(Daciana POV)
Conri’s horse flew through the western woods while smoke swallowed Blackfang behind us, and every breath felt stolen from death itself.
I held the saddle with bleeding hands, too weak to shift, too broken to cry, and too angry to faint.
Behind us, Bardolph’s voice tore through the smoke, calling my name with the kind of panic that arrived after love had already been murdered.
I did not look back again, because looking back was how weak hearts returned to the knife that they first cut.
Conri’s arm stayed firm around my waist, not gentle enough to feel false, but steady enough to keep me from falling.
His warriors rode beside us in silence, their black armor flashing between trees like shadows sent by the moon herself.
“You said my mother did not die serving Blackfang,”
