The dawn over the Emerald Throat didn't bring warmth. It brought a sickly, silver light that sliced through the damp fog like a scalpel, revealing the horror of the previous night’s wake. Maya stood on the edge of the obsidian cliff, her hand pressed against the jagged rock for support. Below them, the forest was an undulating sea of bruised greens and purples, and somewhere in that vast, breathing shadows, Arkan was—buried. Gone.
Her pulse was a erratic, heavy thrum in her throat, mirroring the faint blue light that occasionally pulsed under her skin. She looked at Riley, whose bow was half-raised, and then at Zara, who stood unusually still. Zara’s eyes were no longer those of an heiress; they were fractured, humming with the static of the Hive.
"He's not dead," Maya whispered, her bre
