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But they were alive.

“Ceryn!” Maeva flung herself into her sister’s arms, sobbing, voice rasping from overuse and sickness.

“Oh gods, you’re here—you're really here?—”

Saraid followed, her embrace tighter than Ceryn had ever known. The three of them collapsed together, tears spilling as desperate, tangled words tumbled between sobs.

“I thought you were dead?—”

“They said you’d failed?—”

“He told us we’d be next?—”

They clung together, grief and relief knotting in their throats, the taste of survival still too bitter to feel like victory.

Rorik stood watch near the door, silent and still.

After a long moment, he cleared his throat. “I am ordered to bring you all to the front lines.”

Ceryn pulled away from her mother, studying Rorik through the haze of tears. But her eyes were sharp now. Knowing.

“He’ll kill us there,” she said quietly. “In front of Vael’Zhur. He wants the beast to see it. To finish breaking him.”

Maeva whimpered, and Saraid gathered her close, whispering useless comforts.

Rorik’s jaw tightened. “No. Not kill you. He wants the beast to do it. Blood spilled in grief… it will complete the descent into madness.”

“You’ve seen what he becomes,” Ceryn said. “Aldaric wants to unleash that—to destroy him, or worse, become him.”

A flicker of pain crossed Rorik’s face. He looked toward Saraid—just for a moment—and Ceryn saw something raw in his eyes.

“How does he even know Vael’Zhur?” she pressed.

“He doesn’t,” Rorik said. “Not truly. He’s pieced together half-truths. His mother was a witch of the old blood—her line traces back to Sylaine, the one who cursed the beast. She filled his head with dreams of legacy, of power. He’s been searching for decades.”

Ceryn’s voice turned sharp. “He thinks the orchard is a gift. It’s a curse, Rorik. He’ll feed it to his men—to you—and it will twist you all into monsters.”

Rorik’s expression hardened. “I don’t have the luxury of choice. My life is bound to his will, whether I like it or not.”

He stepped back, expression grim. “Say your goodbyes. Time is short.”

He moved to the soldiers, murmuring low orders to give them a moment of privacy, though the illusion was thin and fraying.

Ceryn’s mind spun. The dagger was still tucked against her side, pressed close beneath her waistband. She could feel the handle through the fabric, the familiar ridges of Auren’s name etched into one side.

But the other side…

“Ouch, Ceryn!” Maeva yelped as she leaned in again. “What do you have in your trousers? Is it sharp?”

Ceryn’s heart slammed against her ribs. Her hand flew to the weapon. No one had searched her. She still had it. She turned the hilt in her palm.

The name. Not Auren. The other.

“Who is Aladar?” she whispered aloud.

The name wasn’t meant for anyone’s ears. But Rorik froze. Slowly, he turned. The blood drained from his face.

“Where did you hear that name?”