I scan each writhing lump of black. Though I can’t see their faces, their combined attention bores into me, no doubt waiting for the flames to ease so they can dart forward and feast.
They can’t have her.
I sit on my heels, prepared to wait forever for her to drop the impenetrable barrier. I may not know this child, but it tookyearsfor her mother to agree to move into this safe house, and now she’s dead.
This child deserves better.
Hermotherdeserved better.
I swallow my guilt and wait.
Hours pass, and I avoid looking at the willow tree, hating that it’s the only tombstone Aravyn will have. That her body will be a feast for the wreath of hungry shadows just as soon as they get the opportunity to pounce.
The sky is burnt from the rising sun by the time the child’s face smooths out, and her lashes sweep up.
I go very, very still.
Her wide eyes are aglitter with thousands of facets, as if she’s staring out from a sky full of stars that hatched in her soul.
Her chin wobbles.
Patches of that crystal dome begin to melt, dripping to the ground as the overwhelming scent of her anguish strikes the back of my throat like a blade.
She doesn’t move—just continues to sit there, tucked in a ball, looking at me with destitute eyes.
Studying me.
The wind howls and her teeth chatter.
I grind my molars.
She’s going to fucking freeze if I don’t get her wrapped up soon, but I refuse to snatch her from the soil. I need her trust.
Herpermission.
“I promise I won’t hurt you,” I say, keeping my bold voice low, fearful of scaring her back into that shell where I can’t help her.
She blinks once ... twice ... then finally unravels, bits of mud and ash falling off her as she pushes to her feet and takes an unsteady step toward me, then buckles.
I catch her before she hits the ground, and even through layers of leather and wool, I can feel how cold and fragile she is.
I pull her close and stand. “I’ll keep you safe. Everything’s going to be okay.”
Charging toward Eyzar, I sweep my cloak around her back to shield her from the wind and the sight of so much death; the motion clearing a patch of thick mud from her right shoulder.
My arm stills. Stride stills.
The blood in my fuckingveinsstills.
Strange markings tarnish her exposed skin, like vines crept across it and left an inky stamp ...
Something inside me blackens and curls as words canter through my thoughts—words that were chipped into stone by a vile, grisly hand years ago.
Words that settle in my stomach like a rock.
Light will bloom from sky and soil,
Skin tarnished by the brand of death …
