The story of the capital had shifted. It hadn't flipped entirely, but the narrative of the Witch Queen had been replaced by the image of the woman who bled in the ash.
A thousand miles away, Soren was cutting through the provinces with frost and steel, tearing the roots of the network out of the frozen earth. He was fighting with the sword; she was fighting with her own blood. Two battles, two methods, but the same war. And neither of them knew if the other would survive the victory.
The healers were efficient, their touch light as they healed the gash on her temple. The room smelled of lavender and iron. Eris sat on the edge of her bed, her eyes half-closed, letting the exhaustion wash over her in cold waves.
The door burst open with a violence that made the healers jump.
Rael didn't wait for permission. He didn't wait for a greeting. He was a small, frantic blur of motion that slammed into her with the full force of a child who had been holding his breath for three days.
