We dug as deep as we could into the damp earth. When we were done, Wyn placed a small bundle of herbs over the grave: sleepvine and bloodmoss. The same ones she used to help calm her dreams.
“We shouldn’t forget him,” she said. “Not here. Not like this.”
“He won’t be,” I promised.
We stood in silence for a while. No one rushed to get moving. The moment hung like thick, unmoving fog. Bran let out a low whimper and nudged the dirt with his nose before returning to Alaric’s side.
Wyn stood a little apart from the others, arms wrapped around herself, her breathing still unsteady. I moved toward her slowly. She didn’t look up when I approached.
“Wyn,” I said softly.
She turned to me, her eyes rimmed with unshed tears. Her face was pale, though a faint glow still lingered on her skin. Her hands were trembling.
“I didn’t mean to—” she began, her voice cracked.
“I know,” I said. “It wasn’t your fault. You saved us.”
She shook her head. “But it felt like I became something else. Like I wasn’t myself.”
I reached out and placed a hand on her shoulder. “You were more yourself than I’ve ever seen.”
Her gaze, wide and startled, shot up to meet mine. The words, soft and trembling, were barely audible. “I’m scared,” she whimpered.
“I know.”
The silence between us pulsed with warmth, and was alive with something that neither of us could name. I could still feel the echo of the fire she’d unleashed deep inside myself as if part of her had reached into the hollow places inside me and lit a spark there.
“I’m here,” I said. “You’re not alone, Princess.”
Her eyes brimmed again, but she nodded. “Thank you.”
And for a moment, she leaned against me, the weight of her fear and fire settling into the space between our hearts.
It was a welcoming comfort.
Chapter Eighteen
Wynessa
The Vorrhounds haunted my thoughts. Their snarling mouths, the way they moved like smoke, like nightmares, stitched to the shadows. I still heard their echoing cries and the memory of Erindor falling. My scream. Forcing something else to take over.
A light. A golden blaze not born from firewood or spell. It had burst from me like a heartbeat—warm, immense, and terrifying. But it had driven them away, saving us.
But what was it?
I glanced at my hands, they were pale and trembling in the morning light. They looked like they always had, but I no longer trusted them. That light hadn’t burned me, but instead, empowered me. Jasira sat beside me now, carefully rinsing the blood from my fingers with water from a canteen. Her own hands were shaking.
“They would’ve killed us all if you hadn’t. Whatever that was, it saved us.”
I stared at the minor cuts along my knuckles. “But it didn’t save Tyren.”
Jasira stilled. I could feel her pause, see her mouth open and close like she wanted to deny it, but couldn’t.
“You didn’t know it would happen,” she said softly.
“But what if I had? What if I could’ve done something sooner? Maybe if I’d felt it earlier, or—”
“Wyn.”
