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The beast had made its intentions clear. Now it was time for us to make ours equally clear.

It would die screaming.

36

Archer

Irubbed my eyes for what felt like the hundredth time that night. The ancient text before me swam with words I'd read so many times they were beginning to lose meaning. My quarters were dimly lit with only a few candles casting long shadows across the walls. The scent of old parchment and leather bindings filled my nostrils as I hunched over the massive tome, my shoulders tight with tension.

"Fuck," I muttered, pushing my raven hair back from my face.

My daggers materialized in my hands without conscious thought—a nervous habit I'd developed over centuries. I twirled them deftly between my fingers as I stared down at the page, the metal catching the candlelight as they spun. The familiar weight was comforting as I tried to focus my fatigued mind.

Light-bearer, Light-bringer, Light-giver, Light-maker... the variations were endless. I'd compiled a list of over a hundred ancestral weapons with "light" in their names, scattered across different realms and timelines. How the hell was I supposed to know which one might be connected to Callum's Lightsbane?

I'd been translating passages for hours, cross-referencing symbols, checking for errors in the magical translations. TheAngelic tongue was notoriously difficult—full of subtleties and double meanings that could completely change a text's interpretation. Even for someone like me, with partial Angelic blood, it was a struggle.

That was something I tried not to think about too often—my origins. My mother, an angel tricked by my demon father, their forbidden coupling resulting in me. Traded away as part of their bargain, consigned to service to the throne and to Rowen. Few knew of my heritage, and I preferred to keep it that way. My healing powers—the ones that marked me as different—remained my most closely guarded secret, only used when absolutely necessary.

I sighed heavily and leaned back, the wooden chair creaking under my weight. My eyes burned from straining to read the intricate script for so long. Dawn would come soon, and I had nothing concrete to show for my night's work. Just theories and maybes and could-bes.

But Sierra had nearly died. The shadow beast was growing bolder, stronger. We didn't have the luxury of time for maybes and could-bes.

The door to my quarters opened with a soft click, and I looked up to see Sierra padding quietly into the room. She wore a silky nightgown that clung to her curves, her silver hair falling loose around her shoulders. In her hands, she carried a steaming cup. The scent of chamomile and honey wafted toward me.

"You're still at it," she said softly, concern etched across her delicate features. She set the tea down beside the book and stood behind me, her small hands coming to rest on my shoulders. Her fingers dug into the knotted muscles there, and I couldn't help but groan at the relief.

"I have to find something," I said, my voice rougher than I'd intended. "Anything that might help us understand the connection."

Sierra's thumbs pressed into a particularly tight spot at the base of my neck, and I felt my eyes close involuntarily. Her touch was gentle but firm, her fingers working magic on my tense muscles.

"You won't be much help to anyone if you work yourself to exhaustion," she chided softly. "The tea will help. And then you should come to bed."

The suggestion sent a jolt of heat through me despite my fatigue. Since Sierra had come into our lives, sleep had taken on new appeal—her body nestled between us, warm and soft and perfect. But that same body had nearly been broken on the rocks below our balcony just hours ago. The image was enough to snap my focus back to the task at hand.

"In a bit," I promised, reaching for the tea she'd brought. The warmth of the cup seeped into my palms as I took a tentative sip. The honey soothed my throat, and I suddenly realized how dry it had become during my hours of study.

Sierra moved around to face me, her piercings catching the candlelight as she studied my face. There was a softness in her eyes that made my chest tight. Without waiting for an invitation, she settled onto my lap, her weight a welcome pressure against my thighs. I instinctively wrapped an arm around her waist to steady her.

"Show me what you've found," she said, leaning forward to look at the book.

"Not much," I admitted, setting the tea aside. "There are references to light weapons throughout history, but nothing concrete tying Lightsbane to Lightbringer." I ran my hand through my hair in frustration. "I've been translating passages for hours, but the Angelic tongue is... difficult. Even with magical translation aids, nuances get lost."

Sierra hummed thoughtfully, pulling the book closer. Her eyes scanned the page, brow furrowed in concentration. Herfingers, delicate and pale, traced over a passage I'd been struggling with for the past hour.

Then, to my complete astonishment, she began to speak.

The words flowed from her lips with perfect pronunciation, her accent flawless in a way that should have been impossible for someone without years of study. The Angelic tongue was notoriously difficult to master—the sounds required vocal structures that most humans simply didn't possess.

Yet here was Sierra, reciting a complex passage as naturally as if she were speaking her native language.

My daggers stilled in my hands as I stared at her in absolute wonder. "How did you do that?"

Sierra blinked, looking genuinely confused. "Do what?"

"That language—the Angelic tongue. You spoke it perfectly. The accent, the inflections... everything." I studied her face closely. "That's no small feat, Sierra. Most beings can't even approximate those sounds correctly."

She looked down at the page, then back at me, her silver hair falling forward to frame her face. "I... I don't know. I just looked at it, and I could... read it. It felt natural."