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Andry exhaled slowly, loosing a long breath. A small part of him had expected Corayne on the other side, whole and real, a blaze of warmth against cold stone. There were only the Elder gate wardens, waiting to escort the company.

Andry flushed down to his toes, a sick warmth replacing the numbness in his fingers. He wanted to sprint all the way up the ridge to the castle at its peak. Instead, he matched the long strides of Elders, falling in among them. His teeth ground together, every step forward painstakingly slow.

Iona was as Andry remembered, his hazy memories solidifying around him. The stag loomed everywhere, the towers crowned in antlers as the guards’ cloaks were embroidered with them.

His stomach twisted. The guards around him all looked like Domacridhan, looming at the corners of his vision. Broad shouldered, golden haired, with the same cloak and the same proud manner. Andry was nearly sick with it.

When they reached the flat landing at the top of the ridge, the castle doors were open, a contingent of Elders gathering in the rain. Gray fog shifted over the stone and it felt like climbing up into a cloud.

Raindrops clung to the wolf around Andry’s shoulders, his face slick and cold. Ahead of him, Dyrian’s bear gave a great shake, sending up a spray of freezing water.

Elder though he was, Dyrian was still a child. He laughed, patting the bear on the nose.

Andry could not help but crook a smile.

Then a flurry of motion caught his eye, and his legs truly gave out, a knee hitting the slick pavement with a bruising jolt. His heartbeat rammed in his ears, the breath stolen from his chest.

One of the Elders waiting in front of the castle—was not an Elder at all.

She lunged forward, forcing herself to the front of the line, her black eyes ringed with ferocious white. She was not so tall as the immortals, her face tinged bronze, still clinging to the Siscarian sun through the depths of winter. A black braid flew out behind her, the loose strands wet and sticking to her skin.

Andry fought to breathe, fought to think. It felt like his body might fall apart. All he could do was stare, eyes fixed, seeing nothing but her. He didn’t even feel the rain anymore.

Corayne skidded over the wet tiled stones, fighting to stay upright. She all but toppled into him, bending to seize him around the shoulders as his shaking arms reached out to her in turn.

They ended up kneeling together, her dress soaking through, his leathers and furs drenched. Corayne’s head fit over Andry’s shoulder, the high point of her cheek against the corner of his jaw. Her body trembled in his grasp, her lips still moving, her voice the last part of her to return to him.

He trembled too. All the pain welled up in him again, every black night of lost hope, every empty dawn.

“Corayne,” Andry whispered, tasting raindrops.

She drew a shuddering breath and Andry felt the hitch in her chest as if it were his own. Her arms tightened, pressing them closer together. They held each other through the freezing rain and shifting fog, the gray like a wall around them.

For a moment, the world disappeared, swallowed up by the mist. There was only Corayne, alive and bright.

“Andry,” she answered, her voice quivering like her body. Slowly, she pulled back, enough to see his face.

Her wide smile flared in Andry’s chest, warm enough to weather any storm. He could only stare at her, eyes roving over features more familiar than his own. The light freckles beneath one eye, her strong, black brow. A long nose. Calculations always spinning behind her gaze, the wheels of her mind forever turning.

They whirled now, faster than Andry had ever seen before. A low current of dread wove through his happiness, like something sour added to sweet.

Whatever it was, Andry knew better than to ask before an audience.

“With me,” Corayne said, pulling them both to their feet. Her fingers gripped the edges of his cloak, using it to leverage him up.

Andry matched her grin as best he could. He shivered as her hands lingered. Her palm brushed the edge of the wolf pelt.

The same palm he kissed in a burning city, before sending her on to live, while he turned away to die.

“With me,” he echoed.

Nothing seemed real, as much as Andry’s surroundings tried to remind him.

Rainwater pooled beneath his cloak, spreading steadily over the fine marble floor. Corayne’s dress did the same, leaving a dripping trail behind her. She wore gray and green like the immortals of Iona, her sleeves split to show velvet beneath. It was the finest thing Andry had ever seen her wear.

He preferred her cloak and old boots.

“I don’t think they’ll miss us,” Corayne said, fighting a manic smile. She pulled him gently away from the throne room, leaving the great Elders to speak alone.