The camp had moved west, nestled beneath the jagged overhangs of the Shrouded Maw. Stormclouds crawled across the sky like bruises, thunder muttering in the distance. The wind carried the stench of decay—not from the dead, but from something older. Something that had waited long enough.
Eliane stood at the ward line, sharpening her blade against a whetstone that had already dulled from use. Her fingers trembled, not from fear but from instinct. Something was wrong. She could feel it in the marrow of her bones.
"She's late," Dareth muttered behind her.
"She always is."
"Not like this."
Eliane turned, lips set in a thin line. "If you're going to suggest we leave her behind, save your breath."
"I wasn't," Dareth said softly. "I'm saying we prepare for the worst."
Liora didn't walk into camp. She fell into it.
Collapsed in a heap just beyond the ward line, her robes torn and bloodied, her eyes sunken and glowing faintly. Eliane was the first to reach her.
"Liora—!"
She knelt beside her, only to jerk back as a pulse of heat surged from Liora's chest. A soulmark, raw and freshly burned, glowed through the fabric.
"Don't touch me," Liora gasped. "Not until I can control it."
Dareth approached, grim. "What did you do?"
"What I had to."
"Liora—"
"I saw him, Dareth. My brother."
That froze them all. Even the wind seemed to pause.
"But he died in the Siege of Fallowreach," Eliane whispered.
"I thought so too."
The White Circle didn't wait for them to recover.
They struck in the night, silent and efficient. Shadows peeled themselves from trees. Glyph-marked blades sliced through wards like parchment. The guards were dead before they could scream.
Eliane woke to the scent of blood.
She reached for her blade—and found it already dripping.
"Too late," said a voice behind her.
She spun, blade clashing with the curved dagger of a man cloaked in white and gold.
His face was hidden behind a bone mask, but his voice was unmistakable.
"Hello, Eliane."
"Vaer."
He was once a friend. Once a lover. Now just another fanatic loyal to Mavrek.
They fought, brutal and close. Sparks lit the shadows. Blood sprayed across the tent walls. Eliane's breathing grew ragged. Her strikes became wild. Desperate.
"You should've come with me," Vaer said, catching her blade and twisting it from her grip.
"You should've stayed," she spat.
But it wasn't enough.
The dagger sank into her abdomen.
Twice.
Then once more.
Vaer caught her as she fell. Held her like he used to.
"I didn't want this."
"Then… why?" Eliane rasped.
"Because he showed me the end."
Eliane's eyes fluttered shut.
And then she was gone.
Liora screamed.
Not out of rage.
Not out of pain.
But because a part of her knew—knew before anyone told her, before she saw the tent, the blood trail, the limp body lying half-covered by a cloak.
Eliane was dead.
The one person who stood with her, even when she doubted herself. The one who fought beside her, questioned her, grounded her.
And now she was gone.
The Veilmark on Liora's palm flared.
Not in anger.
In grief.
And something woke inside her.
The others gathered. Silent. Shell-shocked. Dareth was on his knees, face buried in his hands. A few cried. Most didn't. They couldn't afford to. Not yet.
Liora stood.
The air around her crackled.
"We burn them tonight," she said.
"Who?" someone asked.
She didn't answer.
Because she didn't know yet.
But someone would pay.
Far away, in a hall of glass and flame, Mavrek watched through a pool of dark water.
"She's nearly there," he whispered.
The masked figure beside him stirred. "You think grief will turn her?"
"No," Mavrek said, smiling. "Purpose will."