The antlers dissolve next, their golden branches breaking apart into spiraling threads of light.
“The world does not need another crown,” it whispers, as it scatters with the wind, “only someone willing to set one down.”
The last of its leaves catch in a rising breeze, carried through the lavender field until even the echo of its presence fades. Only the rustle of petals remains and the hollow ache of its words inside my chest.
“Wait!” The word bursts from me like a command, my hand stretching toward the forest.
“Rook.” The voice pulls me back. Orios stands behind me, his hand firm on my shoulder. I seize it, knuckles white, breath shuddering out in uneven gasps.
When I turn to him, his face is puzzled, eyes searching mine.
“Rook. It is time.”
I force air into my lungs, each breath a battle. My grip loosens on his hand until he draws it away.
There’s no point in explaining. There isn’t time. There’s never enough time.
My wings flare open, runes igniting across my chest in a blaze of violet heat. Orios mirrors the motion beside me, wind rushing between the ink black feathers.
Together, we take to the sky.
Chapter 40
Daed
Moonlight spills thinly over the forest canopy as we cut through the night sky, wings whispering against the wind. Below us, the Legion’s encampment sprawls across the valley, a wound of fire and steel burning in the dark. It should be a warrior’s moon guiding us, full and bright, the kind that blesses battle and blood. But it isn’t. It’s the new moon. The Silent Eye. A night of reflection and restraint. A night when Fae seek clarity, not carnage.
The omen sits wrong in my chest. I should welcome the darkness for the cover it gives us, yet the stag’s words gnaw at me still:Peace cannot be found through victory. Only through surrender.The memory is a stone lodged in my throat. What if he was right? What if laying down my blade, staying my hand, would be enough to bring Amara back?
But the thought curdles as quickly as it comes. I look down at the glow of the enemy camp, the shadows shifting like teeth around the fires, and I know there can be no peace while they still breathe. Still march. Still kill.
Death Singer manifests, my fingers tightening around the hilt until the leather creaks. If surrender is the path to peace, then I was never meant for it. Because how can I save her… if I do not fight?
We fold into the ridge and drop like shadows behind the crest. The Blades settle around me, a circle of breathing steel and feathered silence, waiting for the word I haven’t yet decided to give.
Orios lands beside me, breath barely a ghost. He leans close, voice a rasp only I can hear. “Patrols move the lines. Archers on the walls. Look.” He jabs a thumb toward the encampment and my eyes find them, men pacing with lanterns, heads tilting to the sky, always watching. “And the ballistas.” He nods toward a ring of gleaming machines near the center, their limbs heavy and cruel, gilded in filigree that catches the torchlight. Beautiful, deadly, without a doubt crafted by Fae hands
Around the camp, pyres burn in circles, threaded between tents. They carve the dark into pools of fire and shadow. From here we are nearly invisible, but any closer and the flames will bring us into the light. The men at those pyres will see movement long before our blades can silence them.
I weigh the options. Strike the ballistas first and risk exposure to the pyres and patrols. Slip a small band down to snuff the fires and disable the crew, then collapse the camp in one bite. Or burn everything to distraction and hope chaos hides us. None of them are clean. None of them promise Amara at the end.
Finally, I breathe out. “Hold,” I tell them, and the word is a stone that drops into a still pool. “Orios. Take four. Quiet. Void-walk close to those pyres. Find the crews and silence the ballistas. Do it without bells.” He nods once.
“The rest of you, archers on the walls.”
The Blades incline their heads, no hesitation, only the silent promise of obedience.
My gaze sweeps the pyres burning bright across the camp, their flames turning night to false day. “I’ll handle the fires. Even with their numbers, they don’t stand a chance under darkness. We are Mordorin. The shadows bend to us.”
“And then?” Orios asks.
“Then I find Zyphoro,” I answer. “Then we return to the Grove.”
My warriors need no further words. Each takes their helm in both hands and pulls it over their head. Faces vanish into shadowed hoods, eyes blaze white beneath the veil. Runes ignite across skin, pulsing like heartbeats, and wings unfurl with a hiss of smoke. They dissolve into the void one by one, curls of shadow and whispering air, until only Orios and I remain.
A low growl rumbles from his chest. “It has been too long since I’ve let my blade run wild. So many souls down there. So many sweet cries waiting to be ripped from their throats before I sever them.”
“Only if you must,” I cut in sharply.
