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In the evening, as I stood on the drive, I looked to Lope, her eyes fixed hawklike on the twilit horizon.

It was a story suited for a knight.

3

Lope

A whispered name,

A whispered plea,

A blade plunged through shadow—

Two gone up in smoke.

In the dim light of the countess’s guest room, I sat at the desk and wrote down last evening’s nightmare. I did so in fragments on pieces of letter paper, in my smallest writing.

The freckle-faced boy

Skin from red to blue

Eyes from blue to white

A desperate—

I sighed. I hated the words and hated the images. I folded the paper, watching the flame dancing in the candlestick.

“To any divinity who will listen,” I murmured. They had not been on friendly terms with me lately. But speaking to the gods was like dancing with a partner you could not see. I had to trust that if I took one step, the gods would respond with another. At least, they were supposed to. These days, it more often felt like I was dancing by myself. Looking like a fool.

Perhaps I was. Perhaps I was arrogant to think I was worthy to be heard by any of the hundredfold nameless gods. No matter how many offerings I presented to them.

And still I let the flame devour my words.

“For pity’s sake,” I murmured. “Help me end these monsters for good.”

Wouldn’t the gods want that, too? Wouldn’t they approve of my quest, dispelling the monsters created by the dark god they had cast into the Underworld? Couldn’t they see how desperately I wanted to serve them?

The foul smoke rose from the candlestick and into my lungs as the paper curled in on itself. Black husks. Like the bodies of the Shadows, withering beneath my fingers as I screamed, blood rolling down my face, and Carlos lying motionless beside me—

I breathed. The wrong thought, the wrong memory, the wrongsmell, and my stomach would tighten, my chest would ache, the world would spin, and I would be backthere. As if that final day were playing out all around me. As if it hadn’t been twenty-six days ago.

Sighing, I massaged my eyes until red spots danced through the darkness of my vision. I wished I could erase the nightmares, erase the memories, burn them up in little pieces until I was back to what I’d been twenty-six days ago.

Twenty-six days. A thousand years ago and a moment ago, all at once. The wound still felt so fresh.

I had many scars; every knight did. Faint silver lines down my throat, rough scrapes down my arms and legs, calluses and nicks littering my hands. They proved that I had endured much and had lived, had fought against monsters and come away with my life. But I hated that this gaping wound was on my brain, unseen, invisible, pulsing, begging to be remembered.

Seeing that Shadow lunge for Ofelia... it had dragged me back through time, had made me stare once more into the face of my dying friend. It painted blood on the backs of my eyelids and whispered fiercely to me,Remember.

I dipped my quill in ink and pulled my new journal toward me.

Every book I owned, every journal, they were all from her. Even my words I owed to her. She was the one who taught me to write in the first place.

I had only just arrived as a new recruit at the manor. The moment she saw me at the wall, that very first day, she decided I’d be her friend. Despite my severe expression, she sought me out, asked me dozens of questions until my heartcracked open just for her. And when our little chats weren’t enough for her, she showed me how to write just so that we could exchange letters.

Why would we write letters? I’m not far, my lady, I’d said.I live just at the edge of the wall.

Her laugh, bright as silver, had rung through the courtyard.But it’s so romantic to write them, don’t you think?