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My palms are slick with sweat, even though I’m ice-cold. I haven’t resurrected anyone in centuries, but the ritual is etched into my muscles, as familiar as breathing. First, I require blood or bone of the one I wish to resurrect. Riven’s wound has left me with plenty of the former.

And then there must be a sacrifice, as each resurrection demands a life for a life.

When my coven enslaved me, they would bring me corpse after corpse to use to resurrect the First Hunter after they bled her dry. Over and over until I released the First Hunter from her torment and vowed never to kill again.

But here I am, a liar, a vow-breaker, because I chose Riven over my own peace.

The same way he broke his vow to his mother and chose me.

I use Riven’s blood to draw the circle, enclosing me with his body and Devlin’s.

No one dares enter. No one speaks.

They watch in earnest, tears falling silently. Rory and Lettie kneel beside Achlys, arms around his neck.

Everything must be perfect.

With desperation lighting up my heart, I close my eyes and chant, “A fragile line I dare tread to raise Riven Thaelon from the dead. Blood for blood, a price repaid. Let Riven Thaelon rise, soul reclaimed.”

I wait for the color to drain away from the lands, for the breath in my lungs to sharpen, cold and unnatural.

Only… it doesn’t.

My brow furrows. I try the chant again and again, but nothing.

Fifteen minutes drag by before Avaline finally calls out, “Winny, what’s wrong?”

She’s sandwiched between Quill and Carver, worry written all over her face.

I don’t answer her because I don’t know what’s wrong.

Only that it’s not working.

Tears falling, I turn away from her and burrow deep into the well of my magic.

It’s vast. Overwhelming.

Bottomless.

And my resurrection magic…

It’s nowhere to be found.

But that can’t be right.

I try again.

“A fragile line I dare tread to raise Riven Thaelon from the dead. Blood for blood, a price repaid. Let Riven Thaelon rise, soul reclaimed.”

Again. And again.

The world around me remains in screaming color.

Footsteps approach from behind, satin slippers hitting my line of sight.

Ava.

“You’re not alone.” She wraps her hand around my bloodied one. “Tell me what you need.”