He grabbed his own hair, his mind shattering. "No. No. Light save me, no. It was a marker. I brought the marker out with us."
"We lost her," tears spilling from his single eye, hands trembling as he stared at his empty arms. "The Duke told us. He warned us. And we lost her."
The green fire of the tent roared higher, burning with a sickening, triumphant crackle, illuminating the devastation of the Vanguard.
The Trickster was gone.
The children were gone.
The heir to the Sovereign of the North, the tiny, bright light that had melted the frozen heart of the Reaper, had been ripped from their arms without a single sound.
Sir Lucas looked up at the darkening, bruised purple sky over the Verdant Gate.
He didn't think about the Trickster.
He didn't think about the magic.
He thought about the mythril carriage sitting in the encampment, about the terrifying, blood-soaked Leviathan sitting inside it, waiting for his daughter to return with a souvenir.
