The evening sun had faded almost to black. The dance had slowed alongside. The music had all but fallen silent. Only the double thump of the drum remained, slowed to a steady, remorseless dirge.

And still Rosa danced. Her russet dress was ragged and torn. Her muscles ached and her feet bled. But she clung to her partner through the moribund steps, and wondered where the day had gone.

The drum stopped. Her partner stepped back and offered a respectful bow. A pathway of mist stretched beneath withered trees to where the manor had once stood. He gestured towards the mist and beckoned to Rosa.

Tired beyond words, she reached for his hand one last time . . .

Silver light blazed to burn away the mists. Rosa’s partner vanished in a flurry of black wings. His mask shattered as it hit the ground.

The drumbeat returned as a peal of thunder across the heavens.

Rosa lurched upright beside a crackling fire that offered no warmth.

Her head spun. Her stomach heaved. And everything – everything – hurt.

Another spasm. She fell forward onto her knees. Trembling fingers traced the extent of dressing and bandage. Memories crashed back. The kernclaw. She’d felt his talons across her chest. In her spine. And then he’d turned away.

She should be dead. But he’d turned away. Left her to focus on . . .

Rosa stared bleary-eyed across the fire, at the low cairn beyond.

She stumbled twice in her hurry. On the third time, she fell completely. She reached the stacked stones on hands and knees. With grief-given strength, she tore them aside. Too soon, the sight she’d dreaded lay exposed beneath the boughs.

Overcome with fury colder than any she’d ever known, Rosa cradled Kasamor Kiradin’s lifeless head in her hands, and screamed at the dawn until her voiced cracked apart.

Lumendas, 1st day of Radiance

Lumendas, 1st day of Radiance

Ascension

The Tyrant Queen’s reign is done, but vigilance remains.

For just as the shadows are strongest on the brightest of days, we are never more imperilled than when we think ourselves safe.

from the sermons of Konor Belenzo

Eleven

Eleven

They came from the north, black surcoats filthy with the dirt of the road. Near two hundred men and women marching in triple column. Horse-drawn wagons creaked and squealed behind. Revekah’s heart ached at the cadence of the marching song. The Duke of Kerval. A tune from a life long in the past, before the raising of the phoenix banner.

“Raven’s eyes.” Tarn craned his neck to see over the wooded crest. “Who are this lot?”

Revekah flashed an angry glance and shoved him back down. “You want to find out the hard way? Looks like Makrov finally sent for reinforcements. Spineless worm.”