Two words. Two words would ease his heartache, but to speak them meant breaking a promise, and Viktor had so few left intact.

“Be well, my friend.”

Leaving Josiri behind, Viktor struck out southwards, walking the road that had once joined Eskavord to the distant Thrakkian border. Fields smouldered to either side, dull orange slumbering among the lifeless greys. The bitter notes of yesterday’s blaze melded with sweet duskhazel and the sweat of the soldiers sent to tend the razed crops. To the west, beyond motionless kraikon silhouettes and the remnant of Eskavord’s wall, the stones of Branghall yet stood – a lonely, charred reminder of the world as it had been a week before.

At last, Eskavord passed away behind him. An hour later, ash gave way to golden wheat, promising harvest yet to come. The once empty road thickened with travellers.

The sight went some way to raising Viktor’s spirits. Life would go on. The Southshires would go on. So too would Josiri, though their brief friendship was as ashen as Eskavord.

As dusk slid into night, he left the road entirely. He set off into the hills, losing himself in the trees and the fragmented ruin of ancient days. At last, he arrived at the statue – Ashana and Lumestra back-to-back on a crumbling plinth. The one with a crescent moon in her hands; the other hooded, with a lantern held outstretched.

“It’s done,” he said. “I wish you’d let me tell him the truth.”

Calenne emerged from the trees, her dark hair cut short to disguise her rank. Her cold hands took his and held them tight.

“It’s kinder this way,” she said. “Josiri would see me remain a Trelan for ever. He’d make us both miserable with his demands. Better a clean break. He can mourn me in memory, rather than hate me in the flesh.”

Viktor’s discomfort returned with her bitter words. “I think you misjudge him.”

She smiled, though not unkindly. “And I worry that you love my brother more than you do me.”

He grunted. “No. Never that.”

“Good.” Holding tight to his hands, she rose onto her toes and kissed him. “We are one, Viktor. Light or Dark. Now and for ever.”

Careful not to set the leaves rustling, Melanna let the branch fall back into place. She’d followed Lord Akadra from Eskavord, hood drawn low to hide her shadowthorn features. She hadn’t been sure why at first – save perhaps a vague notion that she owed him thanks for her release – but by now trusted her instinct far more than her judgement.

Now, hearing him speak in earnest tones to an empty clearing, Melanna knew without doubt that her instinct had the right of it. Her shoulders itched with the feeling of an unwelcome presence she couldn’t quite see.