Where the birds fly? Ravenshaunt—of course, her ancestral home that was all but destroyed by witchfire. She pointed it out to me when we first met, in the carriage to Vetris. A deep burden I didn’t know I was carrying suddenly lifts off my shoulders, and a true smile pulls at my face. She’s saying if I manage to get my heart back, I should head to the ruins of Ravenshaunt to find her.

I want that more than almost anything.

Finally, an anchor. A point on a map to walk toward.

The letter is too short.

What you have done took great strength. Know that I am proud of you.

I await, steadfast.

The smallest of her sentences rings with great impact in my head. Her words are a tiny glimmer of hope in the mire I’ve been wading through, and the urge to get my heart back explodes, brighter than ever. Crav and Peligli are waiting for me. And now a third person. I have somewhere to go out there beyond the walls, beyond the war. A home. A real home.

Varia’s watching me, but at some point she turns away to refill her glass. No doubt she’s already read it, but still I wait until she’s not paying attention to fold Y’shennria’s letter over the fragments of her wanted poster I keep in my chest pocket.

I pick up the paper-wrapped package. It’s long and thin, and I open it quickly. My eagerness withers the moment I see what’s nestled in the wrapping.

A blade. The blade of a sword without a hilt. And not just any blade. I almost don’t recognize it because of the lack of rust until I see the blood gutter down the center leading to a distinctive sheaf of ivy carved into the bottom of it.

My father’s blade. A perfect replica, new and shining.

But who would—? Only a few people know my sword broke at all. Fewer know what it looks like up close. Malachite. Did he—?

Varia makes a disgruntled noise over my shoulder as she peers at the blade. “Fool.”

I look back at her. “Who?”

She downs more of her fresh yolshil, sighing tiredly. “Pendronic silvered steel. The same stuff the d’Malvane ceremonial swords are made of.”

d’Malvane. Does that mean…Lucien did this? He’d seen Father’s sword more than once, but I had no idea he’d paid that much attention to it. I pick up the blade, matching it hesitantly to Father’s rusted hilt. To see the sword whole again, to feel its exact weight in my hands—I run my thumbs over the hilt, the blade. It’s so familiar, comforting.

In this city where I am the enemy, the air suddenly doesn’t feel as cold anymore.

I tuck the blade and hilt into the box and turn to Varia.