But I’m not just a bounty hunter anymore. I’m not sure what I am.
“You’re really bad at pillow talk,” I manage.
“I warned you.”
I kiss him. Hard. Pouring everything I can’t say into the press of my lips against his—the fear, the hope, the wild impossible thing growing in my chest that feels too much like the word I swore I’d never use again.
When I pull back, we’re both breathing hard.
“When this is over,” I say. “When the Consortium is dead and the King is contained and we’re standing in the wreckage of everything they threw at us.” I cup his face in my hands, make sure he’s looking at me. “I want time. Real time. Without hungry gods and bounty hunters and weapons that make Briargrave cower.”
“What would you do with that time?”
“Find out if you’re as bad at pillow talk as you seem. See if that smile looks the same in sunlight. Discover what you’re like when you’re not constantly fighting to survive.” I brush my thumb across his cheek. “Learn everything about you that the forest hasn’t touched.”
His expression shifts—vulnerability, wonder, a hunger that has nothing to do with the Thorn King.
“That sounds like something to survive for.”
“Then let’s go fight.”
We dress in silence—or I dress, and he adjusts the armor that never fully came off. The cramped hollow doesn’t allow for much privacy.
“You’re staring.”
“I’m appreciating.”
“Is there a difference?”
“Ask me later. After we survive.”
We climb out of the hollow and into a world that’s changed.
The gray dawn light reveals a forest in turmoil. Trees that stood straight yesterday now bend toward the east, their branches reaching as if trying to flee. The constant creaking of living wood that’s become familiar has turned into an almost-moan, a sound of distress that vibrates through the earth beneath my boots.
And on the horizon, black smoke rises against the gray sky.
“They’re burning a path,” Tharos says. His voice has gone flat. Cold. The warden speaking now, not the man who held me in the dark. “Cutting through everything between them and the Heartgrove.”
“Efficient.”
“Stupid. The forest will remember every tree they kill. Even if they win, even if they take what they’re after—Briargrave will hunt them forever.”
“Assuming there’s a Briargrave left to do the hunting.”
He doesn’t answer. Doesn’t have to.
We move toward the smoke, and the thornpaths open reluctantly—not with the easy obedience I saw before, but with hesitation. Resistance. The vines part just enough to let us through, then close behind us with what sounds almost like a whimper.
Tharos’s jaw is tight, his eyes fixed on the smoke ahead. “Whatever they’ve brought—it’s not natural. The Consortium hasn’t just assembled an army. They’ve found a weapon.”
“What kind of weapon?”
“I don’t know.” Something moves through him—a shudder that has nothing to do with the cold, nothing to do with the wound in his shoulder. His hand rises unconsciously to his chest, pressing flat over the binding scars. “The King has gone quiet. Not the silence of restraint. Something else.”
I have never heard him describe the King as quiet before.
We crest a ridge, and I see them.
