Why does it hurt so bad?
A sob escapes me, and Jasce pulls me even closer.
The leather of my saddle comes into focus through my tears. Jasce’s hands tighten on my waist, lifting me up. I sink into the familiar smoothness, gripping the pommel until my knuckles turn white.
He doesn’t speak, doesn’t try to comfort me with empty words or false promises. He simply stays close, one hand restingon my knee, thumb tracing small circles through the fabric of my surcoat.
The morning sun beats down on us, but I feel cold. So cold. Like the flames that consumed my sister have frozen something vital inside me. Jasce shifts closer, as if sensing my chill.
The sister I loved is gone. The sister I killed is gone.
Both truths exist simultaneously, tearing me apart from the inside out.
Through my tears, warriors move like shadows in the morning haze. Our warriors kneel beside the fallen—both House of Crimson and House of Silver alike.
My vision blurs again as I spot an injured warrior, her dark hair and slight build so similar to Asha’s.
But it’s not her.
It will never be her again.
The soldier attending her wears Jasce’s colors, yet he treats her with the same gentle care he’d show his own.
This is what we fought for. What Asha couldn’t see through her hatred. Unity born from shared pain.
Jasce’s thumb continues its steady circles on my knee, anchoring me as I watch our people slowly begin to stitch themselves back together.
Chapter Seventy-Eight
Annora
The clip-clopof hooves fills the silence as we make our way back to Sharhavva.
A gentle breeze carries the scent of sage and desert sand as I twist in my saddle, glancing over my shoulder at the long line of prisoners walking behind us.
These are my people. These House of Silver warriors who followed Asha.
Their faces are streaked with dirt and dried blood, shoulders slumped in defeat.
Jasce reaches across the space between our horses to squeeze my hand. “They’ll come around. Give them time.”
A young woman among the prisoners catches my eye. She can’t be more than sixteen, with hair the same shade as mine. When our gazes meet, she doesn’t look away. There’s no hatred in her expression, just exhaustion and uncertainty.
I straighten my shoulders, facing forward again.
These people need more than just mercy—they need hope, a reason to believe in this new future we’re trying to build.
The walls between House of Crimson and House of Silver weren’t built in a day, and they won’t come down in one either.
Mazaline had to know what she was doing all those months ago—binding my soul to Lyra’s. Maybe she even knew that I would choose peace instead of war. Love instead of hate.
She must have seen what could be—two houses flowing together like tributaries joining to form a mighty river.
I lift my chin to the horizon where Sharhavva’s spires pierce the golden sky. The same sun warms both crimson and silver skin. The same stars guide our paths at night.
What Mazaline started in secret, we’ll finish. Not with swords and fire, but with compassion.
Chapter Seventy-Nine
