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The girl’s cheeks pinkened. “Ah, of—of course. What shall I call you, then?”

Elyria swallowed. “My friends call me Elle.”

The next few days bled into one another, time remaining measurable only by the regularity with which Petra kept returning to visit. The girl seemed to have taken their conversation to heart. She was quick to stop trembling when she knocked, to stop hovering in the doorway like a wraith. And she seemed, well, happy to see Elyria.

Elyria herself couldn’t really complain, either. Trust was still out of the question, of course, but she would take Petra’s sunny disposition over the handful of sour-faced cultists who had come before. And Elyria certainly was not going to object to the sudden improvements to her meals.

At breakfast, there was a freshly baked cindercake sitting next to the typical bowl of gruel she’d come to expect each day. At lunch, a jar of tart pickled pears. At dinner, a small vial of what smelled like mulled wine—though, despite Elyria’s desperate desire for even the smallest bit of alcohol, she couldn’t quite justify consuming the drink. It was far too easy to smuggle all sorts of potions under the guise of cinnamon-spiced wine, and she might have been worn down and exhausted and, fine, occasionally suicidal, but Elyria Lightbreaker wasn’t stupid. So, with great difficulty, she’d left it on the tray and sullenly sipped her water instead.

Petra, of course, was part of the package when it came to these new dining improvements, and Elyria was somewhat surprised to realize she didn’t mind it. She told herself she tolerated the girl’s presence because she was bored and Petra was useful. That part was true. It turned out that once her initial apprehension had been broached, Petra was quite the chatterbox—full of all kinds of handy tidbits. Elyria had learned more about the layout of her prison and those who worked within its walls in the past two days than she had in the many weeks that preceded them.

She’d learned a lot of other things too. Not enough to have the complete picture of Malakar’s plans, but enough to realize that mana was at the center of it—harvesting it, manipulating it? It wasn’t clear.

What was clear was that the dark sorcerer had recently hit some sort of logistical hiccup, which was the reason for his absence—and Elyria’s current reprieve. And she had Petra to thank for learning all of that.

So, yes, the girl was useful. But also . . .

Elyria would be lying if she said there wasn’t a quality about Petra that nudged at something deeper too. Her ridiculous earnestness; the way she twisted her hair between her fingers when she was nervous; the fact that she was always apologizing—for herself, for Elyria’s circumstances, for every stars-damned crime the blood king had ever committed.

Elyria despised the fact that someone who seemed so inherently good was here at all. Hated how easily she could imagine Malakar snuffing out her light, wondered how long it would be before he’d force her to do more than simply bear witness to those “small pains,” as she put it.

Wondered if it was already happening.

Because when Petra left on the evening of the fourth night after Elyria’s last experimentation session with Malakar, she did so reluctantly. She paused in the doorway, Elyria’s dinner tray balanced on one hand, and looked back. “Good night, Elle,” she said softly.

Elyria waved her off, though her own voice held more fondness than she’d actually intended. “Good night, Petra.”

“Thank you for . . .” Petra paused, shifting her weight, like she was dithering over how to continue. But ultimately, all she ended up saying was a repeated “Good night.” And she closed the door behind her.

It took Elyria several long seconds to catalog the silence that followed the closing of that door.

Another moment to recognize the conspicuous absence of a key turning in a lock.

And another minute still, filled with heavy, uneven breaths, before Elyria dared to cross her bedroom and test the handle.

It turned.

And the door opened.

6

THE SACRED MOUNTAIN

TENEBRIS NOX

The great mountain was just as Tenebris Nox remembered it—majestic, towering, imperious. They don’t know why they had expected otherwise. It wasn’t as though it had been that long since they were here last. Even across centuries, mountains do not change. There was the same snow-capped tip, barely visible through the misty cloud layer. There was the same wide, curving path that wound up from its base. And there would be the same guardian waiting to greet them once they got to their destination.

Nox thought it best not to mention that part to the knightling and the dwarf just yet. It didn’t seem . . . helpful.

They also didn’t think it worth mentioning that something felt just the slightest bit off about returning to this place now. It was something that had the base of Nox’s horns tingling. They didn’t have much time to contemplate why that was, however, when any thoughts they might have formed were rudely interrupted by a long, shuddering groan that rumbled the ground beneath the trio’s feet.

“For the love of Mother Gaia, please tell me that’s just the weather,” Thraigg said from atop his horse, who whinnied as if the beautiful creature were laughing at a hilarious joke. “Oh, calm yerself, ye great donkey.”

“It is not weather,” said Nox, and the sable-coated gelding they were perched upon pawed at the ground as if in confirmation. “Easy, Vespyr.”

“You’re sure this path is safe to traverse?” asked Cedric, pulling his own steed forward. Polonius nickered nervously.

Nox simply nudged Vespyr forward in answer, moving onto the path ahead. They would all see soon enough.