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He doesn’t finish, but the words left unsaid echo between us.

Raven takes a shallow breath, his shoulders sagging under the weight of his invisible burden. “I love her.”

The truth of those words is etched across his features, the regret bleeding through the cracks of the mask he’s always worn. And I almost soften. I almost pity the boy who was trapped into something he couldn’t understand. Who was tricked into a bargain that could never end.

Almost, but not quite.

Because I know that if it were me—if I had to choose between my life and hers—I would choose her.

“You didn’t love her enough.”

His face shifts so subtly that most wouldn’t notice. He swallows roughly, and the barest flicker of emotion darkens his eyes before he brushes it away like dust on his sleeve.

“Come on,” he says as he digs into the pocket of his pants, pulling out a set of keys. “We’ve arrived.”

The key scrapes against the lock at my wrist, the mechanism clicking open with an almost anticlimactic softness. Before I can move or rub the raw skin beneath the iron’s bite, he’s already looping the shortened chain through my cuffs.

I stifle a groan at the added weight as it clinks into place. This chain—this one ensures my leash will be shorter. Tighter.

Raven doesn’t give me time to adjust to the new restraints before he tugs me to my feet and urges me forward. The hull, damp and oppressive with the stench of salt and rust, gives way to the open air as we ascend.

I expect the Isle of the Winds to live up to its name—screaming gales, gusts sharp enough to cut my lungs—but as the ship docks under the cover of night, the island is eerily still.

Moonlight bathes the temple in bruised blues and grays and, beyond it, the arena looms, hulking on the temple’s back like a beast hungry for judgment and blood. The air is heavy with a sense of foreboding that digs under my skin, and the theïkós that has found its new home there writhes with displeasure.

Despite the tepid weather, a shiver rolls through me.

Raven’s hand stays locked around my chains, his grip as unyielding as the silence wedged between us. He doesn’t look at me, doesn’t risk the ghost of a word. After what passed between us belowdecks, maybe there’s nothing left to say.

Or it’s because the Eagle now watches over us, his fathomless black eyes boring into me.

As we disembark, figures draped in flowing white robes wait for us, their faces illuminated by the torches they carry.

The Acolytes of the Anemoi.

Their piercing eyes scan our group, moving slowly from one person to the next but lingering when they reach me. Finally, the figure at the front clears their throat and speaks, their voice flat and devoid of emotion, yet carrying an undeniable air of authority.

“Welcome to the Isle of the Winds. The judgment of our gods awaits.”

Chapter 46

Aella

Kosmos, for all its ancient grandeur, is more relaxed than I’d anticipated. The crown jewel of the North is not a city that boasts its power aloud, but one that wears it like a worn cloak, subtle yet undeniable. The circle of guards stands silently along the walls, giving the impression that they’re granting privacy while still holding as much presence as the stone archway at the chamber’s heart.

I wrap my arms tightly around myself, wincing as the motion pulls at my still-tender ribs. A week has passed since Aethernight, a week since I left Aerilos and the rest of the kin behind. Since I left him.

As it turns out, Raven was right about one thing. It’s better to disappear cleanly, without the permanence of a goodbye, the finality.

I have resigned myself to the hardening of my heart, the steady calcification from viscera to stone. Slowly, each beat dulls, each breath weighs heavier, and I am becoming something unfeeling. Unbreakable.

But I need to be for what comes next.

Silas adjusts his himation, the icy-blue fabric secured over his shoulders with a silver brooch engraved with the North Star nestled between two mountain peaks: the royal crest of Arkhadia. It’s a strange replacement for his wings, even stranger still to see him so regal. He leans toward the gate like he’s impatient to throw himself into its waiting expanse.

“We’ve wasted enough time,” Cynna says, leaning against the corner of the room. Her wings are hidden too, her tone sharp, but I can tell it’s more from nerves or frustration. “The longer we delay, the less maneuverability we’re going to have when we arrive.”

“My people are already at the arena,” Xerxes says smoothly as he strides into the chamber. “The agreements I’ve made with the stewards of the Games remain secure. But yes, we should move. Timing is everything in these matters.”