Page 68

Warren Coupers crept through the Varra Farm’s empty paddocks.

Crickets serenaded the encroaching dusk. The knee-high grass shivered as rabbits darted between fields. The critters had grown arrogant without Savita to chase them.

Coup inhaled the scents of pollen, weeds and wildflowers. He felt like he’d been between breaths all month. Ever since…

Feet heavy, he stalked toward the reason he’d returned to Fieror.

Even if Cristo had lied about everything else, in this, he’d stayed true to his word; Kel’s new aviary was an architectural marvel, all gleaming panels and sleek silver bones.

The dome soared twice as high as its predecessor, a crystal cathedral stark against the horizon.

Coup peered through the glass. Cristo’s contractors had already filled the aviary with heat lights and native greenery, ready if Savita returned home.

It was a wonder. Coup could imagine Kel’s grin—rare and just as wondrous—at the sight of it.

He wanted to burn the damn thing to the ground.

Five weeks. How had it only been that long? A lifetime had passed since Kel vanished into the dawn. He knew the other Howlers felt it, too. Time bent at odd angles around them, swift and slow, never quite reaching the empty space at his side. Leaving the memory of her pain-stricken face untouched.

Coup’s eyes traced the aviary’s steel skeleton, forcing his mind to empty.

Despite his best attempts, every thought led back to Kel.

He’d hoped checking on her farm would be enough to pacify the fear shrouding her name, even in his mind.

More than anything, he feared never having another chance to speak her name while looking into those storm-gray eyes.

He’d never again call her tamer or Varra , and relish how her nose scrunched in response.

His heart would never again race the way it did when she said his name.

Footsteps crunched behind him. Then, a whistle of approval. “This puts Cristo’s aviaries to shame.”

His brother’s shadow loomed along the earth, meeting Coup’s. Bekn’s hand landed on his shoulder. “She’ll love it.”

Coup flinched. Bekn remained certain that Kel would return, or, at least, he pretended to. But that false certainty kept ripping away any scab that tried to heal over Coup’s heart.

“You didn’t have to come,” Coup said softly.

“I wanted to. I needed a solid excuse to spend a few days off camera.”

Bekn came to Coup’s side, head tilted toward the dome.

Dark stubble traced his jaw, and his jacket hung awkwardly off his shoulders, as if he’d lost weight.

This was the stillest Coup had seen him since Kel vanished into the sky.

Bekn had been busy these past five weeks, making sure to tell their story before anyone else could; it had stopped Cristo’s loyalists from forcing the Howlers into infamy or intercepting their tale.

While Bekn was preoccupied, Coup had learned as much as he could about phoenix rebirths.

It usually only took a week or two for the ash to reform into a chick.

Some reports suggested longer, over a month.

Every new scrap of hope tore at the pit in his gut; a bird flitting about in the corner of his eye, a flash of Kel’s face on the news.

But what if Savita had abandoned Kel to rebirth, leaving her alone, whimpering in pain as AB consumed her?

Or what if the legends were true, and Savita had healed Kel just as Deja had saved Ryker?

He’d read that when phoenixes rebirthed, they usually reformed much larger than when hatched from an egg. About the size of a small horse. Strong enough to be ridden, if the rider and mount wished to return home.

Bekn’s tele-comm chirped. They both glanced down as Bekn pulled the device from his pocket.

Bekn scanned the new notification and laughed, a short, sharp sound. “It’s from Dira. Rahn—she’s awake.”

Relief slumped Coup’s shoulders.

Death had circled Rahn’s hospital bed for the last month. They’d stabilized her quickly enough, but no one had seemed sure when she would wake. Dira had refused to leave her side, with one exception: when Estra’s pulse had faded, and they’d buried her beside Cristo’s meager remains.

Coup’s throat tightened.

Though Kel hadn’t remembered her, Estra had been one of their own.

The Howlers had lost too much.

“How’s Rahn feeling?” Coup asked.

Bekn shook his head. “Not sure—I’ll call Dira and ask. Are you…?”

“Go call her. I’m fine. I’ll meet you up at the cottage.”

Bekn stared at Coup before turning back toward Kel’s small house, head bent over his tele-comm screen.

Coup didn’t know how his older brother managed it. Hundreds of notifications had littered Bekn’s tele-comm over the past few weeks. Everyone was desperate to know how Canen Cristo, Salta’s richest tech mogul, had perished. And Bekn was the only one who could satisfy their hunger.

After Cristo fell, his grip on the isles had been impossible to deny.

The four councils were crippled. Once the Howlers had laid the truth bare, Bekn was flooded with demands, pleas to travel to each island and recount their tale.

The requests hadn’t just come from reporters but scientists too, once Bekn had revealed what they’d learned of AB’s origins.

Saltans seemed equally ravenous and riled to hear the part they’d played in spreading the disease. Somehow, Bekn managed to appease both.

For years, Coup had prayed to the Alchemists to find Bekn a way off Cendor. He hadn’t expected a response in the form of a dead billionaire.

Or a dead tamer. His tamer.

Coup shook the thought loose. No. She wasn’t dead. He didn’t care if that made him a superstitious fool. Kelyn Varra would come home to him.

That was the other reason why he’d stolen onto a train back to Fieror. He and a group of council tamers had searched what they could of Vohre Forest. If Savita hadn’t taken Kel there, it made sense they’d fly somewhere they both felt safe.

He pressed a hand to the aviary’s cool glass. A sigh rattled through him. He’d lingered here long enough.

He turned from the aviary and began tracing Bekn’s steps toward the cottage. Even if it broke him to leave—to admit any kind of defeat—he refused to let Bekn clean up Cristo’s mess alone. They had to return to Vohre before nightfall.

Still, he paused. Visiting the Varra Farm had been the last thread—the last hope—keeping him upright. If Kel wasn’t here , where was she?

Dark spots swam across his vision. The mere question made him want to empty his guts across the grass. He couldn’t bear to leave. Not yet, not now—because what if there was nowhere else to look? What if Kel was just… gone?

He’d rather try to rewind time than believe that. But the world was moving on, stealing that choice from him.

Coup allowed himself one moment to close his eyes, to indulge the hollow pit inside him, before he pressed on.

Halfway to the cottage, a great shadow darkened the ground.

Coup froze. The vast silhouette crept along the grass, liquid darkness against dry earth. Distant thunder—or something too similar—boomed overhead. His nose filled with smoke, blotting out the wildflowers’ sweetness.

The thunder grew louder.

Coup’s heart pounded, trying to stitch itself back together even as he begged it to stay tattered. If he was imagining this…

A familiar laugh trailed through the sky, echoing around him.

He heard Bekn launch from the cottage, flinging the old door open.

Wild laughter and beating wings roared overhead.

Finally, Coup looked up, into the hazy, coral sky.

Kelyn.