By the setting of the sun, we were inside Sol.
Radaanian soldiers, loyal to our cause, poured through the estate in a steady, controlled stream, boots striking stone in a relentless cadence. Kallias led at the head, passing through long before we arrived.
The manor had once been a sanctuary. Quiet corridors. Polished floors that reflected lamplight in soft gold pools. Now it breathed like a wounded beast. Armor clanged against doorframes. Steel scraped marble. Shouts collided with the vaulted ceilings and came back warped. Mud and gore streaked once-pristine rugs. Tables had been shoved against walls, chairs overturned, porcelain shattered under careless heels.
Ronan stayed close, a steady heat at my side as darkness bled across Sol—a blanket of death. Night fell cold and heavy, smothering the last streaks of orange beyond the glass.
I found the bodies in the kitchen first. Mutilated, drained.
Rot hung in the air, thick enough to taste. Flies droned in lazy spirals above the prep tables.
Will’s heavy form slumped over the long wooden table, cheek pressed to scarred oak. The joint where his neck met his shoulder had been torn open. Tendon and bone gleamed in the dim light. His broad palms still rested flat against the surface as if he might push himself upright.
Poppy’s face had fallen slack, eyes fixed on the ceiling beams. Those small hands that once laced my dresses dangled from her wrists by cords of tendon, swaying faintly in the draft like broken marionette strings.
Grief cinched tight around my throat.
And little Tipo, with his mop of red hair, sat tilted at an unnatural angle. Muscle and vein had been torn from his neck. He looked unstrung, limp, like a tapestry slashed from its frame, threads yanked free until the image collapsed into ruin.
My stomach lurched. Acid burned my throat. I reached the sink and retched, fingers digging into the stone basin. My body convulsed until nothing remained but bitter spit.
Ronan didn’t speak. His hand settled at the small of my back, solid, grounding. Silence hardened him. I felt it in the way he stood. The reek of death did not turn him away. It fused to him, layering into something harder, a shell of protection.
I wiped my mouth on my sleeve. Blood soaked the rags scattered across the counters. I would not touch them. When my breath finally steadied, I forced myself to look again. These were our people. They had risen before dawn to bake bread, to sweep floors, to keep this place running—only to have their routines and their lives torn apart. They suffered because of our actions, our choices. The least I could do was offer them their final respects.
A clean towel hung from a peg near the door. I took it and draped it over Poppy’s ruined face, smoothing the fabric over her brow. Ronan moved beside me without instruction, covering Will, then Tipo. We gave them that small mercy. Rest. Dignity.
Only then did I delve farther into the manor.
The halls stretched ahead in unfamiliar turns. I never knew it well. My time here had been brief, but I still remembered the route to my old chambers.
Crossing the main hall felt like wading through a river in flood. Chainmail brushed my arms. The scent of sweat and oil filled the air. Soldiers parted when they recognized us, the surge stalling for a heartbeat before closing again behind.
A Harvester in black linen stood farther down the corridor. His hood had been pushed back, revealing a severe face lined with age. He dipped his chin when our eyes met.
Hope bloomed beneath my ribs.
Please let them be alive.
Veridis, breathe life into them.
It seemed appropriate to pray to the goddess Gayle had urged me toward. I gathered my skirts in a fist and moved faster, heart lodged in my throat.
At the threshold, I forced my steps to slow.
Beds had been dragged into the chamber. Sheets hung uneven, corners tucked in haste. Three forms lay beneath white linen, turning the room into something closer to a medic tent than a bedchamber.
Anna. Gayle. Clay.
Their faces were pale against the pillows. Eyes closed. Lips parted in shallow breaths.
In the corner, Fyrn sat on the floor.
Hatred struck clean and razor-sharp. Her wrists were bound in front of her, rope biting into her skin. A gag had been knotted tight between her teeth. Dried blood crusted along her chin and streaked her dress. She was upright. Awake. Not granted the mercy of a bed.
Seliora stood over her, hand resting on the pommel of her dagger. Our gazes met. Understanding passed without words.
Fyrn didn’t deserve the first fruits of my attention.
