teaching this valkerax to Weep is only a matter of time, the hunger speaks.

South Gate is effectively abandoned, cold and ashy. The perimeter of the witchfire has been cordoned off by the lawguards, nervous lines of them tracing the fire’s scars. It’s at least a three block radius, encompassing what must be forty buildings at the minimum. The few caravans that are normally here in the mornings are gone, and yet the two lawguards guarding the door in the wall are still present. The devastation curdles my stomach, but I force a smile as I approach.

“Still hanging in there, gentlemen?” I ask. Neither of them responds, but one of them obliges to nod at me. They’re clearly on high alert with the war, and concerned only about business, so I give them the password and go in.

Yorl greets me with a sword when I walk into the brassy innards of the great wall. And not just any sword. The blade is pure white, and unmistakable. It’s Varia’s white mercury sword.

“We will retain the sword here, in the lab,” Yorl says. “You may ask for it whenever you see the need.”

I raise a single brow. “No payments with interest or anything?”

He snorts and starts walking. I follow him, dumbstruck, as I look the white mercury blade over. It’s one of only four blades in the world that were ever smithed with pure white mercury—a tricky process no one’s ever been able to replicate, though Gavik tried. The polymath who forged them disappeared before the Sunless War thirty years ago. White mercury inhibits magic, and pure white mercury even more so. If I cut myself with it, the link between Varia and I would weaken enough for me to Weep again, to regain just a little bit of control over myself.

I hover the blade over my forearm, but the command rings. “You will not allow yourself to be cut with a white mercury blade.”

I nearly throw the sword into the darkness before I remember just how precious it is. I need to cut the valkerax with it for it to learn how to Weep properly. If I can do that, I’ll have my heart back, and my own Weeping will become a moot point.

The war just above my head—curling like a viper ready to strike—will become a moot point.

A thousand valkerax, fangs dripping, crawling over the white wall of Vetris.

Straightening my shoulders and shaking off the terrifying image, I cling to Yorl’s paw as he leads me down the pitch-black steps. Our breathing echoes, joined by the valkerax’s deeper, louder, much slower breathing, like the respiration of the world itself. The clank of armor resounds as Yorl orders the gate opened.

“Don’t come in with me this time,” I lilt to him, downing the serum in one gulp. I feel his tail thrash in the air.