Page 96 of The Midnight Death Match

“What do you want from me?”

The shield doesn’t answer, but the runes pulse once more before fading to their normal appearance. Just carved lines inmetal, beautiful but meaningless to anyone who lacks the ability to read them.

I lie back on my bed, staring at the ceiling where shadows dance in the lamplight. In nearby rooms, I can hear my sisters settling in for the night. Brynja’s quiet humming, Torvi’s soft footsteps, Runa’s whispered goodnights to Helga. The sounds of a family finding peace.

But I remain apart, keeper of secrets they can’t take part in, guardian of knowledge they can’t access. The unified nature of wolf and hunter I discovered at Courtsview has brought me power and purpose, but it’s also made me something different from than what they are.

More.

Lonelier.

The mountain house hums around me, magic and stone and the breath of dragons. It’s home now, truly home, but also a fortress. And fortresses, by their very nature, are built to keep things out.

Even the people you love most.

I close my eyes and try to find peace in the darkness, but the words from the shield burn behind my eyelids like an afterimage.

The lock remains.

Yes, I think. It does.

And I’m the only one who can see it.

Chapter

Thirty-Five

My sistersall rush past me as we reach Mirendel. They’re all excited about different aspects of today’s plans. Harek glances over at me with an amused, knowing look and squeezes my hand. He’s been finding it more and more lately.

The market at Mirendel’s base is alive again. Festive lanterns sway above open carts, and the bright magic hums with fresh enchantment. It should feel like progress. Peace. But even with my sisters up ahead, laughing and arms full of goods from Einar’s—our—home, something in me remains on edge.

Harek stays beside me, his side brushing mine as we navigate the stalls.

Brynja and Torvi argue over the best kind of trail bread. Runa tugs on Helga’s sleeve, trying to get her to look at a caged flame-moth.

And I stop.

Dead in my tracks.

Because across the square, cloaked in gold-threaded robes, stands Lys.

His expression is unreadable. He’s still as always, but something about the tilt of his head tells me he’s been waiting for us.

For me.

Then someone steps up beside him.

My heart slams once. Everything else disappears.

Einar. My father. My dead father.

I blink. Then again, more rapidly. It’s him. The same silver-streaked dreadlocks, the same warm smile that could melt a frozen lake.

The world tilts. My vision blurs at the edges, and for a moment I think I’m imagining things—a phantom conjured from too many sleepless nights, too much grief carried too long. But no. The way he holds his shoulders, the familiar crease between his brows.

It’s him.

Whole. Standing. His hair swept back, his frame broader, stronger than I’ve ever seen it. No limp. No scars. Just… alive. Alive. The word echoes in my skull like a prayer I’d forgotten how to say.