He snarls, a vicious growl ripping from his throat.
This is not him.
Not therealhim.
NotherRonyn.
Seren runs, knees almost buckling with exhaustion after her battle with the seas, but she forces power into her legs. Forces herself to stay upright. Her muscles scream. Her ribs throb, the pulse of her heartbeat hammering through her broken bones. She throws herself between her friends and the witch coven, their hands poised to lash magic, the pulse of it singing at their fingertips.
And that’s when she knows—this is not a question from The Widow’s Waters.
It’s judgment.
But today, Seren will not be judged. Not for her obedience. Not for her submission. No—today is about something else entirely.
And the witches are about tolearn.
“Teddy, lower your sword,” she demands, forcing her voice to steady, shoving down her pain.
But he crouches lower, like a coiled spring. A duskprowler ready to pounce.
Seren unsheathes the small blade at her thigh, holding it in front of her like it can stop rivers of blood that two factions are determined to spill.
“El, please. Not them,” Seren pleads, blade held in shaky hands, and something about the desperation in her voice—the way she bends, the way she yields without choosing, the way she begs—feelswrong.
Feels like skin she has shed.
Feels like a past version of herself she no longer recognizes.
Feels like bidding for love she shouldn’t have to fight for.
“They hunted the Dravari dragons,” Elyssara growls, jaw set, eyes fixed on the witches.
Yes.
Lara’s voice drips sweetly from her lips. “Our actions are not the same as our allegiance, girl.”
What?
Seren’s mind reels, searching for meaning. Regardless, actions have consequences, and belonging is earned. But obedience is cheap.It costs nothing but dignity.Loyalty? That should always cost something—but never the self. And she will not trade her spine for belonging.
The question rings in Seren’s mind.
What will you sacrifice to stand among us?
She knows what Lara wants.
She knows what The Widow’s figures want.
They want her tochoose.
But Seren is sick of choosing between scraps thrown to her by others.
She’s ready to ask questions of her own.
She pulls at the magic thrashing in the seas, the beam of the moon, the Stars themselves, and she commands it to her hands.
“Move, Seren,” Revryn growls as he takes a half-step forward, blade in one hand, hammer in the other.
