“Heartless,” the middle monolith croaks—no booming, no blades. Just slow, ancient words from an old, old witch encased in glass only as a head. A head with frazzled white hair, whose mouth never moves. His speech silences the room, silences Lucien and makes the other six monoliths go dark again instantly. He’s…talking to me? He must be, because he waits for me to acknowledge, and I start forward.

“Y-Yes?”

“You have taught a valkerax to Weep.”

Not a question. A statement. I nod. “Yes. Sir.”

“Has the valkerax told you your true name?”

“Yes.” I try to hold my chin up, but the magic bristles heavy at me.

“Would you say it before us?”

A request. Not a gentle one—one made of old, old bone and old, old steel. I want to dart my eyes to Lucien, to ask with my eyes if it’s all right to tell them. True names mean something. Witches seem to value them highly. But I can’t move.

we are in danger. we can’t disobey. The hunger slithers through me uneasily, around the cracks in the magic, around Lucien’s unbridled, uncontrolled feeling of worry. say it.

“Starving Wolf.”

The silence that follows my true name reverberates in on itself—deep and long—and then the monoliths light up. Softly. Their whispers flicker crimson into Lucien’s abyssal eyes, watching me wordlessly. And then they stop, suddenly, and the center one, the old witch with just a head, speaks again.

“At the end of the world, there will be wolves.”

I’m utterly lost, so I croak, “Sir?”

“A saying,” he continues. “Passed down many a generation. Long forgotten in origin but true in nature.”

Evlorasin’s words, mad as they were, stroke eerily at the back of my mind.

A wolf to end the world.

One of the monolith’s whispers is too loud. “They cannot fly. They’ve lost the knowledge. Even if she’s taught one, it is just one—”

Lucien squares his shoulders and braves speech.

“I came here, High Ones, to ask your aid. The Bone Tree is an Old Vetrisian invention. Surely you must know a spell that can interfere with it.”

“Why would we interfere with that which keeps the valkerax in check?” A monolith flares to life.

For a fraction of a moment, Lucien looks like someone’s hit him. Alarmed. Fione’s eyes widen, and Malachite’s narrow.

“They aren’t in check anymore. My sister has it,” Lucien argues. “My sister controls it!”

“You are presumptuous.” Another monolith lights up, blade-voice snickering. “And very confident in your sister’s abilities.”

“This magic—the Bone Tree is half the witches’ doing!” The prince’s brows knit deep, anger edging his cheekbones. “You would take responsibility!”