Then, at last, she whispered, “But I died anyway.”
The words hit me like a blade between the ribs.
“Zyn,” I said. “You did. But you came back.”
My voice cracked. “And this time… I won’t fail you.”
Iwas too confused, too tormented to really pay attention to Mallack's last words. My mind was like a sieve filling with water. I was standing underneath it, trying to catch as much as possible, but it ran between my fingers, leaving only a hint of a story. Fragments that I tried to fill in. Make fit.
I had been dead.
That was still the hardest one to wrap my head around. How did one come back from the dead? And why? Just to deliver a message to Myccael, one that didn't make any sense to me?
And after I did? Then what? Would I collapse and die again?
I thought that would be the most likely possibility, because whoever had brought me back hadn't seemed to think me important enough to restore my life to me. Because what was the sense in it? Did one give a vessel a name that carried illies flowers?
Strangely, the thought of being dead again didn't bother me at all. At least, not in the way one would think. It bothered me more when I looked at Mallack. It was obvious the male was grief-stricken over the loss of his mate… me. To do that to him, again? What kind of heartless monster did that?
Mallack said a god. The god Grandyr. Another name that didn't mean a thing to me.
I don’t know how long I sat there, lost in my thoughts, but after a while, Mallack brought me food, and we talked again, this time about nothing. He seemed content to just sit there, stare at me, and ask me questions about waking up in the shrine and how I got to Veyrhall. Honestly, most of that journey was a blur to me. I just knew where I had to go. People there called me Vissy Thalia, which was why I assumed I was. Thalia and I really had to look an awful lot alike for everyone to make the same mistake. Thalia. My daughter.
I asked Mallack more questions about her and her husband, Darryck, whom I was supposed to know as well. From out of nowhere, the image of a boy with black hair and dark, serious eyes came to me, but I wasn't sure if it was Darryck or Myccael, and I didn't want to ask Mallack. Everything was confusing enough.
That night, I dreamed again.
Smoke still hung in the air. Not the thick, choking kind from the night before, it was thinner now, curling through broken beams and shattered windows, rising from what was left of the city like ghosts. The sun filtered weakly through the haze, pale and cold.
Our hut was still standing, but only barely. The front door sagged on one hinge, and the inside smelled of ash and scorched oil. Mama sat curled in the corner, her shawl pressed to her arm, blood soaking the fabric. She tried to hide the pain, but I saw it in the way she held her breath. The way her lips trembled when she thought I wasn’t looking.
“I’ll find a healer,” I offered.
She didn’t argue. Just closed her eyes and leaned back against the wall. And that told me more than any words ever could have. She would’ve never let me step outside unless it was truly dire. The mother in her always fought to keep me safe, to hold the world at bay. Sending me into that war-torn city went against every instinct she had, but she must have known that if she died, she wouldn’t be able to protect me at all.
It took many rotations, and becoming a mother myself, before I understood the terror of that kind of choice, when every option feels like a betrayal, and survival demands you gamble with the person you love most.
Outside, the streets were littered with ruin. Scorch marks and soot blackened the cobblestones. One of the bakeries had collapsed inward, the wooden frame looked like ribs snapped open to the sky. I kept to the alleyways, head down, eyes low. Dragoons were everywhere, mostly Vissigroth Kennenryn’s, wandering the broken streets like carrion beasts without a commander.
I’d nearly made it to the healer's house when I heard a laugh. It was rough and off-key and clearly belonged to a male. Goosebumps rose over my skin, and dread filled my stomach. I turned to run too late. A hand clamped around my arm, the grip was like a vise; it was gloved in blood-streaked leather.
“Well now,” he said, breath reeking of sour ale and battle sweat. “Aren’t you a sweet little treat?”
He was taller than me by far, like all Leanders. His armor was dented, the insignia of Kennenryn scorched but visible on his chest. One eye was swollen shut. The other glittered with something mean.
“I’m just looking for a healer,” I said. My voice shook. “My mother’s?—”
“I'll heal you, alright,” he muttered, dragging me toward a collapsed alcove. “C’mon. Let’s see what a human body feels like.”
“Ney—please?—!”
I twisted, but he was stronger; his grip bruised my arm, and I felt a hint of panic bloom cold and wide inside me. A scream tore from me, one that made my attacker only laugh harder.
But then, out of nowhere, "Let her go!”
The voice hit like thunder. It was loud and commanding, leaving no doubt that he expected it to be followed. The soldier froze. His fingers still dug into my arm, but I felt them twitch.
“Who in the hells?—”
