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Without …him.

Alora sank back in her chair as every distraught face molded into a sophisticated illusion of strength.

One by one, they left the tent. Haiden not even giving her one glance as he was the last to leave only her and Thalon behind. Smoke gently whorled from candles littering the table. She followed the swirls of tendrils—of mist—into the cold evening air, silently wishing it was Smokeshadows dawning Garrik back when Thalon wordlessly collapsed into a chair, massaging his temples in deep, slow circles.

Usually a strong and unbreakable force, he was now reduced to total devastation. The magnificent warrior and legendary Guardian trembled as he swallowed. His shoulders sinking low as if deep in thought. And she wondered if he was desperately trying to reach Garrik’s mind with his own pleas, just as she’d done all day.

Thalon’s eyes closed, and his mouth began to move silently for some time. He was praying, she realized. Then, his sorrow spilled into the room as he looked to the ceiling.

“I failed him again,” he murmured, shaking his head.

Alora was tempted to stand from her chair—the one across from Garrik’s, which sat empty as a cruel reminder. She’d never seen Thalon so defeated … so … so fallen. “You didn’t failhim.” She did it anyway—stand—and moved to his side of the table, settling a hand on his shoulder. “Thalon, you cannot fault yourself for this.”

“I can fault myself. Because we’ve been here before.”

His meaning escaped her.

“Before the Blood Years,” he started, and Alora’s mind drifted to stories of seventeen years of death and horrific destruction. Of when Garrik—the Savage Prince who clouded the land in fear, violence, and corruption—eliminated anyone opposing Magnelis’s rule. Even kings fell. Executing raids on cities and towns, searching for Marked Ones without one single act of mercy. When younglings were burned alive in front of their mothers, fathers were flayed on pikes, homes destroyed to dust in a single blink of an eye. Generations of Mystics reduced to ash, magic lost—stolen from them.

Alora felt herself shudder as Thalon continued, “I should’ve disobeyed him, should’ve protected him. I’m his starsdamned Guardian. I?—”

Somewhere in the distance, a horn resounded. Camp exploded with shouts.

Thalon was on his feet, bursting through the tent doors with Alora mere inches from his heels.

The sky was feathered with blackness, snuffing out dusk until the camp was engulfed in an early night sky. Raging shadows from a localized storm and lightning shot through the sky. Alora knew this magic. She’d seen it four days ago when the same storm whirled, producing a portal as it did now, floating down beyond their obstructed view of tents.

And then they were running.

With imperceivable speed, the edge of camp blurred around them until they crossed Garrik’s shield.

The stormy portal hissed and shrieked as it hovered above the ground in the open field outside camp.

“Nevilier!” Thalon ripped his golden, runed sword from his side. “Get to your positions, weapons ready! Everyone else, get inside the shield!” he thundered to soldiers crowding around the tents, drawing their weapons.

The portal raged. Lightning struck out in every direction, preparing to yield whatever threat was coming.

Nobody moved.

With a flash of light, a mass plummeted from the portal and slammed to the ground. The portal imploded as it disappeared, hauling the ice-cold wind and darkened skies along with it.

The mass laid unmoving, covered by the tall grass.

And they were running again.

Alora’s eyes widened as she came closer.

Because thatmasswasn’t just an object …

Black pants, dragon-scaled armor, gray hair …

“Garrik!” Thalon slid to his knees, dirt spraying at the impact, scooping Garrik’s limp body into his arms. He placed his ear to Garrik’s chest. “He’s breathing!” he screamed to the soldiers running through the field before turning back to Garrik.

“Brother, listen to me, you’re alive. You’re home.” An inked hand frantically cupped the back of Garrik’s head and pulled him to his chest. “You hear me?You’re safe.” The hand that held Garrik’s shoulder began to tremble as Thalon cried, “I’m so sorry”—a tear streamed down his cheek—“I’m so damn sorry.”

Alora dropped beside them, scanning Garrik for injury. Alarmingly, his body, from what she could see, was unharmed, his clothes impeccably flawless, his weapons remained sheathed on his back, side, and belt.

“No wounds. How is this possible?”