I never knew the quiet that followed war could have such a loud sound.
The Summit of Selvarin was eerily still, the wards flickering dimly in interrupted lines. And while the Twin Moons gave willowing shadows, nothing shone but pallid fire along the horizon. Survivors hobbled to the gates of Fangreach, worn down by mourning and wear. But behind the walls— where Silverclaw, Blackfang and Freeborn and Ironclaw hung side by each other—the wound was deeper.
Mara's absence was the spark. Her, she should have come back when we set the wards of that crater," only Dorian had mentioned her state: "She pushed." "We held the summit. She remains lost in Veilwood." No one said "dead" flat out, but each silence confirmed it.
I wandered the courtyard that morning, my cloak smelling of melted snow and ash, in desperate search for Kael. I discovered him in front of the war council tent—shoulder hunched and storm-gray eyes miles away.
"She's gone," I whispered.
