Watching him, Saetan saw the light fill Daemon’s eyes, the joy, the eagerness. It broke his heart.

He accepted Daemon’s help in getting to his feet—and noted Lucivar’s coolness toward his brother. That would change. Would have to change. But Lucivar wouldn’t be approachable until he’d seen Marian and Daemonar, so there was no point in sparking that Eyrien temper. Besides, he was too damn tired to take on Lucivar right now.

As he walked to the doors, they fell into step on either side of him.

Twilight. The whole day had passed.

They walked across the open courtyard. Lucivar opened the gate.

A gust of wind made something flutter, catching Saetan’s attention. A scrap of cloth from a woman’s gown. Hekatah’s gown.

He didn’t mention it.

“I don’t have the strength right now,” he said quietly. “Would you two…”

Lucivar looked toward the south, Daemon toward the north. After a minute, their faces had the same grim, deliberately calm expression.

“There are a few Blood,” Daemon said slowly. “Not many.”

“The same,” Lucivar said.

A few. Only a few. Sweet Darkness, let them get a different answer in Kaeleer. “Let’s go home.”

He felt the difference as soon as they walked through the Gate between the Realms. When they walked out of the Altar Room, Daemon and Lucivar both looked in the direction that would lead them to the First Circle—and the others.

He turned in the opposite direction, not quite ready to deal with what was going to come. “Come with me.” Reluctantly, they obeyed.

He led them to a low-walled terrace that overlooked Riada, the closest Blood village.

Daemon looked down at the village. Lucivar looked in the direction of the Eyrien community.

Daemon sighed with relief. “I don’t know how many people had lived there yesterday, but there are still a lot of Blood there.”

“Falonar!” Lucivar cried. He looked at them and grinned. “The whole community. They’re all right. Badly shaken up, but all right.”

“Thank the Darkness,” Saetan whispered. The tears came, as much from pride as grief. Prothvar had said it was a different kind of battlefield but a good one to fight on. He’d been right. It was a worthy battlefield. Instead of seeing more friends join the demon-dead, they had gone knowing those friends would live. Char, Dujae, Morton, Titian, Cassandra, Prothvar, Mephis, Andulvar. He would miss them. Mother Night, how he would miss them. “And the Blood shall sing to the Blood. You sang the song well, my friends. You sang it well.”

He would have to tell Lucivar and Daemon—and Surreal—about this, too. But not yet. Not now.

He dreaded it, but he knew he couldn’t hold either of them back much longer. “Come on, puppies. I’m sure the coven’s going to have a few things to say about this.”

It was worse than he’d expected.