Page 141 of Silvercloak

Saffron dropped her wand and rushed to Levan, who wasn’t making a sound but trembled violently, his remaining hand clamped around the other wrist. There was only the faintest tint of ash gray near the stump.

“Are you alright?” she asked stupidly, but what else was there to say?

“Just go, Silver.”

“I’m not leaving you.”

“Please.” The word was serrated. “I don’t want you to see me like this.”

“No, Levan. I need to help you to—”

“Go.Now.”

Horror churning in her stomach, she fled the cell, wondering whether he would ever look at her the same way again. Would he always associate her with this? With one of the most painful moments of his life?

She left the deadbolt hanging open, so that he could leave, and just as she reached the end of the corridor, she heard Levan’s earth-shattering roar.

It cost her everything she had not to go to him.

Back in her chambers, Saffron knew that there was so much she needed todo.She had to find a weaverwick wand, for her own protection. She needed to harangue Segal for his scroll of necromancers, so that Tiernan might rise again. She needed to make contact with Aspar, to come up with alternative plans after the botched raid, to let her know about the now-deceased rat in her ranks.

But all shecouldthink about, all she could see in her mind’s eye, was Levan.

Levan hurt. Levan alone.

Levan studying literature, poring over old texts and discussing them with Miret. Levan practicing ancient languages until the sound was just right on his tongue. Levan wielding the most complicated and beautiful magic she’d ever witnessed. Levan running for miles and miles, sparring and brawling, until his body was slick with sweat, exhaustion sinking into his bones. Levan enchanting her necklace. Levan bringing Nissa back, because he could tell how much it meant to her. Levan grieving his lost love, Levan growing addicted to the very substance he’d brought into the city, Levan suffering his way out of it in a sealed room. Levan mourning his mother. Levan hunched over Lorissa’s body, pleading with his own magic to bring her back, and his magic refusing to rise.

Leaving him in that cell caused a physical ache, a knot of pain between her ribs.

And she knew then, in her heart of hearts, that shehadto have nullified the prophecy when she unmade time. She had to have thrown them onto a different path, because right now, nothing in the world could make her want to kill him.

Yet … House Rezaran had unmade time over and over again during the Dreadreign, and still the first four Augurs’ prophecies had come to pass.

There was a feeling in her chest—a gathering snarl of certainty anddread—that these events concerned themselves with the fate of the world, somehow. It all felt so fuckingsignificant.She was no Foreseer, and yet, somehow, she knew that she and Levan were at the center of something enormous and devastating, something that would end in mutual ruin. Something that would not just unmake them both—it would unmake everything.

Of course, it was very possible she was just in love.

AFTER A FEW HOURS OF PATCHY, SHALLOW SLEEP, SAFFRON SPENTmost of the next day trying to contact Aspar, but every time she said “Dragontail,” Aspar would replyfalling,meaning it wasn’t safe to talk.

Saff was inwardly relieved not to be able to talk freely to her commanding officer—she did not want to relive the botched raid, and she certainly didn’t know how to broach the subject of Tiernan. Part of her hoped that she’d be able to find a necromancer and revive him before Aspar ever knew he’d died. Although, in truth, the Order of the Silvercloaks was no place for a Risen. Not only would he be a traitor, but he’d also be the maligned undead. Even if Saffron managed to bring him back, he’d still lose everything.

Everything but Auria. And that had to be worth something.

In any case, her hours of research had proven fruitless. Segal was nowhere to be found—she had no idea where his sleeping quarters were, and thus no idea where his necromancer scroll might be lurking—so she headed to the library to browse every piece of literature Miret could find on necromancy. All the tomes were well-worn, dog-eared on countless pages, others annotated with the swirling cursive she recognized from Levan’s diary.

Levan.

Thoughts of him shredded all else.

Had he left the cell? Or had the pain sunk him deep into shock, his organs shutting down, taking his final breaths alone and scared?

That evening, she finally caved to the urge to go to him. In a fit of decisive energy, she leapt from her bed, books scattering to the ground, but as she crossed the room, there was a knock at the door. She opened it barefoot to see Levan standing on the other side, an impenetrable expression on his face. His cheekbones jutted, his eyes bleary with exhaustion. He wore a fresh scarlet cloak, a black tunic and trousers, with leather boots laced up his calves.

At the end of his right arm was a golden hand.

He held it up to the light, and it was unlike anything she’d ever seen—except maybe the enchanted tongues gifted to those poor children in her first year on the streetwatch. This replacement was the exact shape and size of his own hand, and as he clenched and unclenched his fist, it moved in exactly the same way—perhaps even more fluidly, more convincingly, were it not for the brilliant gilded hue, the radiance as it caught the light.

“That’s incredible,” Saffron breathed, relief flooding into every chamber and atrium of her heart. He was alright.