Page 208 of Lana Pecherczyk

“Then we confused it with the ruins.”

Ash stilled. Stared vacantly.

“What?” River prompted.

“Clarke told me I’d find my destiny when I circle back home.”

River shoved Ash’s shoulder with a finger. “Your mother’s trove isn’t your fucking home.”

“It’s where my life began,” Ash clarified, then glared at River’s finger. “And if you shove me one more fucking time, I’m going to cut that digit off.”

A grin split River’s face. He clapped his brother on the shoulder, then grabbed him by the nape and shook. “I look forward to it.”

“You’re insane.”

“You love it.”

“River.” A haunted look entered Ash’s eyes. “There are places in my mother’s hoard no one knows about. Tunnels beneath the spire, under the canyon. Cold spots. Bad places the wind refuses to go.”

“Then that’s where we go.” River moved toward the door.

“We?”

River stopped, tensed.

Ash vowed never to return to the hoard. Even during their hunts over the years, he insisted that if they found it, he would call in the cavalry before entering.

River turned and met Ash’s eyes with newfound authority. “You said it. Destiny awaits you or some shit. We do this together and we do this now.”

Ash’s unease flickered before resolve replaced it. He nodded once.

River stepped outside and launched skyward, wings catching the predawn air. Blake’s fading presence guided him like a distant star, pulling him toward the canyon where everything had begun.

I’ll find you, Sparkles,he vowed into the howling wind.And this time, I’ll say the words that matter.

Chapter

Sixty-Four

Ascream ripped its way up Blake’s throat, but the wind snatched it away before she could make a sound.

Pain.

Sharp and absolute.

Like her soul was being ripped from her bones.Too high.They must be flying too high. The Well, her connection to it stretched thin. It felt like a raw, frayed wire about to snap. She instinctively reached for the comforting thrum of River’s presence through their bond, but found only a terrifying, distant echo.

Black feathers—wrong, not River’s, not blue—whipped her face, adding to the agony, hacking her consciousness into jagged pieces. Through the wind and the agony, she forced her eyes open.

Cloud.

Dark curls, wild in the wind. Jaw hard, set. The Guardian teardrop beneath his left eye looked dull. Oil-slick tattoos at his throat seemed to writhe in the gray, pre-dawn light. But the worst thing was the V-stain on his face, preserved to look fresh. That blood had once pulsed inside a person.

“It will pass,” he said gruffly, eyes forward. “The pain.”

Lies, she tried to say. Nothing came out.

He glanced down, only for a second before looking ahead again. She thought she noticed something flicker in his eyes then. Guilt? Or maybe just the reflection of her terror.