Chapter 38. What the Fire Forgets

The moon hung low in the sky, no more than a dull silver bruise pressed behind a curtain of cloud, when Seraya finally woke.

She was alone.

The battlefield had long since quieted. The dead had been dragged from the stone, the wounded carried back through the mountain pass. Somewhere beyond the veil of ash and snow, Hollowridge was holding its breath, suspended between what it had been and what it would become. Here, on the slope above the ruined ridge, nothing moved. Nothing breathed.

Except her.

Her wound was bound tightly, but beneath the wrappings her mark throbbed with a steady insistence. It was not pain that stirred there, but warning. The fire was changing again—not dying, not growing, but settling into something watchful, as if it were waiting for its next name.

She sat up slowly, testing her