I nod and rise, brushing the earth from my palms. Erania gestures me closer, then cups my face in both hands. She kisses my cheek, her thumb lingering on my jaw.
“I will see you again, Amara Tyne,” she murmurs. “And when I do, I will welcome your daughter to the Grove beside you.”
Her words settle in me like sunlight, the reassurance I hadn’t known I was still searching for. She smiles, then turns back toward the village, her staff pressing deep into the soil with each step.
I wait for Mirael to climb down from the rock. She moves slowly, as if every motion weighs something. When she reaches me, her hand disappears into the folds of her robe and returns holding a small wooden rune, threaded with a black leather cord.
“This is yours,” she says, holding it out to me. “The one we made for you when you left.” Her eyes flick to my neck, to where the tattoo once marked me. “But it seems you’ve no need of tokens now.”
“No,” I say softly, taking it from her hand. “This I need.”
I tie it around my neck, letting the familiar weight settle against my collarbone. Mirael is right, my power no longer depends on carved runes or whispered words. But this piece of wood carries more than magic. It carries home. The memory of my sisters. The strength of the Souls. It is not a charm. I wear it for comfort, for courage. For the girl I used to be.
Mirael steps forward and pulls me into an embrace, firm, reluctant, but strong and steady as she has always been. The eldest of us. The fiercest. The one who bore the heaviest burdens without complaint. It was she who taught me, guided me, broke me down and built me back stronger.
“You must bring new sisters into the fold,” I murmur against her ear. “Teach them as you taught me.”
She exhales, pulling back with a small, crooked smile. “I suppose you’re right. I did train an Awakened, after all.”
Together, we return to the village. The Grove hums with twilight song, a low, lilting melody that drifts through the trees. The fire crackles, its smoke curling into the darkening sky, and bowls of roasted grain and sweetroot are passed from hand to hand. Laughter ripples softly, though there is a heaviness beneath it.
I smile where I can. Speak where I must. The warmth of the fire paints the faces of my people in gold, and for a time, I let myself believe this moment could stretch forever.
But there is one absence that gnaws at me.
I glance toward the shadows beyond the firelight, where the path winds toward the underground den. The others have all returned. Orios and Solena. Zyphoro and Reon. Even Ronin, standing quietly by the treeline, his new mask glinting faintly in the dusk. Yet Daed is nowhere to be seen.
My gaze searches for that familiar silhouette, the way the shadows gather where he stands. But there is nothing. Not even the whisper of his power in the air.
A quiet unease coils in my chest.
“Have you seen Daedalus?” I ask Solena as she passes me a bowl.
She shakes her head. “Not since the council ended.”
The fire blurs before my eyes, its crackle too loud all of a sudden. I set the bowl down and rise, brushing my palms on my robes. “Excuse me,” I murmur, though no one stops me.
The night air meets me cool and damp as I step beyond the firelight, the sound of the feast fading behind me. Then the air changes, thick, acrid, choking. The stench of smoke and ash hits first, then something far worse. Burnt flesh.
I lift a hand to cover my nose and press forward, eyes narrowing against the sting of it. The trail leads me toward the den. My pulse hammers as I draw closer. The door hangs open, its hinges groaning softly in the wind. Then I hear it, the wet, obscene sound of tearing flesh and the snap of bone between teeth.
“Daed,” I whisper.
My feet move on their own, closer, until I reach the threshold. I reach for the handle and recoil when my fingers come away slick with blood. Still warm.
“Daed… what have you done?”
Inside, he kneels in the dark. His head is thrown back, body shuddering as if caught between pain and ecstasy, and there, above the corpse of a Legion soldier, hovers the creature bound to him. Emranth. Cloaked in smoke and shadow, his form is translucent, a nightmare half-born of the void. I can see right through him as he feeds, his fanged mouth buried in the flesh, tethered to my husband by a swirling thread of darkness.
Then Daed convulses, and his head jerks toward me. His eyes, wild and unfocused, meet mine. Emranth looks too, his hollow gaze burning before he lets out a piercing hiss that rattles the walls.
The apparition retreats, slipping back into Daed’s chest. As he vanishes, so do the shadows, leaving only the dim shafts of light seeping through cracks in the ceiling. It’s enough to see the horror laid bare, dozens of Legion bodies scattered across the floor, their blood pooling around my husband’s knees.
Daed staggers upright, breath ragged, sweat running down his temples.
“I thought you weren’t going to execute the prisoners,” I say. My voice trembles, part fear, part fury, but beneath it all, something worse. Understanding.
“I said I’dtake careof them,” he rasps. He drags a hand through his hair, slick with sweat and smoke. “And I have.” He swallows hard, his jaw tight. “I am not perfect, Amara.”
