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The world beyond the walls was dense with shadows, the trees ahead thick and crowding closer. But she could still see him. The forest edge loomed—a beast crouched in the dusk. Tavrin disappeared into its jaws. His voice rang again through the underbrush, calling Wren’s name.

Wren had to be somewhere ahead.

Brunna’s heart thundered as she pushed harder. She stumbled into the tree line, dim light of the Veilmoon guttering like a spent flame. Her skirts snagged on a root. The gauzy red fabric tore as she yanked it free, breath rasping. She stumbled, caught herself against a tree, palms stinging, and ran on.

Something large crashed ahead. Branches snapped beneath its weight. Then came the shriek of a Witherborn, deep and guttural. A heartbeat later, Tavrin’s cry answered it. It was a raw sound, so full of pain it stole the breath from her lungs. She drove forward, heedless of brambles and tearing cloth. She had to reach him. His cry cut off. Panic spiked to terror.

Two bolts—one after another. A heavy crash. Then silence. No screams. No breath. Only the faint whisper of brush shifting as something heavy moved deeper into the trees.

“TAVRIN!” Brunna bellowed.

She stumbled into a small clearing and fell hard to her knees beside a dark form. The acrid scent of acid scalded her nose. Her hand plunged into a slick pool. Pain flared, and she yanked it back.

Blinking through the agony, her skin already blistering, Brunna tugged her waterskin and doused her hand, biting back the cry that followed. The shape on the ground was a Witherborn, bloated with fungus, two bolts buried deep in its skull.

She lurched upright, skirting the swollen corpse. Tavrin had to be close. His scream echoed in her thoughts. The silence was thick and final.

“Tav!” Her voice cracked, panic scraping at her throat.

Something glinted in the dirt. She dropped again, reaching with her good hand—fingers closing on the smooth curve of silver-painted wood. A mask. Wren’s. Broken clean through the eye hole. Her blood ran cold.

She fumbled for the lantern at her belt, fingers shaking as she unhooked it. The metal clattered against her thigh. She dug for a sparkstone. Struck once. Twice. Nothing. The stone scraped her raw palm and slipped away into the leaves. She groped blindly through the damp brush and found something else—cold metal. A blade. Tavrin’s sword, the one he’d taken from a fallen Fist.

Another shape lay half-buried in the leaves. Leather.

Her breath caught. The world shrank.

“No. No, no, no.”

She shrieked as her hands scrambled in the leaves, tearing blisters open. Her hand closed on one ridged cylinder, then another. Light—she needed light. Needed to see, even as every part of her begged her not to look.

There. The sparkstone. She struck it. Once. Again. The wick caught. Lantern light spilled across the forest floor. Small, straight horns. Tufts of sandy hair. Bones. Tavrin’s mask.

Bile surged. She doubled over, retching until nothing was left, and her throat burned raw. The lantern lay beside her, casting long shadows over what remained.

When it was over, she breathed hard through her nose, forcing her stomach to settle. A cry tore out of her—wild and broken—echoing through the trees. She collapsed beside him, fingers curling around the cold curve of his horns. Brunna wept.

Somewhere, others were still fighting. Somewhere, somehow, the world hadn’t ended. But in the shadowed hollow of the forest, everything stopped.

She remained that way until the thin light of dawn filtered through the canopy. Her back pressed against a tree; his mask clutched in her lap. The sounds of battle had faded; the screaming was gone. She didn’t know when it had stopped. Time meant nothing. Still, she didn’t move. She couldn’t leave him—not here, not where the forest might claim him forever.

Every part of her longed to lie down beside him and let the soil take her too. But people needed her. Marrowen needed to know what happened, even if Brunna wasn’t ready to speak the words.

With a quick motion, she tore the hem of her dress and began to gather the pieces. He’d told her earlier that morning she looked like a flame come to life when she wore it. She’d called him moon-eyed—and kissed him anyway. The tears threatened to come again, but she blinked them back.

Focus. Breathe, and focus.

Her hands didn’t feel like her own. They moved anyway, mechanical and numb, as if she were picking flowers, not the remnants of the boy she’d grown up with. Each piece she tucked carefully into the red cloth.

She found the two halves of Wren’s silver mask nearby and laid them atop the bundle. Then, with trembling arms, Brunna cradled what was left of the only man she’d ever loved and began the long walk back. She moved like a ghost.

Birdsong rose into the air, as if the world didn’t know it had ended when he did. She couldn’t bring herself to think his name. Not with the bundle clutched in her arms.

The gates to Thistlehold were closed when she reached them. A banner hung above it—white cloth painted with the Tower’s Fist symbol in gold—the words The Registry Grieves With Thistlehold scrawled hastily. And in smaller text beneath: Safety in Order. Strength in Unity

The guards spotted her, eyes widening as they rushed to pull the gates open. They said nothing as she passed, but their glances followed her with quiet suspicion.

She stepped into the wreckage and stopped. She’d lived here all her life, but the town was unrecognizable now. Some buildings stood untouched. Others were nothing more than hollow shells of stone and soot—thatched rooftops gone.