But just because the Crone’s moon promises rebirth does not mean it grants new life. Ends are not always beginnings. Sometimes they are only ends.
Please, Pale Mother, let it be otherwise this time.
The air thickens and grows colder, the forest around me swallowing light. Darkness pools between the trees, almost as black as the void itself, and yet I do not move. I am a statue, rigid and eternal, my chest barely rising with breath, my eyes locked on the space where she will emerge when the earth finally releases her. Every thought, every heartbeat, every pulse of blood in me belongs to her.
In the village, my Blades wait, silent but poised for the command I cannot yet give. Beyond them, the threat of the Legion presses closer, relentless and merciless, hungering for war, a war they intend to finish, once and for all. My sister, my twin, Zyphoro, could be walking straight into their jaws, and the Golden Son, Ronin, still breathes when his life should have been mine to take. Each misstep, each hesitation, gnaws like a starving dog with a bone, and still I remain here, rooted in the one place that matters.
Even with the weight of the world pressing on my shoulders, with the chaos of all I have failed to protect swirling around me, there is no other place I wish to be. Not in any realm, any plane, any lifetime. All else must wait. She must rise. She must return.
Then together, we will reclaim what was stolen from us. Not this cursed kingdom. Let the wolves fight over those scraps. I speak of the piece torn from both our hearts. Our hope. Our Estra. Only when she is home, can we be made whole.
I bury my face deeper into the grass, tasting the cold dew on my lips, curling my fingers until my nails bite into the soil.
“Please, wife,” I murmur into the shadowed hush of the forest, voice raw and trembling. “Please come back to me.”
Chapter 38
Daed
“Daedalus.”
I’m not sure if I hear my name or the wind through the trees. My mind has been a traitor these last days, making me see and hear things. Cruel enough to convince me Amara has risen. That she has returned to me. For a heartbeat, I feel her. Her hand on my cheek, breath at my neck, the warm tangle of the threads that bind us. I reach for her, pull her close, kiss her in the way my soul yearns to… then she melts away. My eyes snap open, and I’m still on the grass, alone, my shape pressed into the blossoms where the earth took her. The place that feels less like a promise now and more like a grave.
“Daedalus.”
This time I stir. The voice is real, but it is not Amara.
“What is it, Solena?” I mutter, voice raw.
“It’s been two days,” she says. “You must eat.”
I don’t answer. My silence earns a scolding grunt.
“If you don’t eat, you’ll rot here in this patch of grass, and the worms will make a feast of you.”She wrinkles her nose at the dirt, and it reminds me Mordorin were never meant for the earth, nor for the things that slither and crawl beneath it.
The blooms sway, and for a second they trick me again. Her scent flits through them like a lie. I swallow. “What if I’m not here when she wakes?” I rasp.
She kicks my boot. I grimace, dragging my eyes up to her. She hovers with a wooden bowl, shaking it at me like I’m anyone but the Prince of House Mordorin, if I’m even that anymore.
“Then eat here,” she snaps. “I don’t care.”
The thought of leaving this spot feels like surrender, another failure stacked on the heap, but Solena kicks my boot again. “I’ve got better things to do than stand hereall night. You’re not the only one who needs tending. Reon barely survived, if you’re interested. Mirael healed him some, but she’s not as strong without the others. He needs time to heal on his own.”
Reon. The name lands like a stone. I hadn’t even…
“And there’s still no sign of your sister,” Solena adds, twisting the knife. “Or the Golden Son. Or the Legion.”
“Why hasn’t Orios sent scouts?” I ask, voice finding itself as I clear my throat.
She rolls her eyes. “Because he waits on your command. That’s what a Blade does.”
She kicks my boot once more, and I groan, finally hauling myself upright. Gods, my fucking back creaks like old timber, and a hot stab in my shoulder has me hiss. No sympathy from Solena. She shoves the bowl in my face.
“Hurry. Eat. I need to get back to the village.”
The bowl is warm in my hands, steam curling up in ribbons that smell of herbs and salt and something faintly sweet. I don’t bother to savor it. I tip it back and drink. The broth scalds my tongue, burns a path down my throat, but I don’t care. I’m starving. I drink until the bowl is empty, until only the faint taste of wood remains, and still I want more.
“You’ll be chewing splinters if you keep at it like that,” Solena mutters, frowning.
