It tapered like a needle as it pierced the sky, black like onyx. So black it stood out against the night, which was bright with starlight.
The Skyweaver’s throne.
Like a magnet, it both attracted and repelled Eris. Reminding her of the night she’d been running from for half her life. How the god of souls did nothing as her servants were burned in their beds. As Day sent a prayer skyward. As Eris watched them take everyone she’d ever loved away from her.
She’d never hated anyone as much as she hated the god of souls.
That coal-red rage ignited within her, just like the night she’d watched theSea Mistressburn. Her teeth clenched with it. She wanted to walk the tower’s thousand steps, smashing every window on the way. Wanted to bang on the door at the top and break it down. Wanted to spit at the Skyweaver’s feet and ask her how she could stand by and donothingas the scrin burned. As Day died with her name on his lips.
Day.
The memories of him flooded her. Eris fell to her knees. Tears pricked her eyes as she thought of him carrying her to bed when she fell asleep at the looms. She thought of him holding her hand up near the cliff edge—ensuring she couldn’t run off while he taught her which plants were best for dyeing. Thought of him telling her stories of the god he loved best.
The tower blurred before her, fading into the dark sky.
When the night descends—Day’s prayer filled her mind—I look to those who’ve gone before me, lighting my path through the dark.
Eris looked beyond the tower to the thousands of stars shining above it. The thousands of souls who’d been put there by Skyweaver’s hand.
She hated that prayer, because it was forher.
But she loved it, too, because it was Day’s favorite.
I remember,she thought, reciting the words near the end,you are with me.
As the stars glittered above her, with Day’s memory in her heart, the rage in her fled.
And though Eris was still alone, she no longer felt so lonely.
Thirty-Two
Safire walked the blue halls of the citadel, longing for home and the comforts of routine. Back in Firgaard, there was nothing a good sparring session or a long hard run couldn’t fix.
She missed her soldats. Missed the hot sun on her face. Missed the way things were before a certain thief walked into the king’s treasury and threw her life into chaos.
As Safire stepped out onto one of the uncovered walkways, a sheet of cool fog enveloped her. It made her uneasy, that fog. She didn’t like not being able to see what was several paces in front of her. Anything could be hiding in the gray.
As if summoned by her thought, Safire felt a presence. Lurking. Watching.
Her footsteps slowed as she listened.
She could see the dim glow of torchlight in the distance. She was almost at the end of the walkway. But the closer she came to the archway leading into the next citadel hall, the presence got stronger.
Finally, Safire stopped. Ready to reach for the knife—tucked back in the knot of her hair—she called out: “Who’s there?”
At first, only silence answered her. But then, through the gray, she heard a familiar sound: rapid clicking. Safire looked up to the spiral rooftop where it came from.
Two slitted eyes stared down at her through the mist.
“Sorrow?” she whispered.
The eyes disappeared. Safire heard the soft scraping of scales against stone as the dragon slithered down from the roof. A heartbeat later, a gleaming white head with two horns—one of them broken—came out of the fog.
Safire glanced from Sorrow’s dark eyes back over her shoulder, checking for guards. But the fog was too thick to see. “What are you doing here?” she whispered.
Sorrow clicked back at her, urgent this time. And then he did something he’d never done before: he pressed his snout into Safire’s palm, nudging it firmly. Almost as if he wanted something from her.
Safire remembered the last words she spoke to the white dragon—last night in the abandoned village, searching for Asha.
