeth like the viper she is. “I’ll get there faster if you stop treating me like I’m weak.”

Myrnin laughs. Actually laughs. Low and amused. “There she is. I was worried the spirit I pulled back might have lost her venom.”

Len twists against me, like she’d launch herself at him if she had the strength. She doesn’t. She barely has the strength to glare.

I adjust her weight against my chest and growl, “Ignore him, baby. He feeds on your temper.”

“Correct,” Myrnin says cheerfully.

I mutter a curse under my breath and push through into the study, setting her down gently on the couch by the fire. Her face is flushed, her hair sticking to her damp skin, eyes half-lidded with exhaustion. Gods, she’s so damn beautiful like this it hurts.

I grab the blanket from the arm of the chair and tuck it around her, ignoring the way she bats at me weakly.

“Garrick, I said I’m fine—”

“You said that yesterday,” I cut in, smoothing the blanket anyway. “And the day before. You’re not fine, Len. You’re alive. There’s a difference.”

Her lips press tight, and for a moment I think she’ll fight me harder. But then her shoulders slump, the fight bleeding out of her as her eyes flutter closed.

“Tomorrow,” she whispers stubbornly. “I’ll do better tomorrow.”

I sigh, brushing damp strands of hair off her forehead, kissing the crown of her head. “Tomorrow, you’ll still be here. That’s all that matters.”

Behind me, Myrnin leans against the doorframe, watching us with that infuriating calm. “She will fight you every step, General. That’s who she is.”

I look down at her, already drifting toward sleep, her hand curled weakly in my tunic like she refuses to let go even unconscious.

“Yeah,” I say quietly, my throat thick. “That’s who she is. That’s why I’ll never stop fighting for her.”

Myrnin’s smile is faint, almost human. “Good. Because you’ll need to.”

Len’s breathing steadies. Her grip on my tunic loosens. By the time I brush her hair back from her face, she’s gone under completely, lost to the kind of deep, heavy sleep her body’s been clawing toward since she came back.

I kiss her forehead, tuck the blanket tighter, and ease myself off the couch. Myrnin tilts his head toward the kitchen. I follow, boots soft against the floorboards, because the last thing I’ll risk is waking her.

The kitchen smells faintly of the stew Myrnin made last night—herbal, rich, something that actually coaxed Len into eating more than a few bites. Strange how quickly he’s woven himself into the fabric of this house. Stranger still that I let him.

“She’s getting better,” Myrnin says as he leans against the counter, folding his arms. His tone is clinical, detached, but I catch the faintest glimmer in his gaze. Concern.

“Too slow,” he adds.

I bristle. “She’s only been back a few days. What the fuck do you expect? She’s not going to bounce from death to battlefield overnight.”

“I don’t expect her to,” he replies smoothly. “But the Balance doesn’t care about expectations. It notices. It weighs. And I don’t like how long it’s taking her to stabilize.”

My stomach knots. I rub at the bridge of my nose. “So what, you’re saying if she doesn’t hurry up, the Balance will—what? Tear her apart again?”

He doesn’t answer. Which tells me enough.

“Have you been sleeping since I set the wards?” he asks instead, deflecting like the slippery bastard he is.

I shrug. “Not noticed a difference. They weren’t for us though, were they?”

His sigh is long, heavy. “No. They were to keep your Duchess friend out of Eleanor’s head. I warned you before—if Violet insists on digging where she shouldn’t, the wards will make her pay for it. Pain is a gentler consequence than the Balance noticing too much.”

I grind my jaw but don’t argue. Because he’s right. Violet’s stubborn enough to keep pushing, and I’m not willing to let her curiosity cost me my wife.

Myrnin’s eyes narrow, sharp again. “Have you had any good information from the parasite?”

“Not yet,” I mutter, tugging a chair out and dropping into it. “He’s been gone a few days now. Fuck knows what he’s doing. We told him—spy only. Don’t be seen. Don’t steal. Don’t bite. Don’t be a dick.”

One of Myrnin’s brows arches in amusement. “And you think he listened?”

I glare. “He promised.”

“Mm.” Myrnin’s tone says exactly what he thinks of that promise. He exhales, slow and annoyed. “Knowing that Veylthorn spawn, he’s already causing trouble.”

I drop my head into my hands, groaning. “Gods help us all if he has.”

Because one thing’s certain: if Noodle is out there stirring chaos, everyone is going to know Eleanor Tavis’ demon son is still alive. And that’s the kind of attention we can’t afford.

XADEN

The forest stinks of smoke.

Elias and I stalk through the trees, silent shadows, every step careful. Sygael circles high above, her warning call a low rumble in my chest, and Miroth slinks somewhere behind us, his scales whispering like knives through the branches.

The map Elias laid out said the Venin convoy would be here. Dozens of them. A shipment of talladium crates bound east, probably to one of their camps.

But the closer we get, the worse the stench grows. Acrid. Metallic. Wrong.

Elias halts, one hand lifting. I draw up beside him, eyes narrowing as the trees thin. And then—

Gods.

The camp’s not a camp anymore. It’s a graveyard.

Bodies litter the ground in blackened heaps, their faces frozen in twisted screams. Venin—dozens of them—slaughtered where they stood. The wagons are overturned, talladium spilling out in chunks of raw ore that glitter in the moonlight. The air itself is tainted, sharp with the echo of something I haven’t smelled in three months.

Voidfire.

I go still.

The grass is scorched in curling patterns. Ash drifts like snow. The air is heavy with the aftertaste of violet-black flame.

It can’t be.

Elias swears under his breath, stepping closer to a charred corpse. His red-tinged eyes flick to me, wide with something I rarely see on him. Fear.

“This wasn’t us,” he says, his voice low. “This… this is her fire.”

My throat tightens. Len’s fire.

But no—Bodhi. Bodhi’s been experimenting, desperate, reckless. “Maybe Bodhi’s figured out a way to mimic it without her.” I say, though even as the words leave me, I don’t believe them. If Bodhi had done this, he would’ve taken the talladium. He wouldn’t have left the ore lying out in the open.

Elias shakes his head. “No. Look at them.”

I follow his gaze.

The Venin aren’t just burned. They’re hollowed out, their veins scorched black from the inside, like the fire devoured them soul-first.

Exactly the way Len’s flames always killed.

My stomach turns. “Then who the fuck did this?”

The forest is silent. No birdsong. No wind. Just the smell of ash and the certainty settling like a blade between my ribs.

Elias crouches, running his hand through the dirt where the fire still lingers, faint and violet. He lifts his fingers, coated in soot. “If it’s not Bodhi… then maybe she’s not gone.”

My chest lurches, hope and dread twisting together until I can barely breathe.

Len.

Alive. Dead. A ghost. Whatever the truth is—

Someone burned these Venin to ash, and they used her fire to do it.

And gods help us all if she’s truly back.

The silence stretches too long. My chest feels like it’s caving in under the weight of ash and memory.

Elias crouches again, eyes tracing the blackened veins of a corpse. “This is her fire. I’d bet my life on it.”

I grit my teeth. “It can’t be. Look around.” I sweep my arm wide at the wreckage. “There are no tracks. No footprints. No sign of anyone moving through here. Just corpses.”

“Voidfire doesn’t leave tracks,” he mutters.

“It does if Len left them,” I snap. My voice comes out harsher than I mean, but gods, I can’t— I can’t let myself believe this. “It has to be Bodhi. He’s reckless enough to try and copy her power. Maybe he was experimenting, didn’t realise this convoy had talladium. It makes sense.”

Elias looks up at me, face unreadable in the smoke. “You think Bodhi can still mimic her?”

I shrug, jaw tight. “Better that than the alternative.”

“The alternative being what?”

“That she’s here.” My throat closes. “Because she’s not. She’s dead. She and Garrick and the others. We saw it. We know it. Stop clinging to—”

But the words catch. Stick in my throat like glass.

Because I can still see her. Clear as if she were standing in front of me. That damned smirk. Those green eyes that always cut straight through me.

Dead.

Elias rises slowly, dusting ash from his hands. “So it’s easier for you to think Bodhi’s conjuring miracles out of desperation than it is to believe your sister might still be fighting?”

I laugh. Harsh. Bitter. The sound scrapes my chest raw. “What, you think it’s easier to believe her fucking ghost burned down a Venin convoy?”

Elias doesn’t answer right away. Just studies me with those sharp, blood-threaded eyes, and I hate how steady he looks compared to the storm ripping through me.

I rake a hand through my hair, trying to ground myself. “Think about it. Len and Garrick died. We left their bodies with—”

The word breaks something in me.

“Fuck.” I swallow hard. “Noodle. I could’ve sworn I saw him a few days ago. Just for a second. Thought I was losing my mind. But what if—”

Elias tilts his head. “What if he’s alive?”

“Yeah.” My laugh is hollow, unhinged. “What if the bastard didn’t die with Nox and Chradh? What if he stayed? What if—”

My pulse hammers.

“What if it was him?”

Elias frowns. “Noodle?”

“Why not?” I snap. “He’s not like other creatures. He’s smarter. Meaner. Godsdamn loyal. If Len and Garrick fell… maybe he chose to stay behind. Maybe this was him. Helping. Protecting. Whatever the fuck it is he thinks he’s doing.”

Elias exhales, slow, cautious. “You’d rather believe a Veylthorn parasite single-handedly wiped out two dozen Venin than believe your sister might’ve survived?”

“Yes,” I hiss. “Because at least that makes sense.”

The words hang there, bitter as ash on my tongue.

But deep down? The part of me I can’t silence? It whispers that maybe, just maybe, this fire was hers.

And if that’s true—Then gods help us all.

ELEANOR

I wake to something wet. Cold. Sticky.

Drip.

Right on my cheek.

I groan, half-burying my face in the pillow. Gods, Garrick, if you spilled wine again—

Drip.

“Ugh,” I mutter, cracking one eye open.

And come face-to-face with Noodle. Dangling upside down from the rafters. Covered head to tail in blood.

Dripping on me.

I screech so loudly I swear the windows rattle.

“WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK, NOODS?”

The little bastard chitters, high and gleeful, wriggling like he’s laughing at me. A line of crimson slides right off his fangs and splatters across my neck.

“Oh, no.” I lurch upright, wiping at my face, only smearing it worse. “GARRICK!”

The heavy thud of boots. Garrick bursts in, sword half-drawn, eyes wild—right as Myrnin strolls in behind him like he’s out for a morning walk.

Both stop dead.

We all look up.

At Noodle.

At the blood dripping steadily from his scales onto the carpet, the couch, me.

Noodle chitters louder, proud as anything, wriggling so violently I half expect him to fall.

Garrick goes pale. “What in the—”

“I DON’T KNOW!” I shriek, still pawing at my face. “HE WAS JUST—DRIPPING ON ME LIKE SOME FUCKING HORROR STORY!”

Myrnin, of course, tilts his head. Calm. Thoughtful. Infuriating. “Well. That explains the smell.”

“The smell?” I snap. “The smell? MYR, HE’S BLEEDING ON ME!”

Noodle chitters again, like this is a gift.

Garrick finally sheathes his sword, pinching the bridge of his nose like he’s aged twenty years in three seconds. “Where—” His voice cracks. He swallows. “Where the fuck did you get that much blood?”

Noodle just wriggles harder, a long, satisfied hiss echoing in the rafters.

Myrnin smirks faintly. “I assume Colonel Aetos looks lighter than usual.”

My jaw drops. “NOODLE! Did you drain our prisoner like a juice box?”

The little shit hisses like noooo.

We all pause.

“Noodle Riorson-Tavis,” Garrick says in his best stern dad voice, the one that makes even me sit up straighter. “Where have you been?”

Silence.

Then—pop.

The bastard vanishes in a puff of voidfire.

From the basement below, a scream rips through the floorboards—raw, guttural, agonised. Colonel Aetos.

We all freeze.

Then another scream, this one strangled, warped, like two voices clawing out of one throat. “Mother-,” A rasp. “Fatherrrrr—”

My head jerks toward Garrick, my grin feral. “Oh he’s possessing him. That’s so cute. Our baby wants to talk to us.”

We bolt for the basement. The air grows thick, choked with the stench of blood and voidfire.

And there he is.

Colonel Aetos, writhing in his chains like a puppet with tangled strings. His eyes are black as pitch, leaking voidfire at the edges, his head jerking side to side like Noodle’s still figuring out how to work all the levers.

“Map,” the colonel croaks, but the voice is not his. It’s warped. Twisted.

Noodle’s.

Garrick raises an eyebrow, somewhere between horrified and impressed. “You… need a map?”

“Map,” Noodle repeats, firmer this time, forcing Aetos’ jaw to snap shut on the last consonant like a bite.

Myrnin, of course, looks delighted. He flicks his wrist, and the chains crumble from the wall like dust. Aetos’ body slumps forward, but before he can fall, Noodle straightens him like a marionette. His spine locks. His feet scrape against the floor, and suddenly the colonel is standing upright, though his head twitches unnaturally.

“C’mon,” Garrick mutters, his voice rough. “It’s in the study.” He hesitates, eyes narrowed in disbelief. “Can you walk that far?”

“Easy,” Noodle replies through Aetos, the colonel’s lips curling into a wicked grin that doesn’t belong to him.

I can’t help it. My grin splits wide, feral and proud. “You’re such a good boy!”

Aetos/Noodle snaps his head toward me, pupils blown wide. His mouth jerks into something almost… bashful. Which is horrifying. And adorable.

Then, like a soldier on parade, he marches stiffly out of the cell, boots thudding, his body bending to Noodle’s will. Garrick curses under his breath and follows, blade in hand just in case, while Myrnin trails behind, hands clasped like a smug tutor watching his prize student show off.

We enter the study, and Aetos’ possessed hands slam down on the desk, scattering Lorenzo Lennox’s old journals. “Map.”

Myrnin produces one with a flick of his fingers, spreading parchment across the desk in a sweep. Noodle leans Aetos over it, black fire bleeding from his eyes, and then—slowly, jerkily—his finger begins to trace.

Lines. Routes. Markings in blood-red smears.

I lean forward, my heart pounding, and can’t stop the insane laugh bubbling up in my throat. “My son. My sweet little murder parasite just became our best informant.”

Noodle turns Aetos’ head toward me, his mouth twitching into a grotesque grin. “Good… boy?”

I slam my palms against the desk, grinning like a madwoman. “Best boy.”

Aetos’ body jerks with an unnatural wriggle that I know is Noodle preening.

Garrick drags his hands down his face. “I hate this family.”

Myrnin chuckles darkly, eyes glinting. “Oh no. You love it.”

I slam my hand on the desk. “Alright, soldier, Did you see our family?”

Aetos’ body shudders, head twitching side to side like a snake tasting the air. Then, stiff as a board, he nods.

The colonel’s head jerks, his jaw clicking like it’s not built for this. Then—slow, halting—the voice comes out. Broken. Rough. “Alive.”

Garrick exhales hard, like he’s been holding his breath for months. He grips the back of the chair until his knuckles blanch. “That’s not enough. We need more than that, Nood—are they okay? Bodhi? Violet? Xaden? Elias? Kat?”

The parasite wrestles Aetos’ mouth into motion again. “Bodhi… fight. Vi… dream.” His head twitches violently, nearly snapping sideways. “Elias… drunk.”

It’s so jagged, so rough, but gods, I understand. Because I was a ghost. I saw their grief. Their bleeding edges. Noodle’s not wrong. They’re alive. But they’re not okay.

Garrick runs a hand over his face, muttering, “Fuck.”

Then, as if on cue, Aetos’ possessed lips twist into something venomous. “Xaden… idiot.”

I choke out a laugh. “Gods, you do hate him, don’t you?”

Noodle jerks Aetos’ head in a sharp nod.

“Oh, you little shit.” I can’t help it—I laugh until my ribs ache. Because of course. Even in possession mode, he still finds time to dunk on my brother.

But then—suddenly—Aetos’ body stiffens, his void-black eyes narrowing, and he rasps, “Kat. Baby.”

My chest seizes. “Elara.” My voice cracks. “Is she—”

Noodle interrupts with one word.

“Fluffy.”

I squeal, so loud Garrick jumps. “THEY HAVE FLUFFY?!”

Myrnin looks between us like we’ve both gone insane. “What’s a Fluffy?”

My grin splits feral. “Her panther! King Courtlyn promised—”

Before I can get another word out, Noodle jerks Aetos’ whole face into a grotesque scowl, teeth snapping together with a wet clack. His voice rasps, guttural, dripping with venom: “Ugly.”

I gasp, offended. “Excuse me?”

He jerks the head again, drool flying. “Ugly!”

“Don’t you start slandering my niece’s panther!” I jab a finger at him like I’m scolding a toddler caught chewing furniture. “That’s her protector. Her gift from me.”

Garrick pinches the bridge of his nose. “Lenny—”

“No, let me explain,” I snap, spinning to face him and Myrnin, who both look like they’re two seconds from staging an intervention. “I told Courtlyn, if I died before he gave me a panther, he had to give it to Elara. So at least our goddaughter would grow up with a monster at her side. A guardian. Family.”

Myrnin actually blinks. “You left a panther to a baby?”

I cross my arms. “Yes. I’m thoughtful like that.”

Noodle—still puppeteering Aetos like a demonic marionette—lets out a long, offended hiss. His borrowed face twists with pure sulk.

I tilt my head at him. And then it clicks. I see it.

“Ohhhh,” I murmur, voice softening. “You’re jealous.”

The hiss grows louder.

I crouch down, eyes narrowing as I stare at my son wearing Aetos’ face like a cursed mask. “You wanted to be her protector.”

A pause. A twitch. Then, reluctantly, he jerks Aetos’ head in a nod.

My chest cracks wide. I smile, sad and proud all at once. “You already protect me. And Garrick. And Nox and Chradh. You can’t do everything, Noods. You can’t be everywhere at once.”

The colonel’s teeth grind audibly. “Can.”

I shake my head. “Not if it means tearing yourself apart. You protect us. Fluffy protects Elara. That’s fair, isn’t it?”

The silence hangs thick.

Finally, Noodle huffs through Aetos’ nose, the sound wet and indignant. A child denied the toy he wanted.

I grin again, reaching out to stroke his borrowed cheek. “Good boy. You’re still Elara’s friend. And she’s going to love you more than anyone. Even Fluffy.”

Another hiss. Less sharp this time. Almost… smug.

“Ugly,” he mutters again for good measure, but I can tell—he’s already decided Elara is his too.

And gods help anyone who tries to tell him otherwise.

Garrick clears his throat, pinching the bridge of his nose like the world’s most exhausted husband and dad rolled into one. “Alright. Intel. We’re not here to debate panthers.”

“Yes we are,” I mutter under my breath.

He shoots me a look. The Dad Look. I shut up. (Temporarily.)

He drags the map across the table, flattening it with a palm. “Noodle. Where are Xaden and Elias?”

Aetos’ arm—jerking like a broken puppet—lifts, one bloody finger stabbing down on the northern ridge.

I lean forward, eyes narrowing. That close to the safehouse? My chest tightens. “They’re safe.”

Noodle makes a strangled noise through Aetos’ throat that sounds vaguely like “Yesss.”

Garrick exhales, steadying himself. “And Bodhi? Katherine?”

Noodle jerks Aetos’ head south, stabbing a shaky finger at Deverelli. “There.”

My heart squeezes. “Kat.” My voice cracks before I can stop it. “And Elara?”

“Baby,” Noodle rasps. A horrible imitation of a coo follows, like nails down slate. Then: “Safe.”

I wipe at my eyes quickly so no one notices. “Good boy,” I whisper.

Garrick presses on, his tone sharp, military. “And Violet? Where is she?”

Noodle scowls through Aetos’ mouth, but stabs a finger west. “Home.”

“Riorson House,” I mutter, my grin sharp and a little feral. “Of course she is.”

Garrick leans forward, eyes narrowing. “Noodle, did anyone see you?”

The colonel’s possessed lips twitch into something obscene and smug. “No. Spy. Secret.”

I clap my hands like a lunatic mother at a school play. “Good boy.”

Garrick groans, dragging his palm down his face. “Len, stop encouraging him.”

“What? He is a good boy.” I beam at Noodle, who’s currently wearing Aetos’ body like a rotting overcoat. Honestly, he looks adorable.

Garrick, somehow managing to sound calm despite the fact our son is literally dripping blood, asks, “Noodle, why did you come home drenched in blood?”

Aetos’ arm jerks, and his trembling finger stabs the map—right near where Xaden and Elias’ safehouse is marked.

“Venin,” he rasps. “Talladium. Noodle eats. Noodle helps.”

I bite back a laugh, clapping again. “See? He’s helping the family.”

Garrick exhales like someone just stabbed him. “Noodle…did you kill a Venin camp?”

Aetos’ head snaps once. A sharp, definitive yes.

I clap again, squealing. “That’s fantastic news!”

“No, Lenny,” Garrick says immediately, pointing a finger at me like he’s scolding a child. “It’s not fantastic.”

Myrnin leans forward, eyes gleaming with interest. “Noodle. Did you use Voidfire?”

For the first time, Aetos’ expression falters. Guilty. His head tilts, slow, awkward.

Myrnin’s lips curve into a wicked little smile. “Ah. So you did leave a mess.”

“Shit,” Garrick hisses. He starts pacing, hair wild from where he’s been dragging his hand through it. “Noodle, you were supposed to spy. Secret. Just watch. Not…this.” He waves at the bloody chains. “Not massacre Venin with Voidfire.”

“But he was trying to help!” I snap, stepping in front of Garrick like I’m shielding our literal demon child from his angry dad. “He saw Venin. He saw talladium. He protected Xaden and Elias. He saved their asses and ate the bad guys. That’s helping.”

Garrick shoots me a look. “Len, he basically announced to half the continent that the impossible parasite we buried months ago is alive—and still wielding Voidfire.”

I cross my arms and smirk. “So what you’re saying is, our son’s a prodigy.”

Aetos’ mouth cracks into a hideous grin, black eyes glinting as Noodle chitters proudly.

Gods, I love this fucked up family.

“You can’t keep scolding him like that,” I snap at Garrick, jabbing a finger at Aetos’ possessed body as it does a jerky little jig under Noodle’s control. “He’s a baby! He’s learning.”

“A baby who just slaughtered an entire Venin camp with Voidfire!” Garrick barks back, pacing like a soldier who’s one bad comment away from snapping. “That’s not learning, Len—that’s putting a fucking target on his back. On all our backs.”

I fold my arms, glaring. “So what? You’d rather he didn’t help Elias and Xaden?”

“I’d rather he followed orders,” Garrick growls, pointing at our wriggling murder-snake inhabiting Aetos like a meat puppet. “Spy. Watch. Report back. Not—whatever the fuck this is!”

“I call it initiative.”

“I call it reckless,” Garrick fires back, running a hand through his curls. “Just like his mother.”

“Thank you,” I say sweetly.

“That wasn’t a compliment.”

Before I can bite back, Myrnin clears his throat from where he’s been leaning against the table, watching us like this is dinner theatre. “Charming though your… parenting styles may be,” he drawls, “I should remind you both of something far less amusing.”

We both glare at him. “What?”

“The Balance can stomach Noodle’s survival,” Myrnin says smoothly, folding his hands. “Parasites, after all, are… unpredictable. If the world thinks he slithered off and resurfaced months later, fine. Acceptable. But Voidfire?” His gaze sharpens on me. “That complicates things.”

Noodle makes Aetos slam his head against the wall, clearly not liking the lecture.

Myrnin doesn’t even flinch. “If your family hears whispers of Voidfire being used, what do you suppose they’ll think? They’ll assume Eleanor has returned. Or worse—they’ll assume her ghost has grown strong enough to manifest.”

My stomach twists. He’s right. I hate that he’s right.

Garrick curses under his breath. “Which means it’s not just a mess, it’s a fucking risk.”

“Excuse me,” I snap, pointing at Aetos’ twitching body as Noodle forces him into a backbend like a circus act. “Look at him. He was clearly trying to help. Our son saved lives today. Stop acting like he just painted a target on us with his little claws.”

“Len,” Garrick sighs, dragging a hand down his face. “He did paint a target on us.”

“And he’s adorable,” I counter.

“HE’S POSSESSING A COLONEL!” Garrick explodes.

“Yeah, and?”

Noodle chitters triumphantly through Aetos, waving his bloody arms around like he’s conducting an orchestra.

Myrnin smirks faintly. “Well. At least he’s proud of himself.”

I beam. “Good boy.”

Garrick groans.

“Fine,” Garrick mutters through his teeth. “No more spying for Noodle. But—” He glares at Aetos’ blood-smeared body like it’s personally offended him. “Thank you for helping, buddy.”

Noodle makes Aetos bow dramatically, like some grotesque puppet show. I clap my hands. “See? He’s thriving.”

Garrick’s face twists. “No. He’s in Aetos’ body. And it’s fucking weird.”

I wrinkle my nose. “…Okay, fair. It is kind of fucked up.”

Aetos’ head jerks, and out comes the saddest, warbling little noise from Noodle, like I just told him Santa isn’t real. My heart clenches. “Hey, don’t pout, baby.” I crouch low, ignoring the way Garrick pinches the bridge of his nose. “Let’s lock up Colonel Deadbeat again, and then tonight? Because you’ve been so good—we can read that new political book we found in the study, huh?”

Aetos’ whole body vibrates. Noodle screeches in excitement, then ejects himself from the colonel like a voidfire missile. He slams into my chest so hard I go flying onto my ass with a wheeze.

“LEN!” Garrick’s already hauling me upright, his voice a whip of panic. “You’re still recovering—he could’ve broken your ribs!”

I brush myself off, giggling even as my lungs protest. “Oh, stop being so stern. Today is a good day. Our friends are alive. We’re alive. Let’s be happy for once.”

Myrnin, the smug bastard, nods sagely. “I agree with Eleanor.”

“Of course you do,” Garrick growls, scrubbing a bloody hand over his face. He looks between me and Noodle—who’s now draped smugly across my shoulders like a feather boa—and sighs like a man defeated. “Fine. Tonight we can read his damned politics book.”

“Yay!” I cheer.

“But first,” Garrick adds, pointing a finger at the parasite. “He needs a fucking bath.”

Noodle goes rigid, then lets out the most offended hiss I’ve ever heard. His whole body coils like I just threatened to flay him.

I snort. “Oh, come on. You’ve been dripping venin blood all over my furniture. You stink.”

Garrick folds his arms, triumphant. “Bath. Non-negotiable.”

Noodle flings himself dramatically onto the floor, thrashing like a toddler in the middle of a tantrum.

“Gods,” I mutter, laughing so hard my ribs ache. “We really are raising a murder child.”

GARRICK

It takes Myrnin all of five minutes to drag Aetos back down to the basement and chain him up again. Which leaves me with a far worse problem.

Noodle.

The blood-drenched parasite is squirming like a demon eel on the floorboards, letting out a screech that could probably shatter glass if he tried hard enough. Len’s doubled over against the wall, cackling like she’s just witnessed the gods themselves fall on their arses.

I’m not laughing.

“Get in the bath,” I growl, grabbing him mid-thrash. He coils around my arms, slick and foul-smelling, hissing like I just threatened to throw him into a volcano.

“Noooooo!” Len translates dramatically, hand pressed to her chest like she’s acting out a tragedy. “Father, please! Have mercy!”

I glare at her. “Stop encouraging him.”

“Encouraging?” she giggles. “I’m narrating his pain. It’s enrichment.”

“It’s chaos,” I snap, hauling the wriggling demon spawn into the washroom. He thrashes harder, tail smacking me in the jaw. “Ow—Noodle!”

He screeches triumphantly, as if he’s won.

“You haven’t won,” I tell him through clenched teeth. “You’re filthy. You’re going in.”

Len trails behind us, still wheezing with laughter. “You’re such a stern dad. He’s just expressing himself.”

“He’s expressing blood and ichor all over my clean floors.”

The second I lower him toward the tub, Noodle explodes in voidfire smoke, vanishing from my arms. Myrnin’s laughter echoes faintly from the corridor. Len claps her hands.

“Ohhh, clever boy! Teleport tantrum!”

I slam my palm over my face. “Gods save me.”

Noodle reappears on the ceiling beams, dangling upside down like the spawn of Satan, dripping more blood into the steaming water. His hiss is pure defiance.

“Len,” I say, pointing. “Get your son down here. Now.”

She pretends to think. “Hmm. I could. Or I could watch you climb the beams and wrestle him down. Which sounds hilarious.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose. Again. “I regret marrying into this family.”

“No, you don’t,” she singsongs. “You loooove us.”

I glare up at Noodle, who wriggles smugly, then back at her. “Fine. If you won’t help, I’ll—”

“Noodle.” She says sternly.

She claps once, sharply. Noodle drops like a stone, landing in the bath with a furious hiss that sounds like he’s cursing in seven languages.

Len collapses against the doorframe, tears streaming down her face from laughing. “Oh gods—his face! Did you see his face?!”

I roll my sleeves and grab a brush. “Hold him.”

“I am not holding him while you scrub him like a dog.”

“Yes, you are.”

“Am not.”

“Yes, you—Lenny!”

Noodle leaps for freedom, voidfire sparking. I tackle him back into the water, both of us soaking in blood-streaked bubbles. Len cackles like an unhinged mother at storytime.

It’s domestic hell. My domestic hell.

And I wouldn’t trade it for anything.

I finally look up at Len, who’s lounging like a smug queen on the counter. “I bet you couldn’t do this.”

Her grin sharpens. She sets her wineglass down with a deliberate clink and saunters forward, arching an eyebrow. “Noods, baby,” she purrs, crouching beside the tub. “Would you let me wash you?”

The little bastard freezes, black eyes gone wide and starry. Then—then—he preens. Actually wriggles like a pampered prince, curling himself sweetly around her arm as if to say yes, Mother, anything for you.

I gape.

Len glances up at me, all wicked triumph. “See? Bath time should be fun, baby. You should dote on our son. Not try to drown him. No wonder he hates it when you bathe him.”

I want to argue. Gods, I do argue, but the parasite shuts me up by nuzzling under my chin like he hasn’t been trying to bite my face off for the last half hour.

Together, we work the blood out of his scales, scrubbing until the black sheen comes back, gleaming under the lantern light. And for once, he behaves. No claws. No hissing. Just little contented chirps, wriggling between us, soaking up every bit of affection like he hasn’t spent days terrorising generals and drinking venin like fine wine.

When we’re done, he sprawls across the bath, limp as a ragdoll, purring—purring—like he’s the most beloved creature in the world.

Len kisses the top of his ugly head. “Good boy.”

I sigh, blood still under my nails, hair plastered wet to my face, utterly defeated.

Our little family. A goddamn nightmare. And I wouldn’t trade it for anything.

By the time we finally drag ourselves upstairs, I’m half-drowned and smelling like soap and burnt scales. Len’s glowing with triumph, towel-drying our son like he’s some delicate princeling instead of a demon worm who just tried to eat me alive.

I collapse onto the bed, only for a slick, freshly bathed Noodle to slither up the sheets like he owns the place. He wedges himself between us, coils dripping faintly, smug as a king on his throne.

“No,” I say flatly, pointing at him. “Absolutely not. I am not sleeping with a wet parasite in my bed.”

He blinks his soulless black eyes at me. Then—just to spite me—he curls into my chest and lets out a long, contented purr.

I freeze.

“Don’t you dare,” I warn.

He nuzzles my jaw.

“Don’t be fucking mean.” Len scolds.

“Godsdammit.” I rub my face with both hands, defeated. “Fine. I love my son. Even if he is a dickhead.”

From the corner of my eye, I see Len beam like she’s won something. She leaps onto the mattress beside us, curls against my other side, and—because she’s fucking unhinged—pulls a heavy leather-bound book from the nightstand.

I squint at the title. The Socio-Political Evolution of Deverelli’s Port Cities.

“You’re not—”

“I am.” She holds the book open like it’s sacred scripture. “It’s his favourite genre.”

Noodle wiggles happily, wet scales squeaking against the sheets as he settles deeper into my arm.

And just like that, my wife—Queen of Chaos, Wielder of Voidfire, breaker of empires—begins reading dry political theory aloud in a dramatic voice while our demon son purrs like a spoiled cat and I resign myself to this absolute madness.

My family. My nightmare. My peace.

BODHI

The Southern Isles had always sounded better in stories. Sun-soaked, sprawling beaches, cliffs white as bone, markets bursting with fruit and silk. The sort of place people dreamed about escaping to.

After days of flight on Cuir’s back, my eyes sting with exhaustion, my body aches, and my head is pounding from too much wind and too little sleep. The glamour of adventure? Gone. I just want to collapse on the nearest bed and sleep for a week.

Instead, we’re met with a half-circle of Deverelli guards the moment our dragons land in the palace courtyard, spears gleaming, banners snapping in the salt air. Courtlyn doesn’t do subtle. Even his soldiers look like they’ve been polished for display.

“Prince Aaric of Navarre. Bodhi Durran of Tyrrendor.” The lead guard bows. “His Majesty welcomes you. Please, follow us.”

My bones groan as I slide off Cuir, but I force myself upright, force a grin, because this is the game, isn’t it? Smile, bow, play nice. Pretend you belong.

And then I see her.

Katherine.

She’s waiting by the steps that lead into the palace proper, hair braided back, shoulders straight. But it’s her clothes that do me in—her flight leathers, worn in all the right places, like she never stopped being one of us. And she’s smiling. Not a polite court smile, not the brittle thing I feared I’d find here. A real grin.

My throat tightens.

Before I even know what I’m doing, I’m running. My boots slam against the stone, guards shifting aside as I close the distance, and then I’m there, launching into her arms.

She catches me with a surprised laugh, but she holds on, tight, her smaller frame bracing against mine. I bury my face against her shoulder, and for the first time in months, I feel something close to home.

“Gods, Kat.” My voice cracks. “You’re alive. You’re—”

“Of course I’m alive,” she whispers back, squeezing me. “And so are you. Thank the gods.”

I don’t let go. Not right away. Not when I’ve been carrying the weight of too many ghosts on my back, wondering every night if she was breaking apart under grief, if Elara would grow up without either parent. Not when I’ve buried too many pieces of myself already.

When I finally pull back, there are tears in her eyes, shining like defiance.

“You look like shit,” she says softly, smiling through it.

I laugh, rough and raw. “Haven’t exactly had a spa day, Kat.”

Behind us, Aaric clears his throat, ever the prince, though even he looks a little softened by the reunion. And Kingston—of course Kingston—lurks in the doorway with his sword at his hip, watching us like a hawk. But he doesn’t interfere. He just nods at me, almost… approving.

Kat cups my face for a moment, her fingers trembling. “I was so scared you wouldn’t come.”

“Are you kidding?” I swallow hard. “Nothing could’ve kept me away.”

For the first time in weeks, the ache in my chest eases. Just a little.

Kat’s still got my hand in hers as if she’s afraid to let go, tugging me along the steps into the palace. The sun glints off her braid, and for the first time in months, she looks alive again. Whole.

“Elara’s at home,” she says softly, almost apologetically, like she’s worried it’ll disappoint me. “She’s with Fluffy and the nanny.”

I blink. “Fluffy? Did you—” I squint at her. “Wait. Did you get a cat?”

Her grin blooms wide, wicked. “Kinda.”

“Kinda?” I arch a brow.

She smirks. “I’ll explain later.”

I glance back at Aaric, who looks amused in that quiet, princely way of his, and shrug. I’ve learned better than to push when Kat’s wearing that smile.

Kingston falls in beside us as we’re ushered through the cool marble halls, his sword clinking against the scabbard at his hip. “How is everyone?” he asks, his voice steady but his eyes sharp.

I swallow, shrugging my travel-heavy shoulders. “They’re… okay. As okay as we can be.” My throat tightens, but I keep going. “Len’s ghost has gone quiet. But we keep hearing Noodle. Or think we do. We’re not sure. Maybe he’s alive.”

Kat stops so suddenly I almost run into her. Her head whips toward me, and then—she grins. Wide. Bright. Wicked.

“That little shit,” she mutters.

I frown. “What?”

Kingston actually laughs, low and rough. “Tell him.”

Kat shakes her head, still grinning. “Something’s been attacking Fluffy. We thought it was some kind of fox or wolf at first, but it never made sense. Nothing gets past the wards. And Fluffy never leaves Elara’s side, not once. Whatever it is, it always ends up retreating.” She pauses, eyes glinting with something sharp. “But if it’s Noodle? It makes perfect sense.”

My jaw drops. “Wait. Wait. Back up. Fluffy is—what? And Noodle’s been what?”

Kat just smirks again, walking ahead as if she hasn’t just detonated my brain. Kingston claps my shoulder, shaking his head like he’s in on some cosmic joke.

And I’m left trailing after them, utterly lost but laughing anyway, because gods—if Noodle really is alive? That’s one more piece of our broken family still fighting. Still here.

The main hall of Deverelli Palace is exactly what I expected from the “mad king”—vaulted ceilings painted in gaudy frescos, velvet draped everywhere, guards at every corner with pikes taller than Aaric. What I don’t expect is Courtlyn himself, grinning like a fox and practically bounding down the stairs the second he spots Katherine and Kingston.

He embraces them both as though they’re old drinking companions instead of, you know, subjects. “My dear Katherine! My loyal Kingston! You’ve come back, and with friends.”

I glance at Aaric, expecting him to look scandalized. He just looks bored. Which is… very Aaric.

Courtlyn turns his sharp little eyes on me, and before I can decide if I should bow, he takes my hands in his. “Family of Eleanor is family of mine.” His voice drops low, softer. “And I loved that girl dearly.”

My throat thickens, but I manage to nod. “She loved you too. In her… own way.” Gods, Len’s “own way” usually meant threatening him at knife-point while stealing books from his library.

He beams anyway, squeezing my hands before finally releasing me. Then his gaze shifts to Aaric, and just like that, the warmth evaporates. Courtlyn’s smile cools. “Prince Aaric of Navarre.”

Aaric dips his head politely, unfazed. “Your Majesty.”

Courtlyn’s lip curls almost imperceptibly, like the Tauri name itself tastes bitter on his tongue. He doesn’t extend a hand, doesn’t step closer, just nods once and sweeps on.

I blink. Gods, that was icy. Aaric, of course, doesn’t flinch. He looks like he’s carved out of stone.

Courtlyn claps his hands together. “Now, as for your stay! Katherine, my dear, your friends will be at home with you, of course. But I expect you all at dinner here this evening. The palace deserves to honor our guests properly.”

Kat shakes her head quickly, already smiling. “Actually, Your Majesty—I was hoping for something smaller. They’ll be exhausted from travel, and I… well, I thought perhaps you might join us at my house instead. Just family.”

For a second, I think she’s lost her mind, suggesting the king cancel his own grand state dinner. But Courtlyn beams, absolutely delighted. “An intimate dinner! What a brilliant idea. Yes, I’ll come.”

I gape. Just like that?

Kat nods, pleased. “I’ll bake Eleanor’s favorite.”

The king’s smile softens, and he inclines his head. “Then I thank you for your hospitality, Lady Ryder.”

Beside us, Kingston clears his throat. “Perhaps, Your Majesty… you could bring your panthers? Let them meet Fluffy. It might help them bond.”

Courtlyn brightens even further, as though this suggestion is better than cake and wine. “Yes! A marvelous idea. They’ll love it.”

I blink again, feeling very, very lost. “Sorry—what the fuck is a Fluffy?”

Kat just grins, wicked and smug. “You’ll see.”

And that’s it. No explanation. She links her arm through mine and starts steering me out of the hall like I didn’t just hear her casually tell the king to bring his panthers to dinner.

I glance back at Aaric, who actually looks faintly amused now. Great. He probably already knows.

I, apparently, am the only one in the dark.

KATHERINE

The house is quiet, the kind of lull that only settles after the chaos of travel and greetings and showing guests their rooms. Kingston’s gone to fetch wine, Bodhi and Aaric are freshening up, and for the first time all day it’s just me, Elara, and the ever-watchful shadow of a panther sprawled at our feet.

Elara babbles in my lap, her little hands tangled in my hair as she tries to shove a wooden dragon into my mouth. I laugh, gently tugging it back. “No, love. That’s yours, not mine.”

Fluffy’s eyes follow us, head cocked, tail flicking lazily against the rug. She’s protective, always near Elara, but there’s something almost… curious about her now, as if she knows I’m telling stories.

And so I do.

“You’d have loved your Aunt Len,” I whisper, pressing a kiss to Elara’s soft curls. My voice catches, but I push through it. “She was chaos wrapped in sharp smiles. When she moved into our old house with me and your dad, gods, the trouble she caused…”

Elara coos, as if she understands.

“She used to pick fights with your dad just to make him yell,” I say, my voice softening. “And every time he gave in, every time he shouted, she’d grin like she’d won a war. She was reckless and wild and clever. And she loved so fiercely, Elara. Loved your dad. Loved me. Loved Garrick.”

The weight in my throat thickens, but I keep smiling for Elara’s sake.

“You’d have loved her too,” I tell my daughter, brushing her chubby cheek with my thumb. “And I hope…” My voice falters, but I force the words out. “I hope you grow up just like her. Even if it means you give your dad a heart attack every other week.”

Elara lets out a delighted screech, kicking her tiny legs, and for a moment—just a moment—I let myself believe Len is here, laughing with us.

Maybe she is.

Maybe she never really left.

Elara settles against me, head heavy on my chest, her little fingers curling in the collar of my tunic. The warmth of her makes my heart ache. She doesn’t know. She doesn’t understand. Not yet.

“I’m sorry, love,” I whisper into her hair, the words trembling out of me like a confession. “I know you’re too young to understand any of this right now, but I haven’t been a good mom. Not the one you deserved.”

Fluffy lifts her head, watching me with those sharp golden eyes, and I feel the weight of judgment—or maybe understanding—in her gaze.

“I’ve been selfish,” I murmur, rocking Elara gently. “I let grief swallow me whole. I let it keep me in bed when you needed me most. I let it take me away from you. And you didn’t deserve that.”

Elara stirs, letting out a soft whine, and I press a kiss to her forehead, holding her tighter.

“I miss him,” I admit, my voice breaking now. “I miss your dad with my whole heart. Gods, Elara, he would have adored you. You’re everything good in him and more. And I’m so sorry he’s not here to see it. To hold you. To hear you laugh.”

My tears fall into her hair, but she doesn’t notice. She just breathes, steady and trusting, as if my brokenness is enough.

“I hope you’ll never grow up to know heartbreak, Elara. I hope you’ll never feel the kind of weight that makes your chest ache and your bones too heavy to move. I hope you’ll never know the kind of depression that eats you alive, that convinces you the sun doesn’t exist anymore. I hope you’ll grow up innocent, and sweet, and so loved.”

My throat closes. I press a kiss into her hair.

“But this world…” I shake my head, tasting the bitterness on my tongue. “This world doesn’t allow innocence for long. It eats it. Burns it away. And I can’t stop that. I can’t shield you from every cruelty. But I’ll do what I can. I’ll protect you, not from the truth—that monsters are real—but from weakness. From naivety. From being too soft in a world that only respects sharp edges.”

Fluffy shifts, curling closer at our feet, her golden eyes gleaming like a sentinel.

“I won’t raise you to fear the dark,” I whisper, rocking her gently. “Because sometimes it’s not just monsters who live there. Sometimes good people are trapped in it too. And the world—this wretched world—will try to call them monsters. Will brand them evil. But they aren’t. Not truly. Not to the people they love.”

I pause, breathing through the ache.

“Your Aunt Lenny was a monster,” I murmur, smiling faintly through my tears. “But she was ours. She fought the battles nobody else would. She burned for us. She destroyed for us. Because sometimes, good people do terrible things. And sometimes living in the light doesn’t mean you’re pure, or noble. Sometimes it just means you’ve chosen the easy, selfish path—and let others suffer for it.”

Elara stirs, letting out a little sigh, and I cradle her closer.

“The monsters,” I whisper fiercely, “are the ones unafraid to change the world. To stand for the people they love. To bleed and claw and burn everything down, if that’s what it takes. So no, Elara…this world isn’t beautiful. It isn’t kind. It will never let you rest. It will break you, over and over again.”

I look down at her small, perfect face, my heart tearing in two.

“But you are Elara Nyx Ryder,” I breathe, conviction searing through me. “Named after your aunt Len. Named after a warrior dragon. Named after your family. And you will not grow up naive and coddled. You will grow up powerful. Strong. Like your mother. Like your Aunt Len. Like Aunt Vi. Because this world?” I press my forehead to hers. “This world may try to make women feel small. But we are not small. And neither will you be.”

Fluffy stretches at our feet, a long low rumble in her chest, while Elara coos and waves her fists, like she can feel the weight of my words already. My little girl. My only light.

I smooth her hair, my voice low and steady. “And now, trouble, I’ll tell you your first lesson. A lesson your Aunt Lenny knew better than anyone. A lesson every woman you’ll grow up around—Violet, Mira, Imogen, Catriona—knows and lives by. Men usually don’t. They think they hold power with crowns, with swords, with armies. But we know the truth, don’t we?”

I brush a finger along her cheek, smiling faintly through the ache in my chest.

“Power isn’t held in money or steel. Power is words. Sharp, silver tongues. Secrets. Schemes. Plots and plans that no blade can cut through. Relationships spun into weapons. That’s where true strength lives. And that, my girl, is something your mother is very, very good at.”

Elara babbles nonsense, like she’s answering me, and I laugh, soft and feral all at once.

“So I’ll teach you how to play the game. Because while most fools believe power is bought or earned…it isn’t. It’s taken. And it’s often taken in silence, behind closed doors, in whispers and bargains nobody else ever hears. Your Aunt Lenny was the sword. Your Aunt Vi is the kindness. But me?” My grin sharpens. “I am the sound. The whispers. The plots. The secrets. And you, my daughter—you’ll be all three.”

Elara squeals, kicking her legs, and I grin wider, baring teeth like it’s a promise.

“It’s time the Ryders were back on the board,” I whisper. “And you, little one? You’ll never be a pawn. You’ll be the queen.”

Elara yawns against my chest, her tiny fingers curling around the edge of my braid as though she’s anchoring me here, in this moment. Her eyes are already heavy. I hum softly, rocking her gently, and for the first time in months, I feel steady. Not whole, never whole again, but steady.

“A menace,” I whisper, kissing her hair. “Yes. That’s who you’ll be.”

The sound of the doorframe creaking makes me glance up.

Kingston stands there, half-shadowed in the dim light of the lounge, one shoulder pressed against the frame. He doesn’t say a word at first—just watches. His expression isn’t pity, thank the gods. It’s something heavier. Quiet. Proud.

“You’ve been listening,” I murmur, though my voice is gentler than it should be.

He huffs out a breath, almost a laugh, though his eyes shine faintly in the firelight. “Didn’t want to interrupt. You sounded…” He trails off, like he’s afraid to push too far.

“Sounded what?” I press.

“Like Katherine Ryder again,” he says softly. “Not the grief. Not the silence. Not the woman who was… gone.” His throat bobs, his jaw working. “Like you.”

My chest aches, sharp and deep, because Elias isn’t here to hear those words, but Kingston is. And gods, he’s kept his promise.

I lower my gaze to Elara, who has finally slipped into sleep, her little lips parted in a perfect sigh. “I don’t feel like her,” I admit. “Not yet. But maybe…maybe I can find her again. For her.”

“For both of you,” Kingston says, his voice steadier now. He straightens, but his smile is still soft. “Elias would be proud. And Lenny, too. They’d both be proud you’re still standing.”

I don’t answer, because if I do, I’ll break apart again. Instead, I let the silence stand, holding my daughter closer as if she’s the only thing keeping me breathing.

And maybe she is.

Fluffy stiffens first, her ears flicking toward the voices down the hall. A low, rumbling growl shakes her chest, vibrating against my legs where she’s pressed protectively. I lay a calming hand on her head.

“Easy, girl,” I murmur, fingers threading into her thick white fur. “They’re family.”

Kingston, the traitor, only smirks and leans against the doorway. “This’ll be good.”

“Kat?” Bodhi’s voice carries down the corridor, pitched bright, almost sing-song.

“In here!” I call back.

Two sets of boots thump against the marble, and then—

Bodhi and Aaric stop dead in the doorway.

Bodhi’s face goes slack. Aaric’s brow furrows like he’s trying to solve a puzzle. And Fluffy? She lets out another rumbling snarl, lips peeling back to show teeth longer than Bodhi’s fingers.

I beam, like this is the most normal scene in the world. “Boys, meet Fluffy Tavis-Ryder. Elara’s guardian. A gift from her Aunt Lenny.”

Silence.

Then Bodhi chokes. Actually chokes. “Lenny—” he splutters, voice breaking on a laugh. “Of course she did. Of course she fucking—”

“Wait.” Aaric cuts in, his voice sharp with disbelief. “You’re telling me Lenny thought a panther was an appropriate gift for an infant?”

“Yes,” I answer smoothly, stroking Fluffy’s ears. “And she was right. She’s cuddly.”

Bodhi throws his hands in the air. “Cuddly?! She’s the size of a bloody horse!”

Fluffy growls at him again, and he stumbles a step back, colliding with Aaric. Aaric just mutters, “Unbelievable,” under his breath, glaring like maybe the panther will back down if he stares hard enough. Spoiler: she doesn’t.

Kingston’s grin sharpens. “You’re both acting like Lenny didn’t raise a parasite and an acid-spitting not-fox already.”

“Yeah,” Bodhi fires back, eyes wide as Fluffy stretches and yawns, flashing teeth that could bite him in half. “But those things could fit in a satchel! This is—this is—”

“Beautiful,” I interrupt, still petting her like the smugest cat owner alive. Elara coos in my lap, reaching a tiny hand toward Fluffy’s fur, and the panther instantly melts, leaning down to nuzzle her like the baby is the only person who matters.

Aaric and Bodhi exchange a look of sheer horror.

I smile sweetly. “See? Perfectly safe.”

Bodhi is pacing. Hands flailing. Voice climbing an octave with every word.

“A panther, Katherine. A fucking panther! She’s sitting somewhere—wherever ghosts sit—laughing her arse off at us. Isn’t she? She’s haunting us, scheming, still playing her twisted little games even in death. Is that it, Len? Huh? You still here?”

His voice cracks, half-laugh, half-sob. He throws both arms toward the ceiling like she might be perched up there.

“A fucking panther! Really, Len? That’s what you leave us with? No quiet. No peace. Just—just another monster.”

Kingston winces, rocking Elara in his arms. “I think he’s having some kind of psychotic episode.”

Aaric just shrugs, completely deadpan. “Yeah, he does that now.”

Bodhi ignores them. He’s still shouting at the walls, eyes wild, voice breaking like he’s daring her ghost to answer.

“You wanted one for yourself, didn’t you? So of course—you’d give it to your goddaughter. Because that’s your legacy, huh? Monsters. Always monsters.” His laugh spirals, sharp and hollow. “Fuck sakes, Len. Where’s my monster? Where’s my part of you? You just leave me with… nothing? You leave me, and Garrick, and Noodle, and Chompy—gone. And all I get is the hole you left behind?”

Elara starts fussing in my arms, and Fluffy growls low, unsettled by Bodhi’s tone. My heart squeezes.

“Bodhi,” I whisper, standing. He doesn’t hear me, doesn’t stop.

“Is that it, Len? You leave me. You leave me without family. Without you. Without your chaos. Without your fucking laughter.” His voice cracks clean in half, and the manic grin crumbles. “You leave me with nothing.”

I sigh, take Elara and pass her to Kingston, and then stride straight for him. He’s trembling now, shoulders hunched like the weight of it all is finally pressing down.

I wrap my arms around him before he can flinch away. His whole body shakes against mine. First with laughter, then with sobs.

“I miss her craziness,” he gasps into my shoulder, voice wet and broken. “Fuck, Kat. I miss her so much.”

I hold him tighter, resting my chin on his curls, feeling my own tears sting.

“Me too,” I whisper. “Gods, me too.”

And for a long, long moment, it’s just us—two shattered pieces clinging to the memory of the chaos that once held us together.

Bodhi’s tears are still wet on my shoulder, his body trembling in my arms. I keep him there, hold him until his laughter fades to quiet, jagged breaths. Then I tip his chin up so he has to look at me.

“You’re not alone,” I tell him softly. “You have me. You have Elara. You have Violet. You have all of us.”

His eyes shimmer, raw and lost, but I don’t let him look away.

“Sure, Len was crazy. Full of schemes and fire and power. But she’s gone, Bodhi. Which means it’s down to us now. Doesn’t mean the fight ends. Doesn’t mean we stop. Don’t you want to make her proud?”

His lips twitch into the first real grin I’ve seen from him in weeks. “Gods, yes.”

“Good,” I smirk, brushing the curls from his damp face. “Because just because Lenny’s not here to play the game anymore, doesn’t mean we can’t reset the board. This fight? It’s not over until we’re all dead. Not just her.”

Bodhi blinks, the grin tugging wider, fierce now.

“She and Garrick weren’t the only powerful pieces in motion,” I continue, voice sharpening with conviction. “The rest of us count too. Sure, Xaden and Elias are Venin now—but I know my husband. And you know your cousin. Do you really think they’ve given up?”

Bodhi shakes his head instantly. “No. They’ll be fighting.”

“Exactly. Even as Venin, they’ll fight. Violet is fighting. Imogen is fighting. So it’s time we do too. Make Len and Garrick proud. Fight in their memory. Fight dirty. Fight unfair. Fight like fucking Shadewings.”

Bodhi laughs through his tears, wild and broken and alive.

I glance past him, to Kingston in the doorway with Elara on his hip, to Aaric standing quiet at the back of the room. My chest burns with something fierce, something alive.

“Sure, Len’s ghost might not be here,” I say, voice rising, “and sure, we might look like lunatics talking to shadows. But if she is here? If she’s listening?”

I bare my teeth in a grin, fire surging through me like I’ve borrowed it from her.

“We’re gonna make you proud, Len. We’re gonna cause some fucking chaos. And when we die? We’ll die like fucking Shadewings.”

Elara coos from Kingston’s arms, like she’s agreeing.

And in that moment, for the first time since Draithus, I swear I feel her—the shadow of a smirk brushing the air, the ghost of laughter stirring in my chest.

Len.

Watching.

Always.

VIOLET

The second I slip into sleep, I know I’m walking. The pull is there, heavy and sharp in my bones, tugging me toward her again. Toward Len.

I reach out, pushing further—only this time, I don’t find firestorms or cliffsides.

I find agony.

Like teeth sinking into my skull, gnawing. Like knives flaying me open from the inside. A scream rips itself out of me before I even understand what’s happening.

And then I’m not dreaming anymore.

I’m awake. Convulsing.

My body jerks violently against the mattress, every nerve set ablaze. My throat shreds itself raw as I scream, as if my soul is trying to claw its way out through my teeth.

“Lenny!” I choke. “Lenny!”

My bed slams against the wall with the force of my spasms. I can’t stop convulsing, can’t stop screaming, can’t stop drowning in whatever force is burning me alive from the inside.

The door crashes open.

“Vi!” Ridoc’s voice cracks, panicked. He’s across the room in two strides, hands on me, wide eyes horrified. “Shit—shit, what’s happening—Vi, stay with me!”

I can’t.
Gods, I can’t.

The seizure tightens its grip, my limbs flailing, foam bubbling at the corners of my mouth as my body tries to tear itself apart. I see his face blur, hear his voice splinter.

“Help!” Ridoc bellows, voice ragged. “Somebody, HELP!”

And I scream again, for her. For the only name I can hold onto through the storm ripping me open.

“LENNY!”

Ridoc lifts me, and the seizure sets deeper, my whole body spasming so hard my teeth rattle. My lungs won’t work, my chest is locked, and all I can do is scream.

“HELP!” Ridoc bellows, his voice hoarse as he barrels through Riorson House, my body thrashing in his arms like a puppet on broken strings. His boots hammer the wooden floors, his breath ragged, frantic.

I hear doors slam open, voices calling, the crash of furniture as he knocks into walls, but I can’t focus. The seizure won’t let me. Foam bubbles at my lips, choking me, and every scream that claws out of me comes raw, torn, unending.

And then—

The rafters.

Through the blur of tears and convulsions, I see it. Perched in the shadows, still as a carving.

Black eyes. Beady. Unblinking. Watching me.

Noodle.

A guttural sound tears from my throat—half sob, half gasp. Because I know. I know.

Len’s not gone. Not fully.

Something is here. Something is trying to give me a sign, and it’s staring at me with those void-black eyes.

My scream shatters what’s left of my voice. My body jolts, slams against Ridoc’s chest as he kicks through the dining room doors. Plates shatter, cups scatter, the long oak table screeching under his weight as he throws me down onto it, desperate, terrified.

The house explodes into chaos.

“Vi!” Brennan’s already there, pale and shaking as he yanks my jaw open, checking my airway.

“Hold her down!” Mira snarls, grabbing my shoulders as my body bows like a bowstring ready to snap.

Imogen’s swearing under her breath, Dain’s hands fumbling uselessly, all of them blurring in my spinning vision.

I’m drowning. Dying. My world narrowing to choking and screams and the phantom weight of those black eyes burning into me from the rafters.

And with the last scrap of breath left in me, I whisper it—

“Lenny…”

The name is nothing but a broken prayer, a plea.

And then the darkness swallows me whole.

Chapter Text

“Grief does not merely wound—it unravels. It bends the mind into shapes no mortal should ever take. In its shadow, the rational dissolve; suddenly, you believe in ghosts whispering at your bedside, in gods waiting in the dark, in voices clawing through the veil. Suddenly, you envy the dead, and long to join them. For grief is not sorrow—it is possession. And once it takes root, it will make you see things. Hear things. Do things. Until you no longer know if the monster in the room is real, or if it has always been you.”

— Fragment from The Anatomy of Mourning: A Study of Madness and Faith

BODHI

Three days into Deverelli and I’m already sick of it. Too polished. Too clean. Too far from the ash and blood we crawled out of.

But today, it matters.

We’re not here to admire Courtlyn’s gilded ceilings or Marlis’ gold armour—we’re here to play the game Lenny started. The one she died for.

I sit at the council table, shoulders hunched, arms crossed. Aaric’s beside me, posture unnervingly calm, princely mask firmly in place.

On the other side of the table sits Courtlyn himself, the infamous Mad King of Deverelli, though he doesn’t look mad to me. He’s sharp-eyed, grinning like the entire room is a jest he’s not letting us in on.

Queen Marlis of Unnbriel lounges like she owns not just this table but the whole bloody continent, her armour clashing against the chair.

Katherine sits at my other side, dressed simply but sharp, like she’s finally stopped hiding from the world. That alone makes my chest ache. Len would be proud of her.

The table’s rounded, deliberately neutral, but there are still spaces left empty. Three chairs, pristine and untouched, in case Talia Riorson chose to grace us with her presence.

They’re still empty.

Of course they are.

My jaw tightens. Fucking typical. Len was always right about her. “If I had to bet on who the evil lord of the underworld is, I’d say it’s that self-centred prick Talia,” she’d said. And here we are, begging her to help us bring back her own son and she can’t even bother to show. Fucking bitch.

Courtlyn drums his fingers on the armrest, watching us all like a predator. “Well,” he drawls, “it seems your guest of honor isn’t coming. Pity. I rather hoped for a show.”

“She was never going to come,” I mutter before I can stop myself. “She doesn’t care.”

Kat lays a steadying hand on my arm, but I don’t look at her. My rage tastes like iron on my tongue.

Marlis tilts her head, her expression unreadable. “Careful, boy. Talia Riorson may not be here, but her reach is long. You insult her, she’ll hear of it.”

“Good,” I snap. “Let her. She abandoned her son when he needed her. She let my family fight alone because she’s a fucking coward. She’s no better than the Tauri’s.”

Silence ripples across the table. Courtlyn’s grin widens, like he’s enjoying every second of my little outburst.

“Fiery,” he says, amused. “I see why Eleanor liked you.”

The mention of her name is a knife to the ribs. I want to laugh. Or cry. Or smash the table apart with my fists. Instead I just sit there, vibrating with the effort of not losing my shit.

Aaric clears his throat, ever the diplomat. “We’re not here to argue about who failed who. We’re here to make deals. Tyrrendor has six eggs, two already promised to Deverelli, four for Unnbriel.”

“Ah yes,” Marlis purrs, eyes glittering. “The infamous dragon eggs. I was beginning to think they were just a ploy. Convenient, don’t you think, that Eleanor and her husband die, and suddenly eggs appear, ripe for trade? And somehow, nobody knows where these eggs were stolen from?”

I bare my teeth. “Convenient or not, they’re real. And you need them as much as we do if you want riders in the next generation who can fight the Venin.”

Courtlyn waves a hand. “Peace, boy. You’re among allies here. Mostly.” His grin sharpens toward Marlis. “Right, Marlis?”

Kat leans forward then, voice calm but firm. “These eggs aren’t a bargaining chip for power plays. They’re survival. Eleanor and Xaden stole them for a reason. She wanted us united, not divided. So the question is—are you going to honor her sacrifice, or waste it?”

The room stills. For a moment, I swear I can feel her—Len, smirking in approval at Kat’s words. Chaos incarnate, still running the board from beyond the grave.

I swallow hard, my throat tight. She should be here. She should be the one at this table, tearing strips out of Marlis, mocking Courtlyn until he handed over his army just to shut her up. Not me. Not us.

The empty chair beside me feels like it’s mocking me.

Talia Riorson should be sitting there. But she’s not.

And Len? Len never will.

I clench my fists under the table, nails biting into skin. Fine. If Talia won’t come, if the gods won’t send her back, if the whole fucking world wants to abandon us—then we’ll do it ourselves.

Because that’s what she’d want.

Because that’s what Shadewings do.

Courtlyn slouches in his gilded chair like this whole summit is a drinking game, not a matter of war. He twirls a goblet of wine between two fingers, the faintest smirk on his lips.

“My terms,” he says, almost lazily. “Are none.”

The courtiers at Marlis’ side bristle at that, murmuring behind their hands. Aaric sits straighter, eyes narrowing. Kat tilts her head like she expected it.

Courtlyn lets the silence stretch before continuing, casual as you please. “I had my negotiations with Eleanor. Before her death. And as with most things she touched, she ensured her will would still be carried out. The eggs she promised are mine, though I have no particular need of them.” He shrugs, as if unborn dragons are the same as a cask of fine wine. “But Eleanor insisted. And I do not waste a gift from my friend.”

My throat closes. His friend.

Even now, dead and buried, she’s still orchestrating. Gods, Len. What the fuck did you set us up for?

But before I can dwell, Marlis’ chair scrapes sharply against the stone. The gold-armored queen leans forward, eyes bright with hunger.

“Unnbriel has no terms either,” she purrs. “Only an offer. You have four eggs remaining. Give them to me. And in return, I’ll send my armies to stand at Tyrrendor’s side.”

Courtlyn bursts into laughter, nearly spilling his wine. “You want to play with dragons, Marlis?”

Her gaze flickers, irritated, but she doesn’t waver. “I don’t want to play. I want to command. To train my people in their ways. With riders. Instructors. A handful of your warriors to teach us the bond.”

My blood runs hot. “That’s not how it works.”

Marlis raises a perfect eyebrow. “No?”

I slam my palms on the table before Aaric can give his princely little caution speech. “No. Dragons don’t answer to armies. They don’t answer to crowns or thrones or gods. And they sure as fuck don’t answer to some queen who thinks a shiny suit of armor and a battlefield or two makes her worth their time.”

Her lips curl. “The Shadewing belonging to Eleanor Tavis listened to her, did he not?”

The chair beneath me creaks with the force I’m gripping it. “Don’t you dare.” My voice comes out low, raw. “Don’t you dare reduce what they had to obedience. Nox didn’t belong to her. She wasn’t his master. They were equals. They fought the same battles out of respect—for each other, for duty, for family.”

I lean in across the table, ignoring Kat’s sharp inhale beside me. “Nox and Len were a bond forged in fire, blood, and loss. You think you can replicate that in a training yard? You’re an idiot. You don’t tame a Shadewing. You survive them. And if you’re very, very lucky? They decide you’re worth fighting for.”

Marlis’ jaw tightens, her gold bracers catching the torchlight as she clenches her fists. Her courtiers whisper nervously.

Courtlyn, of course, just grins wider, as if this is the most entertaining theatre he’s seen in months.

“You see,” he drawls, sipping his wine, “this is why I liked Eleanor. No patience for fools. Seems her family inherited that particular charm.”

Kat rests her hand briefly on my wrist under the table, grounding me, though her eyes are sharp and calculating as they flick toward Marlis. “Perhaps, Your Majesty,” she says evenly, “the better path forward is not to replicate Eleanor’s bond, but to honor it. If Unnbriel truly wants an alliance, perhaps we should discuss ways your armies can aid without overstepping the dragons’ will.”

Marlis bristles. Courtlyn laughs again. Aaric hides a smile behind his hand.

Me? I sit back in my chair, pulse still hammering, and think of Len.

Courtlyn leans back in his chair, the torchlight flashing on the dozens of golden rings stacked on his fingers, and declares it like he’s announcing a feast menu.

“The terms are simple. Six eggs for the combined armies of Deverelli and Unnbriel, to aid Tyrrendor in the war against the Venin.”

Aaric and I both nod, though the weight of it sits heavy in my chest. Six dragons unborn, traded for steel and blood. It’s what Len wanted—what she planned. Which means none of us get a say, really.

But then Courtlyn’s grin sharpens. “Of course,” he says, idly swirling his wine, “there is the small matter of Eleanor’s plan involving the Tauri family.”

The room goes dead still.

Aaric stiffens, his jaw a blade. “Plan?”

Courtlyn beams, like a cat who’s cornered a mouse. “Ah. So I was correct. She failed to tell the prince her intentions.”

“Careful,” I growl, but Courtlyn just waves a hand like I’m background noise.

“For the past year before her death, Eleanor Tavis was feeding me information on King Tauri and his son, Prince Halden,” Courtlyn says, almost lazily. “Through spies. Correspondence. And—” he lifts his goblet in a mocking toast—“one particularly insufferable veylthorn she called her son.”

My stomach drops. “Noodle?”

Courtlyn’s grin flashes wider. “Quite the spy, that one. Adorable, really. Slipped through walls, into chambers, into minds. Priceless.”

Aaric’s fists clench against the table. “And what exactly were you and Eleanor planning to do with this information?”

Courtlyn shrugs like it’s obvious. “Remove them. Once the war ended, she and I were of one mind that King Tauri and Prince Halden could not be allowed to keep their throne.”

Marlis barks a laugh, sharp and bright as steel on stone. “You mean to tell me that you were plotting to kill the Tauri line?”

“Not all of them.” Courtlyn tilts his goblet toward Aaric, his grin almost fond. “Eleanor was… insistent. That one of them,” he gestures, “was worthy of a crown. A better king than his father or brother. A man she believed could change the world.”

Aaric goes still as ice.

Courtlyn takes a slow sip, watching him over the rim. “She even suggested a political alliance. Catriona of Poromiel, married to Prince Aaric. Uniting Poromiel and Navarre under a single banner.”

The courtiers murmur. Marlis’ eyebrows lift in interest.

I choke. “Catriona?” My voice comes out strangled.

Courtlyn smirks. “Oh, she was certain it would strengthen the continent’s ties. Of course, Eleanor also told me—directly, I might add—that you’d rather slit your throat than marry her. She referred to Catriona as, and I quote, a ‘raging bitch.’”

Kat chokes back a laugh beside me, covering her mouth. Aaric’s face is stone, but I can feel the tension radiating off him like a storm about to break.

Len. Gods-damned Len.

I swear I can almost hear her laughing.

Aaric’s chair screeches across the marble as he surges to his feet, palms flat on the table. His voice is iron, sharp enough to draw blood.

“I am not a pawn in Eleanor Tavis’ games. Not hers. Not yours. Not anyone’s.”

His chest heaves, his eyes burn, and for a second the resemblance to Halden is undeniable—until the steel of his jaw reminds me exactly why Lenny believed in this Tauri, and not the others.

“I hate them,” Aaric spits, each word like a blade, “for what they’ve done. For the rot they let fester in Navarre. But they are still my family. And I will not stand here and let you plot their murders like they’re pieces off a board.”

Marlis laughs, sharp and cruel, gold armor flashing like sunlight on a blade. “Soft. Weak. Just like the rest of your bloodline.”

My stomach twists, but Courtlyn only shrugs, sipping his wine like this is all perfectly predictable. “Eleanor said you’d say that.”

The words land like a hammer. Aaric goes still.

Courtlyn’s grin widens. “Which is why she made me swear an oath—iron-bound, unbreakable—that the other Tauris would not die. Not by my hand. Not by yours. Only removed from power. Imprisoned. Dethroned. She wanted you to have a choice, little prince.”

Aaric looks like the floor might give way under him. His fists are trembling against the table, his face carved with betrayal and exhaustion.

And me? I laugh. A hollow, broken sound that echoes too loud in the chamber.

“Of course she did,” I mutter. “That’s so… fucking Len. Scheming while playing both sides. Making sure no one—not even her allies—ever had all the pieces. Gods, she’d be pissing herself laughing right now.”

Everyone stares at me, but I can’t stop. Because of course she’d set it all up like this. Aaric’s temper, Courtlyn’s theatrics, Marlis’ bloodlust—she’d predicted every one of them like pawns on a board. And me? I was just another piece she lined up for her little game.

Courtlyn turns his sly, foxlike gaze on me then, and my laughter dies in my throat.

“And speaking of her pieces,” he says smoothly, “there’s you, Bodhi Durran.”

My blood runs cold.

“Xaden Riorson married Violet Sorrengail,” Courtlyn continues, “and thus the throne of Tyrrendor passes to her. But in Eleanor’s final plans, she didn’t want Violet holding that crown. She wanted you. Her best friend. The man she swore—more than once—was the only person she trusted with the safety of this world.”

The room tilts.

“I—what?” I rasp.

Courtlyn smiles, a sharp crescent. “You are not a duke. Not of Tyrrendor. Not of anywhere. But Eleanor Tavis did not care for titles. She cared for loyalty. For ferocity. For cunning. She told me once that if she fell, there was no one she’d trust more than you to carry her vision forward.”

My mouth is dry. My hands shake. My chest feels too small for the storm inside it.

And Courtlyn, damn him, leans back in his chair like a man who’s just set fire to the whole board. “Of course, she never saw her brother’s marriage coming. Violet Sorrengail changed the game. And you, Bodhi Durran? You’ve just inherited the weight of Eleanor’s final scheme.”

The words land like a curse. And for the first time in years, I don’t know if I can carry it.

The words feel like iron chains around my chest.

Me? Inheriting Eleanor Tavis’ final scheme? I can barely keep myself alive most days—barely keep from drowning in drink, or grief, or the emptiness she left behind. And now Courtlyn’s telling me she planned for this? For me?

And then he moves. He slides two parchment sheets across the table, heavy wax seals glinting red in the torchlight—Orlyth’s crest stamped into both.

“Eleanor always had contingencies,” Courtlyn says lightly, like he isn’t about to gut me. “One signature is hers. One is Garrick’s. They came here together, days before Draithus, for afternoon tea. And they gave me these. Told me to pass them along, if the time came.”

My hand shakes as I reach for them.

The first—Len’s unmistakable, sharp handwriting. I, Eleanor Lennox Riorson-Tavis, name Katherine Ryder my successor as Commander of Orlyth.

The second—Garrick’s steady script, the weight of him in every word. I, General Garrick Tavis, name Bodhi Durran as my successor in command.

My stomach drops through the floor.

“They signed multiples,” Courtlyn continues, utterly unbothered. “Elias Ryder. Xaden Riorson. Violet Sorrengail. Always prepared, those two. Always plotting their little safety nets. But here—here, in Deverelli—the choice is clear. Katherine Ryder and Bodhi Durran.”

He spreads his hands, smiling like a cat who’s cornered a mouse. “You inherit everything. Their land. Their alliances. Their Shadewings. Their legacy. And through that? You inherit my friendship. My deals. My armies. And Marlis’ as well.”

The silence is suffocating.

Kat’s face has gone pale, her lips trembling even as her chin tilts up in defiance. Aaric looks like someone’s sucker-punched him. Marlis leans back with a wolfish grin, watching the chaos like it’s the finest entertainment she’s ever been given.

And me? My hands curl into fists around Garrick’s signature, the parchment crinkling. My best friend. My brother in all but blood. Dead. And somehow still managing to tie my life into knots from beyond the grave.

Courtlyn’s grin sharpens, eyes flicking between Kat and me. “So, Commander Ryder. General Durran. Shall we discuss how you plan to carry Eleanor and Garrick’s torch?”

And for the first time in years, I don’t have a single fucking answer.

Kat’s voice slices through the heavy silence.

“You’ve had these for months,” she hisses, knuckles white against the table edge. “Why the hell are you only telling me now?”

Courtlyn just shrugs, infuriatingly casual. “Because until recently, Lady Ryder, you have shown no interest in fighting for the future of this world. I did not know if placing this crown upon your head would be wise. A commander must stand. A commander must be hungry.” His smile sharpens. “And now you are. Besides—Xaden Riorson and Elias Ryder are Venin. They cannot claim Orlyth. Violet Sorrengail sits the throne of Tyrrendor, which removes her claim. And Garrick and Eleanor are ash. That leaves you, Katherine…and you, Bodhi Durran.”

The room tilts.

Courtlyn waves a languid hand. “Of course, Orlyth is no kingdom now. A wasteland, without an army. Nothing but ash and memory. But your friends were adamant—should they fall, their legacy and crown were to be passed on. I have done my duty to them.”

Kat’s mouth falls open. For a second she just…stares, like the words won’t fit inside her skull. And maybe they don’t.

Me? I can’t stop staring at the parchment. Garrick’s handwriting. His deliberate, careful strokes. The words Garrick Tavis written out like a brand. My chest seizes, because for the first time in months I’m seeing his hand again, hearing his voice through those lines.

Bastards.

Smart, prepared, manipulative bastards.

Always ten steps ahead. Always thinking of ways to shield the people they loved, even from beyond the grave.

And now their shield is me.

My throat burns. I press my fist to my mouth like that might stop the crack in my chest from spilling out over the table. Because gods help me—I’d follow them anywhere. Through fire, through void, through death itself. But I never thought they’d leave me here, holding the pieces of their crown.

Not Bodhi the fool. Not Bodhi the drunk. Bodhi the general.

Fuck.

Marlis laughs. A sharp, cutting sound that makes my teeth grind.

“You seem so shocked,” she says, gold-plated fingers drumming against the table, “to learn Eleanor was plotting for the war beyond her own death. Did you truly see so little of her soul?”

Kat and I both glare daggers at her. She just shrugs, unbothered.

“We only met briefly in Unnbriel,” she continues, like she’s recounting a fond memory instead of blood and chains. “But even in that short time, I saw it. Six corpses in her wake. And then—kneeling in my square, whipped until the stone ran red. And yet she endured.”

My hands curl into fists. My best friend. Reduced to spectacle in this woman’s mouth.

“Of course,” Marlis goes on, lips curling, “I serve Dunne, goddess of war. Death does not rattle me. But with Eleanor…oh, even I felt it. A cloud of inevitability clinging to her. Duty dripping off her skin like blood. She walked the earth already knowing her time was short. Your family were fools to think she did not know it too.”

Kat’s voice is sharp as steel. “You know nothing about her.”

Marlis only tilts her head. “What other mortal kneels willingly in a foreign square to be whipped, and rises again? What other woman dares sail to islands where gods despise her? It was never just about artifacts for Eleanor Tavis. No. She was always plotting. Always learning. Like a serpent, waiting.”

My breath catches. My jaw aches from clenching it. Serpent. Len. Always the snake, the viper, the venom.

Marlis’ eyes glint. “It should not shock anyone that she planned for this war to be won after her death. Not when the gods were watching her. Not when two of them practically bowed.”

Kat frowns, her brow tight. “What do you mean?”

Marlis grins. “Everyone knows she belonged to Malek. Everyone on the Isles could sense it—death clung to her like perfume. But also…the rumours of the lost god. Fate. How else would things always bend in her direction? How else would she survive the impossible? Tell me, Bodhi Durran—was that luck? Or divine will?”

My chair screeches against the stone as I shove back. “Don’t you dare twist it like that. She didn’t survive because she was blessed. Len suffered. Gods, she suffered more than anyone I’ve ever known.”

Marlis’ grin doesn’t falter. “I am not disputing that. It was cruel, how much she suffered. But cruelty does not erase the truth. Even Dunne herself was intrigued by her. Eleanor Tavis—the mortal who never stopped fighting. Who made the gods pause. Who made them look. There was something strange about her. Something…”

She trails off, almost reverent, and I hate her for it. Hate the way she talks like Len was some cursed jewel she once admired instead of my friend, my family, my heart.

But then Marlis shrugs, the moment gone, her smile sharp again. “Still. It matters not. The Tavis’ are ash. The gods are bored once more. Their entertainment is gone. Malek’s little pet rests with him in the After.”

My vision goes white with rage.

Pet. She called Len a pet.

My vision goes white-hot with rage. The words crawl under my skin like fire ants, like poison, like something too big for my chest to hold. I’m about to snap—throw myself across the table, consequences be damned—But Katherine beats me to it.

Her voice is quiet, sharp as glass. “Watch yourself, Marlis. Watch how you speak of Eleanor. She might be dead, but those who fought beside her are not. One more word like that, and I’ll remind everyone here that even a queen can bleed.”

The room freezes.

And then Courtlyn beams, delighted, like a man watching a circus burn. “Gods, I knew I liked you. You have bite.”

Marlis scoffs, gold plates clinking as she leans back in her chair. “Was that supposed to scare me? Considering I know you’ve spent the last three months sobbing over your Venin monster of a husband, I’m not exactly trembling.”

Kat goes very still. Fury flashing in her eyes. She opens her mouth to reply—

But I don’t give her the chance.

My hand is already raised, instinct snapping through me like a whip. The conduit Lenny gave me—her little sphere of voidfire—flares in my palm. A tiny spark of violet-black flame coils to life, hissing, snarling, alive.

The entire hall goes silent.

Courtlyn tilts his head, his grin gone sharp. “That’s impossible. Eleanor was the only being capable of wielding in the Isles.”

The voidfire spits and coils higher in my hand, hungry. I grin with all my teeth, letting it burn in the silence. “Not anymore.”

Gasps ripple through the courtiers. Marlis stiffens, her golden armor glinting, her hand twitching toward her blade.

“I hold her fire,” I say, my voice calm, steady, lethal. “Her legacy. Which means I can wield. Which means yes, Queen Marlis, that was a threat. Speak ill of the dead—of our family—again, and Unnbriel will be looking for a new ruler.”

The voidfire hisses louder, reflecting in her eyes.

I don’t blink. Don’t move. Just smile.

Kat sits back, venom dripping from her grin. Her voice slides into the silence, dark and amused. “Who knows? Maybe I’ll leave Orlyth to Bodhi. And take Unnbriel for myself.”

Marlis’ face hardens, fury sparking.

Courtlyn laughs, clapping once, thrilled. “Gods, I see it now. I see why Eleanor made you her family. So full of tricks, of fire, of threats. Chaos wrapped in steel.”

Aaric’s voice cuts through the venom, soft but steady. “Enough.”

The voidfire in my palm dies reluctantly, flickering into ash. Aaric’s gaze is calm, unflinching, like he’s talking down children. “We have a common enemy. The Venin. We cannot afford to bicker like children while they’re carving through the continent.”

The words settle like a stone dropped in water. For a moment, nobody breathes.

Then Marlis leans back in her chair, unimpressed. “I am not threatened by a single voidfire wielder.”

Her dismissal tastes like bile in my throat, but before I can bite back, Katherine beats me to it. Her tone is razor-sharp, calm and deadly. “No. But maybe you should be threatened by an army of Veylthorn parasites. By eight Shadewing hatchlings. By Veylor—the great Elder himself.”

Marlis stiffens. The courtiers murmur nervously.

Kat’s smile doesn’t waver. “Of course, we’d never allow the hatchlings to fight. They’re too young. Too precious. But they wouldn’t need to—not when the Veylthorn could wipe Unnbriel from the map in a day. Such bloodthirsty creatures.”

Marlis’ knuckles whiten against the table.

“In fact,” Kat continues smoothly, her eyes flashing, “let this be your warning. Eleanor might be gone. Garrick might be gone. But their work? Their beliefs and their plans are not. Bodhi and I will take the mantle that was left to us. And if anyone here believes we’re weaker than the rulers of Orlyth before us?” She leans forward, voice dropping into something venomous. “I welcome you to test that theory.”

The room is electric, crackling.

Then, with a sharp inhale, she leans back again, her smile all courtly sweetness. “But Aaric is right. The common enemy is the Venin. So perhaps we should keep our little theories over who holds the most power until after the war is won.”

Silence.

Marlis looks like she’s about to shatter her own teeth from clenching them so hard. Every inch of her body screams she wants to lash out, but instead she swallows it down. Her voice is cold enough to frost the table. “Very well. For now.”

Then she rises, her courtiers scurrying after her like shadows. The scrape of her chair echoes as she sweeps out of the chamber, the sound of her boots like drumbeats of irritation.

And just like that—silence.

Except Courtlyn.

He leans back in his gilded chair, steepling his fingers, his grin wide and delighted like a child who just watched two wildcats tear each other apart in his garden. “Oh, how delightful,” he says, savoring the word like wine. “I was rather expecting that to end in bloodshed.” His grin sharpens. “Still, Eleanor would be proud of her family. So would her husband.”

The words cut. They always do. I glance at Kat. Her shoulders are square, her face a mask, but her knuckles are pale against the table. Aaric just exhales slowly, weary in that way only a Tauri can manage—like he’s already centuries older than the rest of us.

Courtlyn claps his hands once, sharp and sudden. “Well then! With the dramatics behind us, shall we move on to something far more pleasant?”

I arch an eyebrow, wary. “Pleasant?”

“Afternoon tea,” he beams, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “I’ve had a spread prepared. And while we enjoy it, I thought I might share a plan I’ve been working on—one I suspect Eleanor herself would have adored.”

Kat narrows her eyes. “And that is?”

Courtlyn’s grin widens until it’s wicked. “An invasion of the coast of the Barrens. Ambitious, yes, but with your alliances and my fleets, I think you’ll find it…enjoyable.”

Enjoyable.

Gods help me, he means it.

ELEANOR

I’m bored.

Bored, bored, bored.

It’s been a month of this. A month of Myrnin prodding me like I’m some project, Garrick hovering like the world’s hottest mother hen, and me flipping through book after book like some dull scholar. Training sessions that leave me sweaty and aching, nights where I ride Garrick until neither of us can walk, hours where I curl in his arms pretending I’m content.

But I’m not. I’m bored.

So when Garrick disappears down into the basement to torment Aetos again (honestly, it’s hot, but a girl can only watch so many torture sessions before she starts craving sunlight), I sneak out. I creep through the corridors like I’m eight again, dodging shadows, and slip into the gardens.

And there he is.

The great and terrible Noxarathian. The white death. The devourer of armies. Eighty feet of taloned, fanged, void-breathing nightmare. Flat on his back. Sunbathing like some pampered cat.

The bastard even has his wings spread like sails, soaking up every drop of heat, his tail lazily flicking against the hedges.

And the second our eyes meet, I hear it down the bond—his voice, dry as ash.

“I’m bored.”

I grin, feral and sharp, because gods, I’ve missed this. “Me too.”

He tilts his monstrous head. “Then let’s stop pretending we’re domesticated…Shall we fly?”

“Oh, I thought you’d never ask.”

Nox heaves himself up like an avalanche shaking free of stone, his scales catching the sunlight so sharp it almost blinds me. Gods, I’ve missed this. The creak of his wings unfurling, the thunder of muscle beneath hide, the ground trembling as he stretches like the whole continent belongs to him.

“Finally,” I mutter, and before he can say a word, I’m scrambling up his side. My fingers hook into familiar grooves of scarred scale, my boots sliding against the ridges until I swing my leg over and settle into the space between his wings. My heart is hammering. Because this—this is home. Not the house, not the bed, not even Garrick’s arms. This. My dragon beneath me. His pulse in sync with mine.

Down the bond, his voice rumbles like distant thunder. “You’re weak still, little viper.”

I roll my eyes. “I’ve been weak before. Didn’t stop us then.”

There’s a long pause, and then a low growl I feel more than hear. “Fine. But if you fall, I will laugh as you hit the floor like a bug.”

“You’d catch me. Always.”

“Maybe.”

“Liar,” I tease, though my throat is tight. He’d catch me. He always has.

The air shifts as his wings sweep open, blotting out the sun. A shadow big enough to drown the entire garden. I grip the ridges in front of me, and before my lungs can even draw another breath, he launches.

The earth rips away beneath us.

The gardens vanish, the Lennox estate shrinks to a toy below, the horizon rushes up to meet us. My stomach drops, my hair whips wild around my face, and I laugh. Gods, I laugh, like I haven’t in months.

We break through the clouds, and the world opens up. Endless sky. Endless possibility. Nox’s roar shatters the silence, echoing across the heavens like a war-cry, and I swear I’ve never loved him more.

“I missed this,” I whisper into the wind.

“So did I.” His voice in my head is softer now, almost fond. “Let’s remind the world we’re not gone yet.”

And together, we dive.

The clouds taste like ice on my tongue as we cut through them, and gods, I want to drink the sky whole. My fingers curl tighter around his scales, nails biting into the grooves like if I let go, I’ll wake up back in that half-life. A ghost again.

But I don’t wake up. Nox is real. The wind is real. The ache in my chest is real.

“Stop clinging like a tick,” Nox grumbles down the bond, his wings slicing clean arcs through the air.

“Shut up. I’m savouring it.”

“You’re drooling.”

“I am not.”

“Pathetic.” But there’s amusement under it, a rumble of affection that coils warm through me.

I lean forward, pressing my cheek against the ridge of his neck. “I thought I lost this,” I whisper. “I thought I lost you.”

For a long moment, he’s silent, only the thunder of his wings filling the void. Then, softer than I’ve ever heard him, “You will never lose me, little viper. Not in life. Not in death. Not in anything.”

My throat burns. “Overprotective bastard.”

“Ungrateful parasite.”

“Excuse me?”

“You should rest. You’re not strong enough for this yet.”

“I’m strong enough,” I bite back, though the truth is in the way my muscles tremble, in how my breath comes too fast, too shallow.

His laugh rolls like distant thunder. “Then prove it. Stay on.”

And he dives.

The sky splits open, the earth rushing up like it wants to swallow us whole. My stomach lurches, the wind tears tears from my eyes, and for one wild heartbeat, I feel it—our bond, unbroken, unyielding. His pulse roaring against mine, his love fierce and terrifying and endless.

We pull up just above the treetops, my body slamming forward against his neck, and I’m laughing through the tears now. “Missed you, Noxie.”

He growls, wounded pride dripping through the bond. “Do not call me that.”

“You love it.”

“I’ll eat you.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

And I swear, for a dragon who claims to be nothing but a monster, his voice softens again: “No. I suppose I wouldn’t.”

The bastard twists without warning, snapping a wing and sending us spinning through the air like a storm-tossed arrow. I cling tighter, knuckles aching, thighs screaming where they lock around his scales.

“You trying to kill me already?” I shout.

“Trying to remind you what it means to be mine.”

He dives, climbs, rolls. My muscles burn, my vision whites out, but I don’t scream. I don’t beg. I laugh. Wild, manic laughter ripping from my chest like I was born for this chaos. Because I was.

And then—he throws me.

Just cuts a wing mid-roll and lets my body fling out into the empty air.

The ground rushes up. Wind claws at me. My lungs seize. But I don’t panic.

Because I know.

I know him.

Sure enough, the world lurches as white claws clamp around me, hauling me back against his chest like I weigh nothing. His growl rattles my bones. “Pathetic. You didn’t even last half a run.”

“You’re a dickhead,” I pant, laughing so hard my ribs ache.

“You are disgustingly weak right now,” he snaps, voice thick with disdain. “It embarrasses me to call you mine. You should work on that. Immediately.”

“Oh, fuck off.” My grin is feral, my chest heaving, my eyes stinging with wind-tears and exhaustion. “You missed me, don’t lie.”

His silence says enough. But through the bond, a low ripple hums—fierce, possessive, terrified affection. And it’s the only answer I’ll ever need.

The bond shudders. “Reckless fools,” Chradh’s voice cuts sharp as ice, snapping through both me and Nox. “Do you ever think before you act?”

Nox rumbles in amusement, twisting in the air so I catch the gleam of wings approaching fast. Garrick’s rage burns hot down the bond before I even see him.

“You’re in trouble,” Nox says smugly, like a child about to watch their sibling get scolded.

“Traitor,” I hiss, gripping his scales tighter.

Chradh’s shadow darkens above us, Garrick astride his broad back, face thunderous. The second they’re close enough, his voice cracks through the wind.

“ELEANOR!”

Fuck. Full name.

Garrick’s face is thunder as he yells over the roar of wind, “ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR GODS DAMNED MIND?”

I flinch, but grin anyway. “Hey, baby.”

“Don’t ‘hey baby’ me—you’re risking yourself, Lenny! You’re barely healed, you could’ve fallen, you—”

“—did fall,” Nox interrupts smoothly.

“Shut it, princess,” Garrick snaps.

The roar Nox lets out rattles my bones, teeth flashing inches from Chradh’s wingtip.

“Not. A. Princess,” Nox seethes, wings flaring like he’s about to swallow Garrick whole.

“Could’ve fooled me,” Garrick mutters.

“Stop it!” Chradh cuts in sharply, his calm enough to make them both pause. “We are not enemies. Enough.”

I press a hand to my mouth, still laughing as Garrick pulls Chradh alongside us. His hazel eyes lock onto mine, furious but shaking beneath it.

“Len,” he says, lower now, voice breaking. “Do you have any idea how close you came to—”

“I’m sorry,” I cut in quickly, my laughter fading to something softer. I press my palm flat to Nox’s warm scales, looking down at Garrick with all the honesty I can muster.

“My viper was not meant to be caged. She needed air.” Nox snaps.

I swallow, my throat tight, and meet Garrick’s furious, terrified eyes. “He’s right,” I whisper. “I’ve spent my life in cages. I just… I needed this. Needed him.”

Understanding flickers across Garrick’s face. His shoulders sag, his fury dimming into something softer. Something broken. He sighs, then nods once. “Fine. But next time? I’m coming with you.”

“Deal.” I grin through the sting of tears, and behind me, Nox preens like the smug bastard he is.

Nox stretches his wings wide, muscles coiled like he’s already halfway to victory. “I propose a race. To the ridgeline and back. To prove what we already know.”

I arch a brow. “And what’s that?”

His voice drips smug down the bond. “That I am superior.”

Across from us, Chradh snorts, his calm voice edged with rare mockery. “You’ll tear a wing joint trying to beat me.”

“Oh, this is going to be good,” I whisper, grinning so hard it hurts.

Beside me, Garrick groans into his hands like a man who’s aged twenty years in five seconds. “Absolutely not.”

“Absolutely yes,” I shoot back, already tugging Nox’s reins.

Garrick glares. “Len, you just came back from the dead. You slept seventeen hours last night. You couldn’t walk to the bathroom without collapsing two weeks ago.”

“Exactly,” I chirp. “Time to prove I’m improving.”

Nox rumbles, smug. “She is fit enough. And I will win.”

Chradh rolls his eyes, his tail slicing clouds. “Try not to embarrass yourself, old man.”

“Oh shit,” I wheeze, clutching my stomach. “He just called you an old man.”

Garrick mutters, “You’re all insane.” Then, with a resigned sigh, he tightens his grip on Chradh’s scales. “Fine. But if you pass out mid-flight, Lenny, so help me gods—”

“—Nox’ll catch me,” I finish with a grin. “Like always.”

His jaw flexes, but he doesn’t argue. Which means I win. Again.

“On my mark,” Nox says, crouching midair like a predator ready to strike. “Three…”

“Two…” Chradh joins, steady as a war drum.

Garrick’s already swearing. I’m already laughing.

“One.”

And then the world explodes into speed.

The second Nox launches, the air tears around us. I slam forward into his neck, arms clamped tight around the ridge of his scales, my laughter ripped from me by the wind.

Behind me, Garrick is already bellowing like a war commander who’s lost control of his troops. “LENNY! HOLD ON—”

“WHAT DO YOU THINK I’M DOING?!” I shriek back, grinning so wide my face hurts.

Chradh surges ahead with the steady power of a glacier in motion, every beat of his wings measured, flawless, calculated. He doesn’t waste an ounce of energy. Garrick sits tall on his back, hair whipping wildly, his jaw set in grim determination. My perfect, furious general.

Nox? Nox doesn’t do measured.

Nox does chaos.

He dips low, then barrels sideways, slamming one massive wing against Chradh’s shoulder with a force that makes Garrick jolt dangerously on his back.

“ARE YOU TRYING TO KILL ME?!” Garrick roars, clinging on for dear life.

“Potentially.” Nox chortles.

Chradh only huffs, adjusting his angle midair like a bored professor correcting a clumsy student. “Dirty tactics. Predictable. You’ll tire yourself before the ridge.”

“Old man,” Nox growls back in offence, snapping his jaws inches from Chradh’s tail. “You’ve lost already.”

“YOU HAVEN’T EVEN REACHED THE RIDGE,” Garrick shouts.

Nox ignores him, cutting across Chradh’s path again. I shriek and duck as the wind shear nearly rips me from his back. Garrick swears loud enough to shake the skies.

And still—I’m laughing. Gods, I’m laughing so hard it feels like my ribs might crack.

The ridge looms ahead, sharp against the horizon. Chradh glides for it with calm precision, his wingbeats steady. Nox claws through the air, brute force and arrogance in every motion, fighting dirty at every chance.

It’s madness. Utter madness.

It’s family.

The ridge is right there. Chradh’s gliding smooth and perfect, Garrick sitting tall like he’s carved from stone.

Nox doesn’t glide. Nox lunges again.

He snaps one wing down hard, the gust slamming into Chradh’s flank, just enough to throw off his balance. Chradh jerks, Garrick swears again, and I’m screaming with laughter as Nox barrels past, claws scraping the sky like a victory banner.

We slam onto the ridge a heartbeat before Chradh, Nox landing heavy and arrogant, the mountain trembling beneath his bulk. His chest puffs wide, wings stretching high above us in glorious, self-satisfied triumph.

Chradh touches down with the grace of a king…and the patience of a saint ground down to nothing. “You cheat at everything.” His calm voice has an edge sharper than steel.

Nox bares every tooth in his skull, smug and terrifying. “And still, everyone knows the truth: I am the greatest dragon on this continent.”

I’m laughing so hard I almost forget to breathe. Almost forget how weak my body really is. Until I slip from Nox’s back.

The ground lurches. My knees buckle.

And Garrick’s there before I can even hit the stone, strong hands gripping my arms, pulling me upright, tucking me against his chest like I’m something breakable. Which, fuck, I guess I am right now.

“Len.” His voice is low, furious with worry. “Too much. It was too much.”

Nox growls in protest, but Chradh only sighs, his eyes heavy with concern.

And me? My chest aches, my muscles scream, my head’s light with exhaustion—

—but the grin on my face doesn’t falter.

Because gods, I needed this. The sky. My dragon. My family.

And for the first time in months, I feel alive.

Garrick doesn’t let go. Not even when I mutter “I’m fine.” Not even when I try to push at his chest. His arms only tighten, solid and unyielding.

“You’re shaking,” he murmurs, tucking me against him like he can shield me from my own weakness.

I grit my teeth. Because he’s right. My hands tremble where they clutch his tunic, my knees feel like water, and every muscle in my body screams in protest.

Gods, I hate it. Hate how fragile I am. Hate that after everything—after being dead, after fighting like hell to claw my way back—I can’t even handle a flight without collapsing like some delicate little doll.

Chradh bows his head, quiet and steady, his calm presence brushing against me like a brother’s hand on my shoulder. Nox, of course, just looms. He doesn’t come closer, doesn’t nuzzle, doesn’t comfort. But I can feel him through the bond, pacing the edge of my exhaustion, his black eyes locked on me like I might vanish if he looks away.

The bond squeezes, and I bite down on the sting in my throat.

“I hate this,” I whisper into Garrick’s chest, the words cracking before I can stop them. “I hate feeling pathetic.”

His hand moves up my back, slow, soothing circles. “You’re not pathetic, Len. You’re recovering. That’s all.”

I laugh bitterly. “Recovering feels the same as failing.”

He tilts my face up, his hazel eyes fierce and wet all at once. “No. Recovering means you’re still here. And after everything, that’s the only thing that matters.”

I want to argue. Gods, I want to claw my way out of his arms and prove him wrong. But when I glance past him, at Nox’s unblinking stare, at Chradh’s patient silence, I can’t.

Because the truth is—they’re all waiting for me to come back. Fully. Strong. Feral again.

And right now? I can’t even stand on my own.

So I let Garrick hold me, let Nox watch like a hawk, let Chradh keep his quiet vigil. My family, smothering me, protecting me, loving me even when I feel too broken to deserve it.

And for once…I don’t fight it.

Not today.

ELIAS

The crates sit stacked in the half-light of the ruined hall, their iron clasps biting into wood, their weight pressing like anchors on the air itself. Talladium. Enough to tip the scales, maybe. Enough to make a difference.

And for the first time in months, there’s no burn in my throat. No bottle in my hand. Just the quiet hum of focus.

I need this. We need this.

Xaden sits across from me on a broken pillar, his shadows curling lazily at his feet. He looks carved from stone, jaw sharp, gaze fixed on the crates like he’s daring them to disappear.

The silence between us isn’t awkward. It’s heavy. Purposeful.

Because tonight isn’t about grief. Not about drowning. Tonight’s about waiting.

For a little demon with fangs and too much attitude.

I glance down at the floor, bones scattered in piles where we laid them. A lure. A test. If the whispers are true—if the shadows we keep seeing at the edge of camp aren’t just ghosts in our heads—then he’ll come. He has to come. Because if Noodle’s still alive, there’s no way in the gods’ cursed world he can resist a shrine of bones.

And if he comes?

Maybe, just maybe, we can make him help.

“Three weeks,” I murmur. My voice feels rough, unused. “Three weeks of hunting Venin caravans. Three crates. You ever think we’d get this far?”

Xaden shakes his head once, black eyes unreadable. “Three weeks ago, I thought we were corpses waiting to happen.”

“Still might be.”

“Maybe.” His shadows twitch, almost restless. “But if we’re going to burn out, at least we’ll make it count.”

I nod, fingers brushing over the hilt of my dagger. No liquor. No escape. Just steel and determination. For the first time since Draithus, I don’t feel like I’m rotting inside. I feel…useful.

“Come on, you little bastard,” I whisper, staring into the dark beams above. “Come home.”

Hours bleed away in silence.

The hall is dark except for the faint glow of embers in the hearth, painting the crates of talladium in a dull, sullen red. Xaden and I sink into the armchairs we dragged into the room, feigning exhaustion. Shadows coil lazily at his feet, like guard dogs pretending to nap. My hand hangs loose over the armrest, blade balanced between two fingers.

We’re bait. Nothing more.

My eyes stay closed. My breathing slows. But I don’t sleep. Not tonight.

Because if he’s out there—if he’s real—then I’ll wait a year in this chair if I have to.

And then it happens.

A chitter. High, sharp, curious.

My throat tightens. Gods, I almost laugh—almost shout his name like a lunatic. But I don’t. I stay still. Silent. Watching from the sliver of vision beneath my lashes.

The rafters creak. A ripple of voidfire crawls across the beams, faint and purple-black, before snuffing itself out.

And then—there he is.

Noodle.

The little fucker drops from the ceiling in a slow coil, his scales slick with shadow, his fangs gleaming faintly in the low light. He chitters again, head cocking like he’s sizing up the room. Then he spots it.

The femur.

Xaden’s venin femur. The one he knew Noodle wouldn’t be able to resist.

My chest tightens as I watch. Noodle slithers down the wall, silent as smoke, his body wrapping around the bone with greedy precision. He chirps to himself, proud as a king, like he’s just pulled off the heist of the century.

Invisible. Untouchable. A perfect little spy.

The smug bastard has no idea we’re both wide awake, watching him.

I bite the inside of my cheek to stop from grinning. Because gods help me, after all this grief, after all this loss—seeing him again feels like breathing for the first time in months.

“We need your help.”

Xaden’s voice cuts the silence clean in half.

The effect is immediate.

Noodle screeches—a guttural, glass-shattering sound—and launches himself toward the rafters. The femur clatters to the floor, forgotten, as he thrashes upward in a blur of shadow and scales.

But Xaden’s faster.

The air goes cold as his shadows lash out, snapping around Noodle mid-coil. The parasite writhes and spits voidfire, shrieking bloody murder as if we’ve just sentenced him to execution.

“Please, Noods.”

My own voice comes rough, desperate. I sit forward, hands raised in surrender. Not to Xaden. To him.

The little bastard freezes mid-thrash. His black eyes swivel toward me, slitted and wild, searching my face like he’s deciding whether to slit my throat or not.

I don’t look away.

“I know you can understand me,” I say, forcing every word through the lump in my throat. “It’s us. It’s your family. You don’t need to run.”

The shadows loosen slightly.

Noodle chitters once, low and cautious.

And then—he relaxes. Just enough to show he won’t bolt. His coils sag against the shadows like he’s sulking, glaring at us both like we’re the traitors here.

Gods, my chest hurts.

He’s real. Not a ghost. Not another trick of grief. Noodle Riorson-Tavis is alive.

And for the first time since Draithus, so is a piece of me.

“I know you’ve been watching us,” I say quietly. “You’re not exactly subtle, Noods.”

The parasite huffs indignantly, a noise halfway between a kettle boiling and a pissed-off cat. His coils tighten against Xaden’s shadows, like he’s offended I even implied he’s sloppy.

Xaden tilts his head, eyes narrowing. “So what then? You’ve been keeping an eye on all of us? Since Draithus?”

For a heartbeat, Noodle goes still. He doesn’t screech or hiss. He just… hesitates. And that hesitation says enough.

I swallow hard, leaning forward in my chair. “Yeah,” I whisper. “I get it. You miss them too.”

Those black, soulless eyes swivel back to me. They’re flat, unreadable. But then—he makes a noise I’ve never heard from him before.

Not the hiss of triumph when he drags a bone under the bed. Not the screech of mischief when he bites someone he shouldn’t. Not even the smug little chirrups he used to save for Len.

This is different.

A horrible, broken keening sound.

Low. Long. And full of grief so raw it scrapes the inside of my skull like glass.

The hairs on my arms rise.

Gods.

He mourns.

And suddenly I can’t breathe, because I’m not looking at a parasite anymore. I’m looking at the last living piece of them. The last little monster of our fucked-up family, who lost riders, his brother, his dragons—everyone—in one day.

He’s been alone all this time. Alone, hiding, surviving, watching us all from the dark.

And I feel pity for him. For the first time in my life, I pity the fucking worm.

I’m halfway through trying to steady my own breath when Xaden—Xaden, the man who’s hated Noodle from the moment the little fucker slithered into our lives—actually speaks.

“It’s okay,” he says, low, even. His shadows twitch around him, restless but not hostile. “We all miss them. Len. Garrick. You don’t have to hide from us.”

I stare at him, stunned.

Noodle does too, his beady eyes narrowing like he doesn’t quite believe what he’s hearing.

“You attacked that Venin camp a few weeks ago, didn’t you?” I ask carefully.

For a moment, silence. Then the worm gives the smallest, most self-satisfied nod I’ve ever seen.

I grin despite myself. “Thanks, Noods. You helped.”

His little chest puffs out, smug as a fucking prince.

Xaden rolls his eyes so hard I can practically hear it, but I jab him in the ribs with my elbow. “Don’t ruin this.”

Noodle wriggles, triumphant.

I clear my throat. “Do you… check on the others too?”

A nod.

Xaden doesn’t even hesitate. “How’s Violet? How’s Bodhi?”

The parasite chirps, the sound almost jaunty—like a careless they’re fine.

Relief floods my chest. I didn’t realise how badly I needed to hear it until now.

I swallow and try again. “What about my girls?”

Noodle straightens, positively preening, then nods again.

And this time, even Xaden breathes out, slow and shaky. “Good,” he mutters. “That’s good.”

I glance at the crates. At the sharp tang of talladium filling the room. Then back to him. “Can you help us, Noods? We need to get these to Vi. We can’t move them without drawing attention. But you—”

My voice softens. “Could you?”

The little bastard chitters, eyes glinting like coals.

And for the first time since Draithus, I feel something dangerous in my chest.

Hope.

GARRICK

The sound shatters the silence like a warhorn.

A bang so loud it rattles the beams overhead, followed by something that sounds like claws—or scales—scraping across wood.

Len freezes beneath me, her chest still heaving, lips swollen from where I’d kissed her senseless. “The fuck was that?”

I’m already reaching for the dagger by the coffee table, sliding off her, my instincts screaming. “Stay here.”

She snorts, sitting up and grabbing the nearest tunic to cover herself. “Absolutely not.”

“Len—”

“Don’t Len me. If there’s a Venin upstairs, you think I’m just gonna sit down here with my tits out while you play hero?”

I shove her gently back toward the bed, weapon raised. “You’re still weak. Let me handle this.”

Her glare could cut steel. “Weak? Ten minutes ago, I was riding you to hell and back. Don’t you dare call me weak.”

My mouth opens, but there’s no comeback. Fuck. She’s right.

Before I can try again, another noise cracks through the ceiling—wood splintering, something heavy crashing—and then, clear as day, a smug little chitter echoes down the hall.

Len’s eyes widen. She breaks into a grin that’s half feral, half gleeful. “Oh my gods. That little fucker’s back.”

I groan. “Noodle.”

Of course it’s Noodle. Who else would interrupt mid-sex with a dramatic fucking entrance?

We move down the hallway together—me edging in front of her, her shoving me aside every other step, the two of us bickering under our breath like lunatics.

“Behind me,” I hiss.

“No.”

“Len, you’re—”

“Say weak one more time, I swear—”

Another smug chitter echoes from behind our bedroom door.

We push the door open.

And freeze.

Because sitting dead center on the bed like a smug little prince is Noodle. His coils draped across the sheets. His fangs bared in what I swear to the gods is a smile.

And behind him? Three crates. Heavy, iron-bound, stamped with a mark I know too fucking well. Talladium.

Beside them—because of course it couldn’t just be that—is a wooden box. Overflowing with bones. Different sizes, shapes, still stained in places. And on top, a folded scrap of parchment.

Len’s already laughing, half-choking on it. “Oh my gods, he brought gifts.”

I don’t laugh. I storm forward, snatch the parchment, and unfold it with shaking hands.

The handwriting is sharp, efficient.

V,

Yes. Noodle’s alive. Somehow that little monster survived, and he’s been watching us all. I think he misses Lenny and Garrick so much it’s driven him crazy. Truth be told, sometimes I swear I feel them too—her especially. Like Len’s still out there, haunting me, refusing to stay quiet. Gods know it would be just like her.

We’ve managed to recover three crates of talladium from Venin shipments. They’ll be safer with you in Aretia. Use them wisely. Keep them close. You’ll need them.

Elias and I… we’re holding on. He misses his family more than I can put into words. He talks about Katherine, about Elara, like they’re the only reason he breathes. He asked me to send them his love—his heart aches for them. For his girls.

And me? I ache for you. For Bodhi. For everyone we lost. The weight of Len and Garrick’s deaths hasn’t lifted. I can’t shake the guilt that I wasn’t enough to stop it. That I left you behind. That I let myself become this. A Venin. A shadow of the man you loved. I hate it. I hate myself for it. But I swear to you, Violet—I am still fighting. Still yours.

I need you to know we’re alive. We’re safe enough, for now. And we’re still fighting the Venin. That hasn’t changed. It never will. If you or the others have intel—anything at all—pass it along through Noodle. Let us help. Let us keep doing what we swore to do, even if it’s from the shadows.

Tell me how you are. Please. I can’t stop wondering. I can’t stop picturing you breaking under the weight of all of this. Gods, I hate not knowing.

I love you. I miss you more than breath. You’re my wife, my home, my heart. Always.

—X

I stare at it. Then at the crates. Then up at the parasite king himself, wriggling like he’s expecting applause.

“...Well,” I mutter, lowering my dagger, “fuck me sideways.”

Len’s already cackling, holding the note to her chest. “They think he’s a spy for them!”

I pinch the bridge of my nose. “He’s not a spy. He’s a glorified mailman.”

“Shut up,” she says gleefully. “This is perfect.”

I shake my head, sinking onto the edge of the bed as the weight of it sinks in. Elias and Xaden… alive. Fighting. Sending talladium home. They still think we’re ash, and yet—because of this little monster—they’ve given us a way in.

“We can be involved,” Len breathes, eyes shining. “Without anyone knowing we’re alive.”

Noodle chitters again, puffing his chest, tail flicking with smug little snaps like he knows he’s just won the fucking war single-handedly.

I glare up at him. “You’re not a good spy. You’ve definitely been caught.”

He hisses like he disagrees.

Len beams. “Good boy.”

I groan. “Gods help me.”

Because for once, she might be right.

This changes everything.

BODHI

I’m not sure what’s more unnerving—Courtlyn’s panthers sprawled around the sunlit room, tails twitching, their pale eyes fixed on me like I’m the dessert course… or the fact that the king himself is sipping his tea like this is just another polite afternoon in Deverelli.

I clear my throat, leaning forward in my chair. “The hatchlings are safe, for now. Veylor won’t let anything near them. Not even us, if he can help it.”

Courtlyn strokes the jaw of one of his panthers absently, his smile sharp as a blade. “Veylor refuses to follow the Aretian Empyrean?”

I nod. “He’s made it very clear. He’ll answer only to his commander.”

“His commander?”

Katherine smirks, setting down her teacup with deliberate precision. “Lenny.”

For a heartbeat, silence falls. Courtlyn’s smile widens, eyes glittering like he’s just been handed a new game to play. “Of course. That does explain it. The Shadewings were always different from the other breeds. More violent. More… willful. But bowing to a mortal? That, I admit, I did not expect.”

I bristle, but Katherine only laughs—dark, bitter. “They didn’t bow. They chose. And she never asked them to.”

Courtlyn hums in thought, and beside him Count Tecarus mutters into his cup about how unprecedented it all is.

And then Aaric, quiet until now, finally speaks, his voice low, almost too soft. “She wasn’t just another mortal.”

The words hang heavy between us.

I stare at him, my chest tightening. Courtlyn tilts his head in amusement. Katherine raises an eyebrow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Aaric doesn’t answer. His jaw tightens, his eyes shadowed.

Before anyone can press him further, the doors at the far end of the hall swing open with a heavy clang. Two guards stride in, armor gleaming in the candlelight, and bow low.

“Your Majesty,” one announces. “Your guests have arrived.”

The room stiffens.

Courtlyn’s smile turns feral. Katherine and I exchange a look. Aaric’s hand twitches toward the hilt of his blade.

The doors groan wide, and for the first time in months, my stomach drops.

“Presenting,” the guard booms, “Lady Talia Riorson, Head of the Triumvirate of Hedotis. Lady Roslyn. Lady Nairi.”

The world tilts sideways.

My whole body goes rigid.

Talia steps into the chamber, tall and severe, but older now, her once-fine beauty lined and scarred. Her arms are latticed in burn scars, twisting up her skin in grotesque patterns. Behind her, Roslyn keeps her chin high, but the entire left side of her face looks like it was melted by voidfire, slick scar tissue pulled taut over bone. And Nairi… gods. Her mouth. It’s as if someone burned out her tongue, the skin around her lips scarred into a permanent grimace.

I don’t need to be told who did it.

I already know.

Lenny.

The realization punches through my chest like a hammer. Because I wasn’t there that day in Hedotis. I only heard the stories—how Faris, Talia’s precious new husband, had offered chocolate cake, poisoned, and Garrick almost died choking on it. I know what that would’ve done to Len.

Seeing these women now, the scars crawling over them like reminders carved into flesh? I understand just how close Garrick must have come. Just how much of Lenny’s leash must have snapped.

And I feel nothing.

No pity. No horror. Just cold, sharp recognition.

She did this because they tried to take him from her.

She did this because she loved him.