I told her the war would be over. I told her she would come back soon and marry a prince. She was kind. She was pure.

But death cares for neither.

My carriage passes the Temple of Kavar, the large metal eye symbol atop the tallest spire painting my face in shadow.

This mindless war between witches and humans—fought for their gods, for their beliefs, for their differences—has killed her. The hate that began with the Glass Tree—the splinter inside my heart bag splintered more than just my own life. It has splintered Cavanos, wedged deep beneath and between it, for a thousand years.

Religion has killed her.

And still, she loved it.

I bend my head and put my fingers to my eyes as she showed me. I pray as she showed me, that day outside Lucien’s room, the two of us lit by the sun shafting through the windows, smiling at each other over a platter of bread and fruit.

“May his eyes watch you, always.”

I’m thankful to be back in the pitch-dark arena with Evlorasin. Thankful to turn my attention to something other than the numb despair of death. I am thankful to see the valkerax—hear it, really—alive and breathing normally again. I can’t see the rupture in the arena wall, but if the smell of sawdust and fresh metal is any indication, Yorl’s crew has patched it up admirably.

“The beneather runes on the wall have been redone, too,” Yorl explains.

“So fast? Godsdamn,” I marvel. “How do you get everything done so quickly?”

“Varia’s pouring all the kingdom’s resources into this lab.” He frowns. “We are capable of hiring anyone and procuring almost anything.”

“Except, you know, a teacher for it to Weep.” I puff out my chest.

“Yes,” Yorl drawls. “You are certainly the rarest imported resource here.”

He hands me the white mercury sword, the distinct handle nudging my fingers, and I take it slowly. “I don’t think Evlorasin’s ready for this,” I admit. “Especially not after its escape.”

“Varia’s orders,” Yorl says simply. “We must cut it today.”

“But—” I start. “It’s really weak right now, isn’t it? It’s injured—Malachite was railing on its spine with his whole broadsword. It needs to be as healthy as—”

“Its health is only going to decline,” Yorl insists. “I made that clear.”

“Can’t we wait?” I blurt. “Just give it another day or two to heal, and for us to practice the silence together… I promise that’ll be better than forcing it to—”

“I know,” he admits, a softer edge to his voice. “I, too, would like you and the valkerax to be fully prepared. But the orders are clear. Progress must be made. And quickly. Our time is running far shorter, far faster than anticipated.”