Ice crystallizes in my veins.

She doesn’t know. Of course, she doesn’t know. They’ve scrubbed their history clean, painted themselves as victims while they gorged on our flesh and power, while they strung us up and carved us apart and—

I lock it down, giving her nothing but the flat stare I’ve perfected over centuries. “Aren’t you full of questions today.”

She recognizes the minefield and retreats. Smart girl. “What about Amara?”

I weigh my words. “Amara’s soulbonded. She’ll feel the pull of her Chosen and do whatever she can to avoid it. He was unworthy of her.”

“Her Chosen? Who?”

“It’s rude to pry into someone’s romantic business, Devaliant. Hasn’t anyone ever told you that?”

“Once or twice,” she says with a wry twist of her lips.

“Well, if Amara wanted you to know the details of her love life, she’d tell you. In the meantime, I’ll take off somewhere where I’m less likely to”—fuck you senseless against every surface in this tower—“be in your way.”

“Ah. Well, then.” The Devaliant gives a mocking half-bow. “I hope you emerge with your cock intact.”

“Your concern for my cock is duly noted and appreciated.”

I’m going to bite her. Mark her up—

“Wolf.” The Devaliant’s voice cuts through the haze of lust. “There’s something else. That name you and Amara mentioned earlier—Rhosyn. I think I’ve seen it before.”

I go still. “Where?”

“Hellevig.” She gives a sharp shake of her head. “But I can’t think of the context. Whenever I try, it’s like wading through fog. My mind just goes—”

“To the Duehavn,” I finish, knowing exactly how trauma locks memories away.

She flinches. “Right.”

The mind’s last defense—building walls around the worst moments, keeping them where they can’t do more damage. But those walls don’t discriminate. They take everything, good and bad, and bury it all.

“Do you know where Amara found me?” The question comes out carefully, like she’s bracing for impact.

“Yes.”

The Devaliant exhales, and it sounds like surrender. “Take me there.”

No. Every instinct screams against it. Taking her back to where she almost died, where someone tried to murder her—it’s asking for her to shatter. It’s not worth it. Not even if it could give me answers.

“Listen to me.” I catch her chin in a gentle grip, tipping her face up to mine. “You don’t have to go back. Not until you’re ready.”

Slowly, so slowly, she lifts her eyes to mine. “I need to see it.”

Damn me. When she looks at me like that, I’m powerless to refuse her.

“All right,” I mutter, opening my arms. “Come here.”

She steps into my embrace without hesitation. It catches me off guard—this trust, the way she fits herself against me so easily.

I spread my wings and gather her close, launching us into the sky.

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28

BRYONY

THE WIND ON the Duehavn stings my cheeks as I stare out at the ridge. All around me, the serrated peaks are knitted together by tendrils of mist punctuated by sheer, dizzying drops. There’s nothing green up here. No trees, no flowers or grass. Only the dramatic browns and slate grays of the crags, the interlacing colors of the Shroud shimmering across the sky.

It’s breathtaking—in a brutal, merciless sort of way.

I navigate across the uneven ground, shale skittering beneath my boots. This place hasn’t changed. It’s the same savage, merciless landscape that swallowed my screams. That cut into my back as I struggled against Idris’ hold and took its own bloodletting when the blade did.

I wonder if some part of me is still here, spilled out across the rocks. A memorial for the Anchor. The woman I was.

The memory pierces through me, sudden and violent—struggling against my uncle, the knife as he plunged it in, staring up at the sky as I died.

You’re fine. You’re in control. This is just a place; it can’t hurt you.

One step. Two. I force myself toward the edge. The world pitches, my head spinning as I peer over the drop.

“Careful. It’s a long way down.”

I focus on the distant horizon, not trusting myself to look at the Wolf. “Oblivion’s tempting when the inside of my mind gets too loud.”

Gravel crunches as he closes the distance between us, stepping up behind me close enough to touch.

“Where are you right now?” he asks, so soft it’s nearly lost to the wind. “In your head.”

“Nowhere you want to be. It’s not pretty.”

“I’m no stranger to ugly.”

A bitter laugh scrapes out of me. “Is that a request to take a nice, long look at my scars and watch me squirm?”

“If that’s what you need from me.” The barest shift of movement, and I feel the warm press of his chest against my back.

Hardly daring to breathe, I stand frozen as he reaches out and catches my chin, turning my face to his. Those golden eyes are soft as they flicker between mine, as if he’s trying to figure me out.

“Want to talk it out, nemesis?”

It’s too gentle. Too tender. I can almost convince myself he isn’t the villain of my story. That there’s something warmer hidden underneath—something true. Because when he calls me nemesis, it’s like he’s telling me a secret.

But I’m lying to myself.

“You want a peek inside my head?” My lips flatten, and I turn out of his grasp. “Fine. Go ahead and poke around in all the dark corners. Maybe it’ll help you sleep better when you finally end me.”

The Wolf lets out a slow exhale. Then he turns to a nearby boulder and sits, wings flaring out. “Come here.”

I hesitate. “Why?”

“Just come here.”

When I walk over, he tugs me down into his lap and wraps those large wings around us both—a golden cocoon shielding us from the world.

His breath is warm on my neck. “There’s no prize for suffering,” he says in a low voice. “Pain isn’t a game. Stop punishing yourself with it.”

Don’t.

The sound that leaves me is almost a sob, but when I try to pull out of his arms, he just holds me tighter. Keeping me still.

He keeps talking. “Swallow down enough of that toxic shit, and eventually, you go numb to everything else. Until the only thing that cuts through the static is pain—inflicting it, chasing it. It’s the only way anything feels real.”

Stop, I want to beg him. Stop, stop, stop.

He doesn’t get to do this. He doesn’t get to reach into my chest, pry up all the ugly bits, and act as if he understands. But he’s relentless, digging deeper. Picking at all my wounds.

“So you spread that pain around like a sickness,” he continues, his chest rising and falling against my back, “making damn sure everyone else is as miserable and fucked up on the inside as you are. Because why should you be the only one choking on it? What’s right about bleeding out alone?”

I shut my eyes tightly. “Why are you telling me this? Why do you care?”

“Because I’ve spent three hundred years hurting everyone around me.” He strokes my cheek, fingers as soft as mothwings on my skin. “I know revenge feels good at first. It makes you feel powerful, like you’re the one in control. Like you’re taking back what was stolen from you and rewriting the story so you’re the one holding the blade. But it’s not enough. It’ll never be enough. You’ll tear yourself to shreds, bleed yourself dry, and that hungry void inside you will just swallow it down and howl for more.”

“It’s easy for you to say,” I tell him, my tone sharp. “Have you ever been powerless? Ever had everything stolen from you?”

“Yes.”

Something squeezes hard in my chest. A thousand questions fill the air, going unvoiced.