Chapter 1
I feel around the cold, calcified ridges of a jagged hole in Slátra’s side, a particularly sharp edge nicking the tip of my finger. Pain barely registers, the sensation akin to the song of a lost friend. Treasured almost; many of the scars on my hands attributed to this beautiful silver moon.
To her.
With slow steps, I move farther around the bundled Moonplume to another hole, this one so deep I can fit my entire arm in and only just feel the back.
Something I check for the thousandth time, making sure the shape is clear before I move on to the next.
Imagining I have the missing pieces in my hands, setting them back in place.
Not a want.
Not a simple desire to finish the job, like completing a complex puzzle.
But a soul-deep urge that’s propelled me since she pitched from the sky, pervading my dreams and every waking breath even after I found Raeve—beaten and bloody in that cell.
I press my palm flat between Slátra’s closed eyes. “You will be whole again,” I rasp, throat so tight I have to clear it. I put my head against hers despite the bitter cold that bites my skin. “I swear on my existence, I will not rest until I’ve found every last piece and brought them back to you.”
She doesn’t move. Doesn’t open her eyes and reveal her secrets. Certainly doesn’t fill this jagged hole in my own chest, like something’s out of place. A feeling I’ve grown too familiar with over the many phases since Elluin left.
I look down into the smooth hollow that cradled her before she hatched as Raeve, and a different sort of hurt flares in my too-soft heart … impossible to ignore.
My thoughts drift to her whereabouts. To how Líri howled and howled once she seemed to realize Raeve was gone. That Raeve had left her here in The Burn, had chosen to chase revenge on her own.
To step away from love.
I felt every high-pitched bay through the fibers of my being. Still do whenever I step foot in that cavern or let Rygun’s thoughts filter through me from where he’s nesting at the mouth of it … Though the small Moonplume seems to be howling less now. Like she’s giving up.
Somehow, that’s worse.
I press a kiss between Slátra’s eyes and make for the stairs, brushing the frost from my beard as I step from the frigid ebb of her silver light, up toward reality.
Pushing past leafy vines, I exit into the balmy air grown heavy from the storm now rumbling in the distance, past sodden blooms dripping into puddles.
As I reach the door to my suite, the sound of flapping parchment wings draws my attention skyward.
I offer my hand for the approaching lark to settle on, my heart lurching with the realization that it could be from Raeve. Perhaps a note telling me she cares for me, but that she won’t be coming back. Something she couldn’t bring herself to tell me to my face.
Not a breath moves through me until I flatten the lark and read the message from start to end, written in the native tongue of the clans.
Not from Raeve.
Relief floods me like a guzzle of icy water.
I reread the message from Terros, valuing the update on his journey to Bothaim with Rekk saddled behind him, being flown toward his imminent demise.
Happy to hear of their progress, I refold the lark and pocket it. Weather permitting, they should land in Bothaim in two or three cycles.
Raeve will be waiting, no doubt. Ready to skin Rekk alive. Hopefully make him beg for death before the end.
Hopefully shed the bloodlusting itch from her veins.
Shoving the thought down, I lurch the door wide and push past the curtains. Make sure they’re pinched shut before I move deeper into the suite, brushing my fingers over my lute. Frowning, I pause to lift it from the rack, settle it against my hip, and drag my thumb across the frayed strings …
The tenor that strums free boots me in the chest, strained and with a strident overtone. An echo of the hurt that’s been strung through me since Elluin left so many phases ago.
The tune of my heartache. Of my love and sorrow.
I should’ve replaced the strings long ago, but that would change the sound. Something that didn’t feel right. Especially since she’s the only one I’ve played for since Slátra carried her into the sky. A private tune to her spirit in the hopes it would hail her heart back to me.
Perhaps I should’ve played harder.
Clearing my throat, I set the instrument on its rack and unstopper my chalice of burnt brandy, pouring a drink. I sip, the liquor blazing a path into my gut as I open the small table drawer and retrieve the glass vial I stuffed within over thirty cycles ago.
A pang of guilt strikes me at the sight of the whirling mists inside, like it’s caging a small tornado.
Oops.
I sink into the leather armchair and take another swig, put the glass aside, then set the vial on the table and pop the cork.
Borg pours out in a gush of grumbling mist, churning and spreading as he gathers size. He folds over himself, then stretches larger than a pallet-sized throw—almost completely transparent—before constricting into a dense, wafting mass again, just bigger than me, black eyes gleaming with—
Rage? No. Disappointment.
That’s worse.
“The absent king returns,” the disgruntled waif mutters, floating before me like a pale storm cloud tethered to his vial.
“Borg. I’ve missed you, too.”
“Your actions contradict.” He extends his mouth longways; a messy hollow torn through. “Next time you think to stuff me in a drawer, don’t.”
I dip my chin, hand fisted against my chest. “You’re right, my friend. That was thoughtless. Please accept my humble apologies.”
“Depends.” Another stretch of his mouth—sideways this time. “Did you find me a prettier jar?”
Shit.
“Still working on it—”
“Lies.” He gusts forward so fast the hairs on my arms lift. “Over a hundred phases and I’m still in the same ugly thing, plugged in place with a cork.”
I arch a brow. “It has a large window …”
“Pointless when I’m tossed in a drawer like an afterthought.”
A small smile pulls at my lips. “Fair point.”
Borg sniffs long and deep, getting right up close to my mouth, like he’s about to thread in there and invade my organs. Never fails to make a shiver climb my spine. “I smell the drink on your breath.”
“Indeed.”
“You’ve come to feed me?”
I reach for my glass and bring it to my lips, forcing him to retreat enough for me to take another blazing sip. “Depends,” I hiss past clenched teeth, playing the usual game.
He offers me a gaping grin, then wafts back, pretending to pick mist from beneath his foggy fingernails.
“I still haven’t heard from your Elluin, nor have the others.
Though a well-fed brother in Gore recently came across a fae who had spirits clamoring to speak with her.
Curiously, some were members of the fallen Neván family. ”
My heart almost lurches free of my fucking rib cage.
“For a hefty nibble,” Borg continues while my blood boils, gaze still cast on his nails, “I could ask my brother to inquire about the messages they were hoping to pass—”
“You will tell your brothers to stop searching for Elluin’s spirit immediately,” I growl with such might the room trembles, hands fisting so tight a fissure pings through my glass. “Or anyone in correlation with her.”
Borg wafts his hand flat against what I imagine is his chest cavity, like I just wounded him. “But you swore to feed me for an eon if I managed to connect with Elluin’s spiri—”
“Or I’ll tip you back into the Mists.”
Shriveling to the size of a woetoe, he peers up at me, eyes huge within his trembling body.
He doesn’t want to go back there. He’s much better fed with me.
“And once we locate the rest of your precious moonshards?” he snipes, puffing back to his regular size and posturing over me. “What of me then? Will you tip me back into the Mists? Or perhaps leave me in a drawer until you grow so old and senile you forget I even exist?”
His words pinch, softening my regard. I know how it feels to be capped with a cork and tucked in a drawer, hidden away.
“I still have use of you, Borg. And plenty of painful memories to keep you as overfed as you’ve been these past hundred phases. Though if I were wise,” I mutter, tossing back another swig, “I’d trade you for a brother with a sweeter appetite.”
This time both his misty hands flatten against his chest. “You wouldn’t dare. I’ve been a humble servant.”
A hungry, sadistic servant. But morbid as it is, this waif knows me almost as well as Rygun does.
He’s tasted most of my agony, my loss. Every time he brings something painful to the surface, I’m reminded to live each moment with intention. To honor and love with my whole heart and thus stave off the fester of regret.
Mostly.
“I wouldn’t dare,” I confirm, meaning every word. “You’re a loyal ally and a much-treasured friend.”
Borg deflates—everything bar his puffed chest—and returns to picking mist from beneath his wispy nails. “Treasured as I am, I have bad news for us both, given my current state of near starvation.”
I lift a brow. Decide against reminding him it’s impossible for him to actually starve.
“Unfortunately, I have no news to report on the whereabouts of any more of your beloved shards, though the Moving Mists are migrating farther north than they have in over a hundred phases.” He splays his fingers to inspect his handiwork.
“I’m hoping one of my brothers within will spot something soon. ”
I nod, pushing down the pang of disappointment. “Good to know.”
He gets to work on his other hand, coy as he says, “Perhaps there’s something else you want to know?”
Hard to ignore the greedy hitch roughening his voice.
“There is, actually. I’m looking for information on the whereabouts of three folk.”
He surges forward so fast I suck a breath, almost cross-eyed with the effort to maintain his gloomy eye contact. “Go on …”