Annwyl opened her eyes and looked at the brown-skinned warrior woman standing in front of her. At some point, the woman’s throat had been cut and her arm was nearly hacked off at the shoulder, but she didn’t seem dead. Not like everyone else Annwyl had seen who was not a demon.

“Do I know you?”

“We’ve . . . met before. But you weren’t at your best. I doubt you remember. But you know a friend of mine.”

“Do you know the way out of here?” Annwyl was in no mood for chitchat.

“Sadly, not for you. It took me ages to find you as it is. So you’ll have to find your own way out. I have no power here.”

“That’s unfortunate.”

“I’m sure it is. But you need to be careful. Die here and you’re staying. There’s nothing anyone can do about it.”

“I assumed.”

“And the ruling lord of this hell . . . you didn’t kill him. He’s coming for you.”

“Figures.” Annwyl stood up, brushing red dirt off her leggings. “Anything else?”

“You do know you’re not talking to yourself, don’t you?”

“Of course I’m talking to myself.”

“Annwyl, I’m a god. I’m Eir.”

“Riiiiight. Sure you are. You’re a god. I’m a completely rational human being right now. How could it be anything else?”

“But you’ve spoken to gods before. Mingxia, for instance—”

“That’s my point. If you were real, you’d be Mingxia. I don’t know you.”

“Annwyl—”

“No, no. I don’t want to argue with myself. I’m sure once I get out of here, I’ll be much less crazy.”

Annwyl’s delusion smiled at her. “There’s nothing wrong with a little crazy, Annwyl the Bloody. Never forget that. Hold on to that. It may save your life.”

“That’s really sweet. But we both know I’m way more than a little crazy.”

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty

Since Gwenvael had been off to war with his brothers, Dagmar had been waking up every morning surrounded by her five dogs. They didn’t replace Gwenvael, but they helped with the loneliness.

As someone who’d spent her entire life in the Northlands mostly alone—and enjoying every second of that solitude—missing someone as much as she missed Gwenvael was not an easy thing. But the dragon had a way of digging his claws into a being’s heart and making himself quite comfortable there. She should hate him for doing that to her . . . making her care. But it was too late now. Not only did she care about him, she cared about his siblings, the mates of his siblings—including the human queen of these lands—the people who lived in these territories and, of course, her own children. Var, Arlais, and Gwenvael’s Five. Her youngest daughters.