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NORA

T hey circle me like wolves. They separated me form Rhaegar, and I can’t help but worry.

Matriarch Ivenna’s voice is smooth as silk pulled taut over a blade, her eyes shining with power as she takes a measured step forward. “You’re confused. We understand. The magic in your blood is ancient. Dangerous. But we can help you, Nora. We’re the only ones who can.”

I sit cross-legged in the center of a crude circle of glowing runes etched into the sand. They claimed it was for clarity. Protection. Truth.

I know better.

Behind her, the other Purnas watch me with eyes like shards of obsidian, their faces unreadable. Their magic pulses through the air, like a net stretched tight over my skin. I can feel the collar around my throat tightening with every breath, and the bond I share with Rhaegar—it’s still there. But distant. Muffled. Like someone shoved it into the back of a drawer and slammed it shut.

“I’m not confused,” I say flatly, meeting Ivenna’s gaze. “I’m angry.”

She smiles at that. “You should be. You’ve been manipulated. Bound. Chained to a creature who, if given the choice, would kill you. They’re our enemies.”

“Then why haven’t I given him that choice?”

Her lips tighten. Good. I want her off-balance.

“You deserve your answers,” she says instead. “You deserve to know the truth of who you are. What you were. The life Medea lived before your time, and the magic that lies dormant in your bones.”

I tense.

“And we can give you that,” she adds, her voice dipping low, persuasive. “We can undo the Wraithborn’s tether to your soul. We can free you.”

I inhale slowly. “In exchange for what?”

There’s a pause.

Softly she says, “Rhaegar.”

My heart thuds once. Then again. Louder. Like a war drum against my ribs.

“You want me to kill him.”

A beat of silence. “You must,” Ivenna says, her voice calm. “He’s unstable. The bond he shares with you is feeding his magic. It’ll drive him mad. Worse, it’ll pull the Wraithborn straight to you. They sense him through you. He’s a beacon.”

“He’s also the reason I’m still alive.”

“You’re not thinking clearly. He’s already taken too much.”

I rise to my feet slowly, fists clenched. “So have you.”

One of the Purna flinches. Another narrows her eyes. The collar crackles around my neck in warning—but I don’t stop. My power, though suppressed, is still there. Roaring beneath the surface. Hot and wild and furious.

“Let me speak to him,” I demand. “Let me see him.”

“No,” Ivenna says. “Not until you’ve made your choice.”

“I already have.”

And then the world shatters.

A gust of wind explodes outward from the west, ripping across the sands like a scream. The torches lining the ritual circle flicker violently—and then die. The very ground vibrates beneath our feet. Dust kicks up in great choking clouds as figures appear on the horizon.

The Wraithborn.

Their forms rise from the desert like ghosts given flesh—armor scorched black, faces obscured by helms that hiss with blue light. And their eyes, gods, their eyes—nothing but endless hunger behind obsidian masks.

Panic ripples through the Purnas like lightning. Spells are cast. Shields go up. Screams echo into the air as the first Wraithborn leaps into the circle and drives a blade through the chest of a priestess beside me.

Blood hits my face.

Everything breaks.

I’m yanked backward by unseen hands. The collar snaps at my throat, but then—suddenly—it fizzles and bursts, as if something stronger has intervened. I gasp as the connection between me and Rhaegar slams back into place.

He’s free.

A snarl splits the night—and I see him. My gargoyle.

Rhaegar bursts from the shadows like vengeance incarnate, his body crackling with broken magic, eyes lit with fury. His claws tear into the Wraithborn nearest to me, ripping it from the inside out in one explosive movement. The air warps around him with each step, his power distorting the light.

He’s wounded. I can see it in the tremble of his hands, the uneven way he breathes. The cracks in his skin glow red, lava bright, like he’s coming apart at the seams.

But still, he fights.

“Rhaegar!” I cry, reaching for him, even as another Purna falls screaming behind me.

Ivenna turns to run—but a Wraithborn catches her mid-incantation. Her body crumples. One of the younger witches tries to shield me with a dome of magic, but it falters under the weight of two charging Wraithborn. She’s flung like a doll into the stone altar behind us.

I don’t even know if she’s breathing.

The Wraithborn move toward me—deliberate. Unhurried. Their hands don’t reach for my heart.

They reach for my face. My chest. My soul.

They want me whole.

“No—no—” I stumble back, magic surging through me in violent bursts. I lash out, uncontrolled, a cyclone of force and heat. One of them staggers—but not far.

They close in.

But Rhaegar is faster.

He slams into them with a roar, his body already fracturing from the pressure. “Stay back!” he snarls at me, blood trailing from his mouth.

“Rhaegar, you’re—” I don’t finish the thought. I don’t need to.

He’s burning from the inside out.

He turns toward me, wild and barely himself. “Nora, I need?—”

“I know.”

I run to him.

And without hesitation, without thought—I press my lips to his.