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The guard merely nodded and stepped aside from the arched entrance. Elarian flinched unconsciously as she walked beneath the thorny hawthorn arms, her neck prickling as if kissed by a ghost. The starlit blossoms hanging low from Estarin’s weathered limbs burned bright in her eyes until she blinked furiously, straining to keep them open. Had Estarin’s light always been so bright, or was Elarian already slipping from her true mother’s arms?

It does not matter.

Nothing in her life mattered—her secret hopes and moonlit dreams, her preference for shades of pale blues and purples over the black clothing the Blades wore, even the fact that she loathed the name Reshva gave her.

It cannot matter.

Only one thing in Elarian’s life had ever mattered: her silver in Lucan’s heart, his face forever still, eyes milky with death. She would never truly live until the white-haired shivaem and his befouled master lay dead, and this star-blessed place would never be safe if she failed.

Not that she would.

As if reaffirming her thoughts, the wind stirred through Estarin’s leaves, raising a symphony of fluttering moth wings. For a breath, she heard a woman’s faint whisper in the wind. They will always guide you true. Elarian blinked. The constant throb in the back of her head—the one where Lucan lived like a parasite—dulled. Estarin shone so brightly that tears gathered in the Ashen Blade’s eyes. Like a fish baited and hooked, Elarian stepped into the Grove of a Thousand Fallen Stars.

The hard, dirt path underfoot turned into lush moss and scattered moonflowers, their pale faces turned east to greet the rising moon. The soft squelches underfoot were masked by the cacophony of moths fluttering around their mother tree. The silver resting atop Elarian’s clothes glowed, a soft, gentle thrum accompanying the blades dancing with starlight.

Home.

Here, beneath Estarin’s limbs heavy with Fallen Stars yet to be reborn, Elarian had cobbled together a home that was more than swirling mists and the den of fey wolves. She returned to the only mother who would never abandon her, guided by instinct and Melistra’s Will.

That childhood was all but a forgotten memory now.

Elarian breathed in deeply, savoring the sweet fragrance of the flowers at her feet. Before she could blink, it turned foul—iron and salt laced with cloying vanilla.

“Lucan.”

Her whisper rose unbidden, a crashing wave she could not escape even if she tried. Infected with his rot, his shadows at her throat, his eyes burning bright even as she slept…the vampire always dominated Elarian’s mind. Oh, she could fool herself with pretty words like duty, divine sacrifice, and even Melistra’s Chosen, but she knew—knew that even if her blade buried itself in Lucan’s undead heart, she would never escape him.

Gritting her teeth, Elarian raised her chin and kept walking toward Estarin. Lucan might’ve been the cause for all of this, but she was determined to enjoy her return to Estarin’s arms.

At last, she came to the base of the thick, white trunk gnarled with knots and ancient cuts. The six supplicants stopped several paces behind her, then, one by one, lowered the censers to the ground. Then, each attended to Elarian and took an item from her arms. First, the daggers; she shivered, naked without them by her side. Then, her long leather gloves, embroidered with blue moonflowers and Estarin’s winding limbs. Arrayed around her like rays of moonlight, Elarian at last stood with empty arms and an even emptier heart.

Already, the little girl who once wandered the Evermist with only fey wolves by her side, their warm bodies protecting her from the chilled winds, began to consume Elarian’s mind. Her vision turned to ash. Dimly aware of the supplicants undressing her, she raised her arms. Hands slid over her skin, gooseflesh following their trailing touch at her breasts, her hips, her thighs.

She drifted deeper into the Evermist—into that place where monsters softened, where every memory worth saving from her long, blood-drenched life had lived.

By the time the supplicants had finished undressing Elarian and anointing her with the sacred oils, her knees shook. She collapsed to her knees as the nameless servants of Melistra withdrew in silence. Her fingers idly wandered over the silver roots underneath her naked form, grooves worn smooth by countless centuries of moon elves seeking Melistra’s benediction. Some were marks left by hands long-since returned to the stars. Here and there, silvered sap glimmered within the deepest furrows like moonlight shimmering through glass.

Elarian sighed, vision blurred with hot tears.

“I’ve come home, Mother,” she whispered.

The words felt foreign upon her tongue. Home. Had this place ever truly been her home, or merely the place where she lost herself?

She no longer knew.

Wind softly blew through Estarin’s curved leaves, silver shimmering as they danced in the gloaming night. Thousands of moon moths burst upward in a glittering cloud, the sound of their wings like a roaring beast. The Grove sighed around her.

Estarin’s Lover had arrived, as he always did each dusky eve.

Breathing in deeply, Elarian closed her eyes and savored the cool breeze over her skin. For the first time since leaving Reshva’s chambers, the pounding behind her eyes eased. She crawled forward on her hands and knees until Estarin’s ever-warm bark greeted her fingertips.

“Purge me of his rot, I beg of you.”

The words slipped from her mouth before she could think, so quiet Elarian barely heard herself say them. The tears pushing against her eyelids ached to break through. Heat gathered at the back of her neck, her belly full of liquid fire.

“He is just another kill. Nothing more.” Nothing more.

She’d been saying that for nearly a century.