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Grimly, Valnir returned the Spindleblade to its sheath, and placed it gingerly down on the bench. He treated it with gentle reverence, as a parent would a child.

“A little,” he murmured. “Once.”

Again, she took in the way he handled the sword, his eyes filled with sudden softness. As if looking upon a friend. Or a child.

“You made them,” Corayne blurted out.

His smile was the thin curve of a crescent moon. It did not reach his eyes.

“You made my father’s sword. You made Taristan’s.” Corayne’s voice shook. “You made the Spindleblades.”

“Among many others. Only two survived to enter this realm.” Valnirshook his head. “I have not looked at a forge since.”

She eyed his neck again, the scar gleaming at his throat. “They put you in a noose for it.”

Valnir shrugged. “The noose was only a threat.”

Some threat, Corayne thought, swallowing hard.

“Death or exile. It is clear what we chose, my sister and I,” he continued, putting a finger to the steel’s edge. A single drop of blood welled up. “We entered the Ward as outcasts, with only a like-minded few. We were not welcome in Iona, so we built Sirandel. And after the Spindles shifted—”

He drew back his hand, a flash of pain crossing his beautiful face.

“Glorian Lost made exiles of us all.”

Corayne felt the same pain lingering in her own heart, at the edge of everything always. She knew, in some small way, what it was to be lost, without hope of returning home.

Then Valnir gave an exasperated sigh, looking to the trees. He clucked his tongue.

“Come, there is commotion in the great hall,” he said, still staring away into the maze of the hewn forest. At what, Corayne did not know, her mortal eyes and ears pitifully useless.

“Fine,” she said, throwing the Spindleblade over her shoulder.

It lay heavy against her back, a constant anchor as she followed Valnir dutifully through the enclave. Her boots crunched over stonework and dead leaves, but he made no noise at all.

All the while, her thoughts swirled, a storm in her head.Valnir marches now not because it was the right thing to do, but for revenge, she knew.And perhaps some redemption too.

Valnir’s great hall stuck out so vividly now, Corayne hardly believed she had ever missed it in the first place. She passed between two arching trees, their petals worked in golden glass, to find the chamber roving with Elder warriors. They gathered in small groups, speaking in their own language, their whispers both melodic and otherworldly. Corayne marveled at their weaponry, knives, bows, and spears, all gleaming and ready for war.

The crowd cleared the way for them, opening a path to the throne. Valnir made for it while Corayne hung back, hoping to be lost in the crowd. Until something strange caught her eye and her racing heart stopped short. Her chest tightened and the air felt crushed from her lungs.

Two figures waited before the throne, one of them kneeling, his form familiar.

Corayne tried to say his name. It came out in an embarrassing squeak.

He still heard her.

On the ground, Charlon Armont whirled as quickly as he could. He moved gingerly and Corayne feared the worst. Then she realized there was an even more horrible possibility.

“Are you real?” she forced out, her voice shaking. “Am I dreaming?”

She half expected to jolt awake in her bed, tangled up in soft linen sheets. Her eyes stung, already fearing the prospect.

But Charlie let out a low, raspy laugh.

“AmIreal?” he croaked.

Then he gestured to the great hall of stone trees, the Elder warriors, and Valnir standing over him. Charlie stood out horribly in comparison, a young mortal, travel-worn and pale, his brown hair a tangle, his robes dirtier than his boots.