Little Mortal.
The air around her thinned. Her chest heaved as she tried to drag in a breath, the world spinning in loose, jarring circles. Despite the sweltering heat, a deep aching chill slithered along her bones and settled beneath her sternum.
Do you still love me now that I am no longer beautiful?
Her teeth slammed together as the bland oats from earlier threatened to come up. Eyes watering, she dunked her hands into the water to hide their shaking and looked out into the onyx stretch of sea.
Haven had never felt such deep shame as she did now.
Everyone had suffered the last few months. Surai had lost her mate and brother-in-arms. Bell’s father had been murdered, his kingdom and title stolen. Xandrian had committed treason against the Sun Court when he chose to follow her here, and now faced a lifetime of being hunted by his own kingdom. Even Ember had been disavowed by her mother, her title to the throne stripped.
Yet they all remained strong. Disciplined. Uncomplaining.
Only Haven seemed unable to fight off the pain—pain that sometimes felt like waves of agony slowly drowning her.
Her inability to push past the trauma and wounds inflicted in Solethenia was a weakness, an insult to her friends.
She vowed to do better.
The delicate lines of Surai’s forehead softened as she watched Haven quietly struggle to compose herself. Haven might be able to mask her emotions from Bell, but Surai had lived thousands of years, and the annoyingly clever Ashari scout picked up on everything.
“The Archeron we knew died when he broke the dark magick tethering his soul to the king’s,” Surai said softly. “Remember that this . . . tyrant who kills innocents and hunts us down like dogs is not him.” Surai ran a hand down her glossy black hair, fiddling with the ends as her eyes darkened to amethyst. “If we ever meet again, I will not hesitate to end him.”
After that, the talk moved to lighter subjects, and Haven tried to at least look like she was enjoying herself. But she couldn’t stop thinking about Archeron.
Every night in Haven’s dreams, the Sun Lord appeared. Sometimes he was gentle, kissing her lips and teasing her as he promised not to hurt her—if only she would come back to him.
Sometimes he said nothing, just watching her from the shadows. On the worst nights, he whispered how he would hunt down and murder each of her friends until she gave herself to him.
And every morning she woke with the memory of ramming the Godkiller into his chest.
But no matter how many times she plunged that dagger through his heart, no matter how many times she unleashed her fury on the Sun Lord, he always returned, a haunting specter of the man she once nearly loved.
And Haven feared he would never give her up until he’d destroyed everyone and everything she cared about.
5
Dusk came as it did every night to Shadoria in an explosion of mauve and tangerine. In the hour before the sun rose and set, the normally silvery half-glow of the island became a breathtaking display of the most brilliant, most ethereal light Haven had ever seen. The dark amethyst crystals embedded in the natural obsidian of the island lit up like jagged sparks flickering over the ashen landscape.
The Seraphians called these two periods of delicate, shimmering light—when the sun shone beneath the layer of clouds and fog above the city—the hour of the soul.
According to their culture, that was when the old Gods could hear their voices. Before their fall, the Seraphian people spent those hours in the temples dotting the highest mountain peaks, praying to those long dead entities.
Haven could almost believe the Gods listened, especially inside Stolas’s favorite temple, built for Odin’s aunt and their namesake, Seraphina. Like most of the buildings here, the temple had been carved from the mountainside, a collection of slender black towers with open windows that all connected to a high-domed center.
The towers had long collapsed, leaving only the husk of walls like the snapped bones of an animal sticking up from the snow. By the Goddess’s luck, the dome of the temple where Haven trained with Stolas remained intact—mostly. The far end of the ceiling had collapsed, and snow blew in from the mountaintops and collected in the ruined stairs that wound through the cavernous structure.
It seemed only fitting that Stolas’s favorite place on the island was atop the highest mountain, impossible to reach without wings, and hidden from view by a magickal ward still etched across the dark stone floors.
Of course, that’s where he would insist on training every evening. Although training was a mild term to describe the dangerous dance they performed.
“Stolas?” she murmured as the darkness inside her stirred. A startling combination of anticipation and primal fear worked its way into her chest, more potent than the aching cold.
Haven’s boots squeaked over a dilapidated set of spiraling stairs that halted ten feet above the ground, as if a giant had scooped out the bottom half. Shafts of glorious light spilled from the temple windows into the space below, refracting off the glassy crystals embedded in the high walls.
Every evening, Stolas had a secret portal created just for her that took her from her tower to the mountaintop. She never knew the exact location it would lead.
Only that once she stepped through to the other side, she had to be ready.
Thighs bunching, she leapt from the final stair and landed hard on the stone floor. Snow collected in the corners. Her breath came out in cloudy puffs. Other than the muted howling of the wind outside, silence reigned.
A rush of air was the only warning of Stolas’s attack. An orb of golden light was ready on her palm by the time she whipped to meet him, her cloak swirling around her legs and sword held high. Flames of magick rushed down the steel in an impressive whoosh.
A cruel smile carved Stolas’s angular jaw, nearly distracting her from the onslaught of shadowy magick rushing at her face.
The fiery orb she released to counter his attack guttered out along with the flames of her sword.
“Focus,” he demanded. “Use your dark magick to protect your light.”
She tried again, but the flames of her powers died before she could fully wrap it in darkness. He was feeding off it. Devouring every bit of magick she conjured.
A wave of anger rose up inside her. Anger at herself. At her pain. Her inability to protect the people in the city below. At Archeron. Her father.
The whole damned world.
A blast of light wrapped in darkness exploded from her fingers, serpents of ink and gold slithering toward the Shade Lord. He slipped sideways, the ease of his movements infuriating. The magick slammed into the dark wall behind him, rattling the temple and cracking in the icy air.
Stolas grinned in delight as bits of stone and snow rained down over them.
“Better. Next time actually hit me.”
Sword held high, she lunged for the Shade Lord. Steel flashed. He waited until her weapon was a hair’s breadth from meeting his body. Waited until she felt the rush of triumph followed by the sting of fear . . .
Before gliding just out of reach again. Still wearing that infuriatingly wicked smile. Still moving with that impossible fluidity and otherworldly grace.
He moved so fast she lost track of him. She whirled, cloak tangling her ankles, boots slipping on the wet floor.
Where are you?
She was going to rip him apart with her bare hands—