Chapter 38. What the Fire Forgets

The moon was low—barely more than a dull silver bruise behind the clouds—when Seraya 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. But here, on the slope above the ruined ridge, nothing moved. Nothing breathed.

Except her.

Her wound was bound, but her mark throbbed beneath the wrappings. Not in pain. In warning. The fire was changing again. Not dying. Not growing. Just… waiting.

She sat up slowly. The scent of blood still clung to her skin, but the ash no longer bothered her. It felt known. Like part of her now. Not something to fear, but something to command. Her breath came out slow and pale in the cold, curling around her in ghostlike coils.