The blade is warped back on itself, bent nearly flat and in half with the force of Evlorasin’s stamping, and when I pull, the rusted metal finally gives out. I hold the cracked hilt in my hand, the oil lamplight dancing on the sharp edges of the dagger end that is now the blade. It hurts to see it so broken after everything I did to keep it well—the sharpening, the constant whetting. It was there for me when I felt terrible in court; it was an anchor among all the sadness in Nightsinger’s woods. I fought Crav so many wonderful times with it, our laughter ringing in the forest. I scared off so many huntsmen with it, and I dueled Lucien with it.

Even if I have no memories of Father attached to it, I’ve made so many memories of my own, wrapping them around the hilt like ribbon. My old memories are in this sword, but new ones are wound about it, too. In a way, holding it now feels like seeing my heart again. My heart is full of old memories. But in my unheart, in the void in my chest, I’ve collected so many new ones—of Lucien, of Malachite and Fione, of Vetris and the whole new world I’ve been thrust into.

“That…” Malachite hobbles up to me. “That was your pa’s sword, wasn’t it?”

“Don’t worry about it.” I shuffle the hilt away and wipe my tears off my cheeks. He doesn’t say anything, and I’m thankful for it.

Yorl is so incredibly relieved to see us and the other celeon alive as we come out of the breach. He doesn’t show it, his green eyes placid behind his glasses, but after nearly a week with him, I can tell.

“Honey!” I smirk at him, flinging my arms out and approaching him with an insistent hug and a kiss on the cheek. “You didn’t have to wait up for me.”

This snaps Yorl out of his relief, and he pushes me off while glaring mightily, his whiskers twitching. “Who ever said I was worried? I knew you’d all get the job done. That’s why Varia pays you.”

“Wait a minute, you guys get paid for this?” Malachite feigns shock and looks back at the celeon, and a rumble of laughter runs through even the injured ones.

“I’ll have the polymaths repair the tear and a new team bring the valkerax back here,” Yorl says, his expression falling. “And we will bury our fallen well.”

I know that expression. I put my hand on his shoulder. “Hey, it wasn’t your fault—”

He pushes me off abruptly. “I’ll say this only once, Zera, so listen carefully.” He clears his throat, starting and stopping a few times. “Thank you. For your help.”

“That’s what friends do.” I pause. “You’ve had friends before, right?”