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His stomach turned over at the sight of them, the cream and crimson pattern mocking his efforts.

They’d reached ground level.

The bottom of the only site with any potential. No new weapons. No more hairpins. Nothing. Just another interminable fucking day under the beaming sunstar with fuck all to show at the end of it—and without the promise tomorrow might have offered.

—There are more areas to look, Maggie. Hope is not lost⁠—

No, Pet. The other ruins hold no bearing on Bal and Nyri. This is where they were, and with nothing left to search… Shite, hope feels very, very fucking far away from me right now.

How was he going to tell the witchling?

Solyrian finally dropped behind the buildings still standing around them, casting their site in long shadows, and it was all Mag could do not to fall to his knees right there in the rubble. He’d have done it, too, if not for all the Demons around him.

They knew what it meant as well as he did, but if he broke, so would they. He had to be strong, no matter that he didn’t feel it.

A chill worked its way down his spine, his limbs and heart heavy. Once again, like so many nights before, a somber silence descended over the city as the encroaching darkness put a halt to their work.

Once again, it threatened to suffocate him.

Was this what life had become—a series of disappointments and failures, multiplying beneath the looming weight of the damned Prophecy? That shite was supposed to be fake. A joke for him and his brothers to laugh over. Instead, it was real. The harbinger for one fucked up thing after another, ever since Baldrir had landed in the Great Hall all those months ago—mutilated beyond recognition, one foot already in the Veil—with a riddled message from his radge…fucking…abductor.

A Wolflord’s mind was a strange place. Between him and Pet, it was sometimes impossible to tell which of them was having ideas or realizations first, their separate thoughts often working in tandem to build a complete view of any given situation.

—Lad—

Weeping Sisters.

—Aye—

Without another thought, Magnus tore his robe off and shoved a corner of the grubby linen into his mouth.

Get me to the castle, Pet. Now.

Mag gave up control and fell into the change, debris scattering as his front paws landed with a thud. Pet loosed a broken snarl and the Demons closest to him startled back, fumbling out of his way as he kicked into a dead sprint. Over piles of stone and around blackened walls. Dodging unsuspecting Straelani. As soon as he hit the high road, the world blurred by, his wolf free in the open space to devour the distance.

He skidded into the courtyard and shifted back, shouting for Lyriat as he fumbled back into his clothes. Sprinting through the colossal double doors of the castle’s entrance and down the glass corridor, past another set of guards, Magnus burst into the Great Hall.

“Where’s the king?”

His shouted demand brought a halt to the evening meal, a couple hundred eyes widened in his direction. He must’ve looked a sight, standing there half naked and filthy, chest heaving, but he didn’t give a fuck.

A bench screeched on the far side of the room and a pair of ivory horns appeared above the crowd, followed by Lyriat’s head. “Has something happened?” he rasped, looking just as harried as Mag felt.

“No. Well, aye. I⁠—”

Lyriat’s nostrils flared in warning, meaning in every movement as he clenched his jaw and glanced down. Only then did Magnus realize that Brand was sitting down to supper along with everyone else and witnessing the exchange. A scan of the room showed him Lunara’s likeness about as far away as it could be—vacant and silent, pretending to eat beside a perpetually cranky Fern—which meant she was hiding somewhere and seeing this, too.

Damn it. He wasn’t bleeding ready for her yet.

With as deep a breath as he could manage, Mag plastered a carefree smile on his face and forced his limbs to go slack, gathering his robe and tying the sash in a smooth motion. “I just need a quick word, Your Horned Majesty.” Hopefully, no one noticed how false the usual, playful snark in his voice sounded. “An update on the day’s progress, if you can spare a moment.”

As ever, Lyriat was a perceptive bastard and played along. Crossing his arms, he said, “One would think that a Wolflord, of all creatures, would be more sensitive about interrupting a meal for a quick word. Can it not wait?”

“Ach, have pity on a friend.” This farce was eating away at him from the inside out, impatience threatening to liberate itself as a scream. Still, Mag gestured to his entire body, pretending nonchalance. “What can’t wait is me having a bath. Sure, we could do it later, but I’m fucking beat and plan to fall face first into the mattress as soon as I’m clean. This was on the way, aye?”

Lyriat pinched the bridge of his nose and feigned a put-upon sigh. “You have five minutes before my food is unforgivably cold.”

Magnus chuckled, the sound grating on his ears. “I’m sure you’ll live.” With that, he spun on his heel and left, not waiting to see whether Lyriat followed as he headed in the direction of Brand’s tower chamber.