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Valen cursed. His own desperation was bleeding through. Tor was his Shade, his brother, his family.

Sol pled—gods, he was damn near exhausting his voice with his pleas—for Tor to open his eyes, to wake up.

A strong hand took hold of my palm. Silas, face dirt-soaked and bloody, pulled me into his chest.

In his arms, I broke. “We sang the damn song.” I pounded his chest, shoulders shuddering. “His song was there. He was . . . he was supposed to be safe. You saw it. Seidr wrapped around us, and protected us, and . . .”

“I don’t know, Little Rose,” Silas whispered into my hair. “I don’t understand it. I felt the same.”

Gods, I hated the Norns. I hated them. I wanted them to burn in all three hells. How could they—how could they rip my Sun Prince’s heart again? How could they rob a boy of a father who’d suffered so much to find his love? A father who’d never hesitated to take in an infant fae who’d have been left to the wilds of a battle torn world?

I hated them.

The burn of my blood, of my cursed magic, felt as though it might split through my skin and devour the world in one breath.

I’d welcome it if it took away this pain.

“Tor?” Sol’s voice was clear. He paused. Slowly, I turned to look. All gods. Sol pressed a hand over Tor’s chest. He looked to his face again, fear written in every despondent crease. “Tor. No, keep breathing, gods, keep breathing.”

“Son,” Arvad said, gently trying to take Sol away.

The Sun Prince swatted at his own father and held Tor’s face, pressing desperate kisses to his cheek. “Please, keep breathing. He’s breathing, right?” Sol lifted his wet eyes to his brother.

Valen sat back on his heels, sweaty and broken. “Pulse is there, but—”

“Then he’s alive,” Sol shouted. “Don’t stop. Why are you stopping? Where is Niklas?”

“Sol,” Niklas’s voice came from the edge of the clearing, he was mixing pungent herbs vigorously. “I . . . I can bring comfort. I can’t bring back the beat of a heart.”

The Sun Prince was slipping into desperation and held his trembling hands over Tor’s chest. Elise kept a steady hand on the wounds, as did Malin. Valen joined, though he wore a despondent expression.

I hated myself, but turned away, unable to watch the final moments.

Stieg, Frey, and his brother Axel were some of the warriors standing guard. All the men kept their heads down. Stieg faced the trees. One of Valen’s Shade himself, Torsten Bror was a brother much like he was to many of us.

This shouldn’t be happening.

I hugged my middle and fell to my knees. Why them? Why did it have to bethem?

“He mean something to you, Warrior?”

Stieg let out a shaky gasp, sword raised, but his stun was pointed at the trees overhead.

Silas stepped in front of me protectively and watched as branches rustled. I rose back to my feet, looking over Silas’s shoulder as someone climbed over the thick oak branches.

All hells.

The boy king and his crimson eyes peered out of the leaves.

I drew a knife. The wards must’ve slipped. I would not let these sea fae bastards take this moment from Lump. He deserved peace as he bid farewell. He deserved so much more than this.

“Leave, Erik,” Stieg said. “We looked out for each other once, remember? I’m asking you as that fellow prisoner to leave this be.”

The sea king tilted his head and flicked his gaze to the scene in the center of the clearing. “His heart still beating?”

Stieg hesitated. “I don’t know.”

Erik Bloodsinger was a tall boy, slender and lithe, but still a boy. I doubted he could grow a whisker on his chin yet. But there was a captivating, sinister aura about the sea king—one that was breaking into something like reluctant compassion.