KYRAXUS

She is waiting for me by the lake again.

I know this place better than my own palace. The garden at the edge of the world, where the twilight of Valthar has never reached. The grass is soft and impossibly green. White lilies grow wild along the shore, so thick their scent hangs in the air like warm honey. And the lake itself is liquid silver, perfectly still, reflecting a sky I have never seen while waking.

A sky with a sun in it.

Gold, and warm, and kind.

She stands at the water's edge with her back to me. Barefoot. A gown of pale silk moves around her ankles, embroidered at the sleeves with tiny silver lilies. Her hair stirs in a breeze that smells of crushed petals and damp earth.

I have seen her a thousand nights. I have never once reached her.

Tonight, I am closer than I have ever been.

I walk toward her. The grass is warm beneath my bare feet. There is no armor on me here. No crown. No sable mantle, no blades, no seven years of blood. Only a man in a loose shirt, heart beating so hard it aches.

Ten paces.

Five.

She turns her head.

Not fully. Just enough for me to see the curve of her cheek, the line of her throat, the soft corner of her mouth. Never her whole face. It is always just out of reach, blurred like a reflection in moving water. But I can see her eyes.

I would know those eyes in any kingdom, in any life.

She smiles at me.

Something in my chest cracks open.

"I am here," I hear myself say. My voice is not the voice of the High Sovereign. It is rough. Desperate. "I am here. I came. I have torn the world apart looking for you."

She doesn't answer. She never does.

But she reaches for me.

Her fingertips touch my collar, and for the first time in seven years, I feel her. Warm. Gods, she is warm. The heat of her skin pours into me like sunlight into stone, and every frozen, starving part of me turns toward it.

Her fingers slip beneath my collar and find the silver pendant at my throat. She traces its etched runes, slowly, the way I do when I cannot sleep. As if she knows. As if she has always known.

I catch her wrist.

Gently. So gently. I am terrified she will shatter.

I lift her hand and press my mouth to the inside of it, to the warm, fluttering pulse there, and she makes a soft sound, half breath, half sigh, that undoes me completely.

I draw her closer.

Her body fits against mine as though it was carved from the same stone. Her silk is warm beneath my hands. Her breath brushes my jaw. She smells of lilies, and rain, and something I have no word for. Home, perhaps, if I have ever had one.

I lower my head.

Her lips part.

An inch.

Less.

"Tell me your name," I whisper against her mouth. "Please. Just tell me your name, and I will find you. I swear it. I will find you."

Her lips move.

I hear nothing.

The garden begins to blur.

"No." My hands tighten on her. "No, no, stay, stay with me—"

The silver lake goes dark. The lilies wither to ash. The sun bleeds out of the sky, and she is coming apart in my arms like mist, warm one heartbeat and gone the next, her eyes the last thing to vanish.

And I am holding nothing.

I wake to cold.

Always the cold.

Canvas snaps above me in the wind. The war tent. The camp. The air smells of wet ash, horse sweat, and old smoke. My bedroll is soaked through with my own sweat, and my hand is clenched so tightly around the silver pendant that the edges have cut into my palm.

There is no lake. No lilies. No warmth.

Only Valthar.

Only twilight.

For one long moment, I lie still and stare at the canvas, my chest heaving, the ghost of her heat still fading from my skin.

Then the rage comes.

It rises from somewhere deep and black and starving. I am on my feet before I know it, and the camp table goes over with a crash. Maps, ink, a lantern, a goblet of wine. I hurl the lantern across the tent. It shatters against the center pole and sprays hot oil and glass across the floor.

"Seven years."

My voice tears out of me.

"Seven years, and she still will not let me reach her!"

The tent flap rips open. Two of my Valthari guards stand frozen in the gap, hands on their swords, faces pale.

I do not look at them.

I look at my bleeding palm. At the pendant. At the Krysa Shard's curse, burning beneath my skin like a second heartbeat.

It is closer tonight. I can feel it.

She is close.

"Saddle my horse," I say.

My voice is calm now. Quiet.

That frightens them more.

Zulmora is burning when I ride in.

It was a mountain village, until this morning. Now it is soot and rubble. Charred timber. The tang of fresh blood on the wind. My Valthari, in armor the color of a bruised sky, move through the ruins with lethal efficiency, herding survivors into the central plaza.

My charger's hooves crunch over the shattered remains of a stone fountain.

To these people, this is the end of their world.

To me, it is a coordinate on a map. Another place the Nyxara whispered of. Another place she might be.

I do not look at the weeping mothers. I do not look at the broken men kneeling in the dirt.

I look for her.

A shape. The tilt of a head. A particular way of standing. A pair of eyes I would know in any kingdom, in any life.

General Teodric Varn approaches, his Xulkari blade still dark with the morning's work. "The Oruun have surrendered the northern granaries, My Liege. The Vyrkathun banners fly from the watchtower. Shall we begin the census for the labor camps?"

I do not answer.

There is a group of women huddled by the well. I study them one by one. Their faces. Their hands. Their eyes.

None of them.

None of them.

My fingers find the pendant beneath my collar. I trace it until the cut in my palm opens again.

"I did not lead the Vyrkathun through the Jagged Pass for laborers or grain, Varn."

"My Liege, the scouts have found nothing but mountain peasants. There is no woman here who matches the description of the Aethelis."

I turn my head.

Slowly.

Varn goes very still.

I lean down from the saddle until my face is level with his, and when I speak, my voice is barely above a whisper.

"Then your scouts are blind."

He swallows.

"I have seen these mountains in my sleep for a thousand nights. I have smelled the air of this village before a single Valthari boot touched its soil. I held her in my arms not three hours ago, General."

The words taste like ash.

"She is here. Search every cellar. Every barn. Every shadow. And if you must tear down every stone of Zulmora to find her, then bring me the hammers."

I spur my horse forward.

The sable mantle snaps behind me in the wind. I ride through the ruins, past a collapsed apothecary, past a heap of splintered crates leaning against a half-buried cellar door—

And I stop.

I do not know why.

There is no sound. No movement. Nothing but smoke, and wind, and the crackle of dying fires.

But the Krysa Shard lurches beneath my skin.

The pendant burns cold against my throat.

And under the stink of ash and blood, so faint I could have imagined it, there is something else on the wind.

Lilies.

Crushed lilies. And rain.

My heart stops.

"Is something there, My Liege?" Captain Iskander Rook draws up beside me, hand going to his sword.

I stare at the cellar door. At the dark gaps between its broken slats.

I do not breathe.

Behind me, the village burns. Before me, there is only splintered wood, and shadow.

And I could swear, I could swear, that something in that darkness is breathing too.

"Rook," I say quietly, without looking away.

"My Liege?"

My gloved hand tightens on the reins.

"Get off your horse."

They are waiting for me by the lake again.

I know this place better than my own palace. The garden at the edge of the world, where the twilight of Valthar has never reached. The grass is soft and impossibly green. White lilies grow wild along the shore, so thick their scent hangs in the air like warm honey. And the lake itself is liquid silver, perfectly still, reflecting a sky I have never seen while waking.

A sky with a sun in it.

Gold, and warm, and kind.

They stand at the water's edge with their back to me. Barefoot. Pale silk robes move around their ankles, embroidered at the sleeves with tiny silver lilies. Their hair stirs in a breeze that smells of crushed petals and damp earth.

I have seen them a thousand nights. I have never once reached them.

Tonight, I am closer than I have ever been.

I walk toward them. The grass is warm beneath my bare feet. There is no armor on me here. No crown. No sable mantle, no blades, no seven years of blood. Only a man in a loose shirt, heart beating so hard it aches.

Ten paces.

Five.

They turn their head.

Not fully. Just enough for me to see the curve of their cheek, the line of their throat, the soft corner of their mouth. Never their whole face. It is always just out of reach, blurred like a reflection in moving water. But I can see their eyes.

I would know those eyes in any kingdom, in any life.

They smile at me.

Something in my chest cracks open.

"I am here," I hear myself say. My voice is not the voice of the High Sovereign. It is rough. Desperate. "I am here. I came. I have torn the world apart looking for you."

They don't answer. They never do.

But they reach for me.

Their fingertips touch my collar, and for the first time in seven years, I feel them. Warm. Gods, they are warm. The heat of their skin pours into me like sunlight into stone, and every frozen, starving part of me turns toward it.

Their fingers slip beneath my collar and find the silver pendant at my throat. They trace its etched runes, slowly, the way I do when I cannot sleep. As if they know. As if they have always known.

I catch their wrist.

Gently. So gently. I am terrified they will shatter.

I lift their hand and press my mouth to the inside of it, to the warm, fluttering pulse there, and they make a soft sound, half breath, half sigh, that undoes me completely.

I draw them closer.

Their body fits against mine as though it was carved from the same stone. Their silk is warm beneath my hands. Their breath brushes my jaw. They smell of lilies, and rain, and something I have no word for. Home, perhaps, if I have ever had one.

I lower my head.

Their lips part.

An inch.

Less.

"Tell me your name," I whisper against their mouth. "Please. Just tell me your name, and I will find you. I swear it. I will find you."

Their lips move.

I hear nothing.

The garden begins to blur.

"No." My hands tighten on them. "No, no, stay, stay with me—"

The silver lake goes dark. The lilies wither to ash. The sun bleeds out of the sky, and they are coming apart in my arms like mist, warm one heartbeat and gone the next, their eyes the last thing to vanish.

And I am holding nothing.

I wake to cold.

Always the cold.

Canvas snaps above me in the wind. The war tent. The camp. The air smells of wet ash, horse sweat, and old smoke. My bedroll is soaked through with my own sweat, and my hand is clenched so tightly around the silver pendant that the edges have cut into my palm.

There is no lake. No lilies. No warmth.

Only Valthar.

Only twilight.

For one long moment, I lie still and stare at the canvas, my chest heaving, the ghost of their heat still fading from my skin.

Then the rage comes.

It rises from somewhere deep and black and starving. I am on my feet before I know it, and the camp table goes over with a crash. Maps, ink, a lantern, a goblet of wine. I hurl the lantern across the tent. It shatters against the center pole and sprays hot oil and glass across the floor.

"Seven years."

My voice tears out of me.

"Seven years, and they still will not let me reach them!"

The tent flap rips open. Two of my Valthari guards stand frozen in the gap, hands on their swords, faces pale.

I do not look at them.

I look at my bleeding palm. At the pendant. At the Krysa Shard's curse, burning beneath my skin like a second heartbeat.

It is closer tonight. I can feel it.

They are close.

"Saddle my horse," I say.

My voice is calm now. Quiet.

That frightens them more.

Zulmora is burning when I ride in.

It was a mountain village, until this morning. Now it is soot and rubble. Charred timber. The tang of fresh blood on the wind. My Valthari, in armor the color of a bruised sky, move through the ruins with lethal efficiency, herding survivors into the central plaza.

My charger's hooves crunch over the shattered remains of a stone fountain.

To these people, this is the end of their world.

To me, it is a coordinate on a map. Another place the Nyxara whispered of. Another place they might be.

I do not look at the weeping mothers. I do not look at the broken men kneeling in the dirt.

I look for them.

A shape. The tilt of a head. A particular way of standing. A pair of eyes I would know in any kingdom, in any life.

General Teodric Varn approaches, his Xulkari blade still dark with the morning's work. "The Oruun have surrendered the northern granaries, My Liege. The Vyrkathun banners fly from the watchtower. Shall we begin the census for the labor camps?"

I do not answer.

There is a group of survivors huddled by the well. I study them one by one. Their faces. Their hands. Their eyes.

None of them.

None of them.

My fingers find the pendant beneath my collar. I trace it until the cut in my palm opens again.

"I did not lead the Vyrkathun through the Jagged Pass for laborers or grain, Varn."

"My Liege, the scouts have found nothing but mountain peasants. There is no one here who matches the description of the Aethelis."

I turn my head.

Slowly.

Varn goes very still.

I lean down from the saddle until my face is level with his, and when I speak, my voice is barely above a whisper.

"Then your scouts are blind."

He swallows.

"I have seen these mountains in my sleep for a thousand nights. I have smelled the air of this village before a single Valthari boot touched its soil. I held them in my arms not three hours ago, General."

The words taste like ash.

"They are here. Search every cellar. Every barn. Every shadow. And if you must tear down every stone of Zulmora to find them, then bring me the hammers."

I spur my horse forward.

The sable mantle snaps behind me in the wind. I ride through the ruins, past a collapsed apothecary, past a heap of splintered crates leaning against a half-buried cellar door—

And I stop.

I do not know why.

There is no sound. No movement. Nothing but smoke, and wind, and the crackle of dying fires.

But the Krysa Shard lurches beneath my skin.

The pendant burns cold against my throat.

And under the stink of ash and blood, so faint I could have imagined it, there is something else on the wind.

Lilies.

Crushed lilies. And rain.

My heart stops.

"Is something there, My Liege?" Captain Iskander Rook draws up beside me, hand going to his sword.

I stare at the cellar door. At the dark gaps between its broken slats.

I do not breathe.

Behind me, the village burns. Before me, there is only splintered wood, and shadow.

And I could swear, I could swear, that something in that darkness is breathing too.

"Rook," I say quietly, without looking away.

"My Liege?"

My gloved hand tightens on the reins.

"Get off your horse."