VALERIE.
The fortress smelled of ash.
Even after the battle had ended, the scent lingered—a bitter reminder that peace was a fantasy and safety a lie. The fires had been put out, the bodies buried. Yet the wound remained. Not just on the land. On me.
I stood alone in the war tent, a map stretched before me. Pins marked every loss. Every breach. Every stolen breath. The poison was gone from my veins but its shadow clung to my heart.
Behind me, the flap rustled.
Jason. He didn’t speak, just stepped to my side and watched me mark another dot in red. “That was the Moonward shrine,” I said quietly. “They burned it to the ground.” He said nothing because what could he say to that?
Dorian, Jasper, and I rode through charred fields and smoking stone. The outpost had been a sacred site once—a
