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CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

ROOK

My arms tighten around Pyrah. I need you. Nothing else matters to me. Her words pierce my heart until it aches.

“That’s sweet of you,” I say, gruffly, “though we both know it isn't true. I won’t let you freeze to death, woman.”

She rests her cheek against my chest. "Keep me warm."

I arch an eyebrow. That's tempting, though she needs clothing. I can't shelter her forever.

Before I can reply, a whinny interrupts us.

Bolt canters across the field with her tail held high.

The black mare greets me by nudging my face with her nose.

Reunited at last, I lean my forehead against her muzzle.

When I exhale, she huffs, her breath sweet with hay.

It's a familiar scent that inexplicably brings me close to tears.

“Bolt,” I murmur. “It’s been too long.”

Leaning back, I stroke her neck. They braided her mane while I was gone, and it looks prettier than any of my work. Bolt nudges my hand with her velvety soft muzzle, as if expecting me to have brought treats from the dungeon.

I smile. Her favorite sin has always been gluttony.

I haven't forgotten Pyrah, who's still shivering in the rain. I hook my arm around her shoulders, which shields her from some of the weather. "Let's get you inside."

We walk through the mist together. Bolt trots alongside us. The white vapor swirls away and bares Lark's cottage. I knock on the door, barely lifting my knuckles before it's yanked open.

Lark braces herself against the doorframe. "Rook!"

Her silver skin looks duller, some of the luster lost. Worse still, golden threads of aellurium crawl over her body, just as Pyrah said. This must be the curse from Zin.

My sister runs out to meet me and we collide in an embrace. She squeezes me with all the strength in her arms, despite the hard steel of my armor, the borrowed hauberk from Hexfall.

“You're alive,” she says, her voice muffled against my chest.

“I am.”

She pulls back to look at me. “What happened to you?”

"Long story." I shake my head. "Let's talk inside."

Bolt stands behind me and rests her muzzle on my shoulder. She's still begging for treats.

“Have you been spoiling my horse?” I ask.

“Blame Pyrah,” Lark says.

“In my defense,” Pyrah says, “Bolt deserved more than a little spoiling. She let me ride her all the way back. She even avoided some dire wolves along the way, so I rewarded her with carrots.”

Dire wolves? Fuck, I can't help but think I should have been there to protect them. I was unable to do so while I was imprisoned in the dungeon. I never want to feel so powerless again.

We enter the cottage together. Rain drums on the roof, a comforting sound, and heat radiates from the fire crackling in the hearth. Lark must be baking bread again, judging by the delicious aroma that fills the air.

I'm overwhelmed by my memories of this place.

My throat aches fiercely with emotion. It feels like an eternity since I was last here, surrounded by family.

I never allowed myself to miss them while I was locked away, but at this moment, I miss what I have lost. Seven days of my time with them was stolen from me.

I pet Bolt one more time before closing the door of the cottage. I can still see her through the window. My mare trots off and begins grazing on the lush grass of the meadow. She looks plump and glossy, which is good. I want her to enjoy this moment of peace.

“Thank you for taking care of Bolt while I was gone,” I say.

“It was no trouble at all,” Pyrah says, which must be a polite lie.

"Lark, could Pyrah borrow some of your clothes?" I ask. “She's shivering.”

"Of course." Lark disappears into her bedroom, returning with a woolen dress and stockings. "These should fit.”

Pyrah puts on the clothes with trembling hands. Her wet hair clings to her face in dark tendrils. I guide her to sit on the rug before the fire, then kneel behind her. With gentle fingers, I begin working through the tangles in her hair, careful not to pull too hard.

Steam rises from my borrowed armor as it dries. The metal should be uncomfortable against my skin, but I barely notice the cold anymore. Perhaps it's the incubus blood, or maybe I'm still numb from my time in the dungeon.

"You both look frozen," Lark says, shaking her head. "I could make some coffee to warm you up.”

"Coffee would be perfect," Pyrah says, rubbing the goose bumps on her arms.

I continue combing through her hair with my fingers, working out each knot. The fire's warmth seeps into her skin. Finally, she stops shivering.

Lark brews coffee in a pot over the fire. The bittersweet scent fills the cottage, mingling with woodsmoke and baking bread. My chest aches at the simple comfort of being here with my sister and my mate, safe and warm. How could I have forgotten this feeling?

But I already know the answer. In the dungeon, I had to be numb. Otherwise, I would not have survived.

I rest my mouth against the crown of Pyrah's head. Her hair is starting to dry, turning from deep crimson to bright flame in the firelight.

"Better?" I murmur against her hair.

She leans back against my chest. "Much better."

Lark pours us each a mug of coffee. I pull out a chair at the table, though I cradle the mug in my hands without drinking. Steam wisps from the black coffee. I stare into the dark liquid as if I might read my future there.

Pyrah gazes into the fire. She looks wistful, lost in thought, rather than on guard. Lark sits opposite me, and I know by the determined glint in her eye that she wishes to interrogate me. She deserves answers—they both do.

“Where were you?” Lark asks.

“One of the queen's dungeons.” I sip the coffee to steel my nerves. “It wasn't the Forgotten Tower.”

“We know.”

Her words hit me like a punch in the gut. “You returned to that horrible place to look for me?”

"No. I entered Zin's dreams to find you." Lark's voice trembles. She rolls up her sleeves, and my blood runs cold at the sight. More of those golden veins of aellurium trace beneath her silver skin like a metallic infection.

"What did she do to you?" I grip the edge of the table, my claws leaving gouges in the wood.

"She bound us together with a curse." Lark traces one of the gleaming lines with her finger. "Our life-forces are connected now. If Zin dies, I die. If she bleeds, I bleed."

My shadow wings writhe beneath my skin, on the edge of betraying my emotion. "I will destroy her for this."

"You can't." Lark grabs my wrist. "Don't you understand? Any harm done to her happens to me, too. We're forced to be allies now, even though we're enemies."

I struggle to contain the fury building inside me. The queen's sorceress has trapped my sister in another prison—one made of magic instead of stone.

"There has to be a way to break it," I say.

"Maybe. But for now, we need her alive." Lark pulls her sleeves back down, hiding the evidence of Zin's betrayal. "We can't kill her without killing me."

The coffee grows cold in my mug as I process this cruel twist of fate. My sister, bound to her former captor and tormentor. The woman who helped imprison her in the Forgotten Tower now holds Lark's life in her hands.

"I should have been here to protect you," I say.

"You were in chains yourself." Lark's eyes soften. "None of this is your fault, brother."

“Where were you?” Pyrah asks.

“I don't know.” I rub my thumb over the rim of my mug. “There were runes carved into the wall, Umbric runes.”

Lark’s eyes sharpen. “Umbric? What did they say?”

“It was an ancient dialect of Umbric. I couldn’t understand all the words, but the rest of them are carved into my memory.” I stare into the distance as I repeat them out loud. “ …unlocked for me… from hell we come…”

“The Demongate?” Lark asks.

“That’s what I wondered.” I narrow my eyes, thinking. “Are we certain that the gatehouse of King Aurius was destroyed?”

“Yes.”

“But we all know what happens to rubble—it gets rebuilt into new buildings. Nobody wastes stone, not if it’s already chiseled into blocks. No wonder the Umbric runes were in pieces. That dungeon must have been cobbled together from the ruins of King Aurius’s gatehouse.”

“You never left Netherhaven,” Lark murmurs.

Pyrah rises from the hearth. Her eyes meet mine, and the firelight turns them such a brilliant blue that I'm distracted for a moment. “How did you escape?”

“I didn’t.” I swig the rest of my coffee and frown at the dregs. “It was that sorceress.”

“Which sorceress?” Lark asks.

When I glance at my sister, she's sitting extremely still in the chair. That alone tells me that she already knows who it was.

I pause for a moment before replying. “Zin.” My sister flinches, almost imperceptibly, but I still catch the movement. “She cast a portal and let me go outside the Thornwood. I don't know why she did it.”

“I don't trust that dark-eyed bitch,” Pyrah mutters.

“What did Zin tell you?” Lark grips the edge of the table until her knuckles turn white and her claws start digging into the wood. What isn't my sister telling me?

My chair creaks as I lean back from the table. “Zin claimed the two of you have a relationship that may not be strictly professional.”

“There’s nothing between us, no matter how hard she tries to pretend otherwise.” Lark rakes her claws through her long hair, which has always been one of her tells. She's lying about something.

I tilt my head at her reaction, wondering what she isn't telling me, though I don't want to pry. “Regardless, why the fuck would Zin release me from the dungeon?”

Lark laughs, a bleak sound. “She never released me when I was imprisoned in the Forgotten Tower. She never even tried. Not even after the guards hurt me.” Her fingers flit over to her broken horn.

Why would she think Zin might free her? That implies there was some connection between them, maybe a twisted bond born of conflict.

“Did Zin hurt you?” I ask.

“No, not like that.”

Not like that. We both know there are so many more ways to hurt people than physical violence.

I lower my voice to barely above a murmur. “She cut me until I bled.” I rub the scab across my wrist.

“Rook,” Pyrah whispers, and she lingers by my elbow, perhaps still unsure if it's safe to touch me.

Lark freezes as if petrified. I'm not even sure she's breathing. “She wanted your blood?”

“She bottled it.”

“Oh,” she says, little more than an exhalation from her lungs.

My stomach lurches as if I stepped over the edge of a cliff. “Tell me why.” She must know the answer, and I need to hear the truth.

“To cast a tracking spell.”

A sick mixture of dread and relief twists through me. Zin didn't need my blood to create an heir, but this was all an elaborate trap. I regret drinking any of the coffee. It rises in my throat with an urge to vomit that I fight.

“Our enemies can follow you right to my door,” Lark says dully. “Not even the enchantment around my cottage can hide us forever. Not against the power of blood magic.”

I shove my chair from the table with a terrible screech, and Pyrah winces at the sound. “We need to get the fuck out,” I command.

Lark shudders. “It's too late.”

“What?”

“I can feel her.”

“Feel her? How?”

“Her magic.” Lark closes her eyes. “She's here.”