She cannot fail. Not again.Neveragain.
“So the memories aren’t just being suppressed,” Teddy says slowly.
“No,” Rubi whispers. “They’re being occupied at the source.”
But Teddy steps forward with that look he gets when he’s strategizing.
“Who is supplying the resin?” he demands, his eyes narrowing.
Rubi swallows thickly. Resignation etched across her face.
“It can only come from one place,” she whispers. A heartbeat passes. Two. “Caeloria.”
The words land like a sentence passed. A verdict.
Teddy’s eyes fall closed, his shoulders dropping.
“So Thalmyr buys the resin from them, and pays them to protect the Memory Orbs as well,” he says, voice gravelly and raw. It’s not a question.
“Yes,” Rubi admits anyway, and it tastes like ash on her tongue.
“Explains their wealth,” Teddy mutters to no one in particular.
“Kael and El,” he says, interrupting himself. “Fuck. They need to know. They need to know why Maireth and Thalmyr are allied—what they’re walking into. I’ll tell them through the amulet.”
He strides toward the door, like a man on a mission to save the realms. To save his king. His best friend. He reaches for the door knob, and draws the door back. Before he steps out of the apothecary, he turns back to his sister.
“Rubi,” he says, and her eyes lock on his. “You’ll find a way,” he says. “Not because you have to prove anything. Because this is what you do, Rubes. You take what was made to destroy people, and you make it answer to you.”
He stills in the doorway.
“You’ve been trying to disappear for years, Rubes. Maybe this is finally something worth staying for.”
And he slips into the hallway before waiting for a response.
He’s right.
Resolve settles over Rubi as she pulls her shoulders back, sets her jaw.
She needs to find Elandor. She needs to know exactly what the resin is. Exactly what she’s working with. And exactly who fucking knows.
Because if she can’t… there’ll be nothing left to save.
CHAPTER THIRTY
The hunter studies every track
Beware the prey that watches back
Rhaema tugsat the fabric draped across Elyssara’s shoulder in a sharp line, pinning it with the precision of hands that have worried at seams for a lifetime.
The gown is rust silk, molten as copper, crossing her chest before sweeping over her left shoulder. Her Lightborne mark spills out the side of the fabric—a gleaming reminder of exactly who she is. The structured waist and asymmetrical neckline give her the appearance of strength, fortitude. Of someone intentional—someone who knows exactly what wearing rust among Caelorian royalty means.
But it’s the flowing back train with a long, thigh-high split that transforms her defiance into more than just a statement—this turns her into a weapon. A moving flame when she walks.The Lightborne.
“Hold this in place,” Rhaema directs, passing a bejeweled mask. Elyssara takes it in. It looks to be made of black volcanicglass, the edges sweeping out like the wings of a great bird. Swirls of molten copper filigree wind and weave in intricate patterns at the edges.
Elyssara lifts the delicate mask, holding it over her face.
