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CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

S YRRA STILL STOOD guard over Maerhal. Her legs were stone anchoring her to the ground above her sister’s head. Only her eyes tracked me across the room as I took my usual spot along the middle of the stone slab.

Syrra swallowed as I placed a bouquet of moonflowers across Maerhal’s chest. Nikolai had spent centuries bringing flowers to her statue whenever he was home; it felt only right that I should continue the tradition while he was gone. “I thought Vrail had been leaving them,” she whispered, eyes teary.

My head dropped low. “I don’t think Vrail can step foot into this room without crying. She spends all her time trying to find a way to locate Nikolai.”

Syrra’s teeth gritted together. The only thing that made her feel more useless than knowing she hadn’t been there to protect her sister was being reminded that her own nephew had been taken under her watch.

She nodded at the bouquet. “You have shown your hand too easily. You have kept this up for weeks without letting me know it was you bringing the bouquets. You did not come here to lay flowers.”

“No,” I sighed, tucking Maerhal’s bandaged arms over the stems. “But this way we both get to enjoy the blooms.”

“Her favorites,” we said at the same time.

The tears lining Syrra’s eyes began to well, but they did not fall. She lifted her head, refusing to blink. “What have you come to ask of me?”

I appreciated Syrra’s tact. She never wasted time, always cutting straight to the point. It reminded me of Hildegard.

“You still believe that changing Halflings into Fae is the only way to win this war?”

Syrra nodded. “Not just the war. But the waateyshirak are a contentious threat, especially when our numbers are so small.”

“Feron has agreed to train the new Fae in their powers.” My hands balled into fists at my sides. “I’m hoping Riven will too.”

Syrra didn’t move. She was a statue again, a soldier cast in stone for failing her post.

“They will need to be trained in combat too.” I made a point of letting my gaze trail over Syrra’s scars, each a mark of her skills and victories on the fields of battle. “Trained by someone who has fought alongside Fae and won.”

“Pirmiith is a warrior in his own right.” Syrra’s neck flexed. “He fought in all of Aemon’s wars while I was left useless.”

“And he shall again, if he wishes.” I grabbed Syrra’s hand. “But we both know he is not who should lead this army. We have sat fractured long enough. It is time that all our leaders step up to the helm again.”

A single tear dropped from Syrra’s eye, missing her cheek and wetting her full lip instead. “You saw for yourself. Elverath rejected the chance to bless me. Perhaps I am meant to step back .”

I shook my head. “For someone so old, you are absolutely ridiculous.”

Syrra didn’t laugh.

I changed tactics. “Perhaps Elverath didn’t find it fitting to make you Fae because you have already been blessed.”

She scoffed, her hands waving over her sister. “Any blessings given to me have rotted away.” Her jaw dropped as she turned and saw what I held in my hand. The blade was still wrapped in my cloak, but Syrra recognized its hilt.

I knew she had stared at that blade for hours, as a girl, as a warrior in training, even as a seasoned one. I knew she had haunted the equipment room in Sil’abar to stare at the relics of storied warriors because I had done the same at the Order. I stared into the stony eyes of the statues that had not been destroyed, devouring every story I heard of them, not knowing that one day I would meet one of those statues come to life.

With a blade more powerful than any other.

I pulled out the sword, a glorious ring echoing through the room as if the steel conducted its own music from the air. Syrra gasped as she saw the blade forged anew, but silver.

“Faelin’s blade did not choose me.” I kneeled and presented the sword to her. “I think it had another, wiser warrior in mind.”

Syrra blinked down in disbelief, no quick retort finding her lips. She reached her hand out but did not dare touch the blade. Her fingers shook over the steel.

“How did you reforge it?” she croaked. “Those arts have long been lost to us.”

“We asked and Elverath answered.” I lifted the blade a few inches higher.

Syrra pulled her hand back. “What … what if it doesn’t choose me?”

“Then no one beyond these walls will ever know.” Syrra was strong, but I knew a soldier could only take so many hits before her shield shattered and her blade began to dull. Maerhal, Nikolai, Lash. Her blood rejecting the chance to turn Fae.

Syrra needed a win.

We all did.

And I hoped I was right that this would give us one.

She took a deep breath and reached for the hilt. Her hand moved like snowmelt, barely at all and then all at once. Her fingers wrapped around the hilt, and the steel shone brighter than the suns with her touch.

Syrra hoisted the blade high over her head. It carved a trench in the rock with just a scratch. The blade was sharper than any other in existence. Syrra’s eyes went wide as the bright glow of the blade faded and the weapon’s true color returned.

Gold. The same color the blade had been while wielded by Faelin.

But the sword was no longer the Faemother’s.

It was Syrra’s.

For the first time in weeks, a smile crept along Syrra’s mouth. It was not one of joy or pride, but one of vengeance.