After Bronte located a cavern made of virulence to perform the ceremony, she also happened upon this small, dusty, but surprisingly cozy hunting cabin where we could get ready.

Between Anemone, Willow, and the queen of Tor, they did the best they could to make it presentable, and the irony of having this fearsome warrior queen scrambling about like a mother hen isn’t lost on me. Morana and Khione wait patiently at the door, lying on their paws, watching us flit about the space.

Anemone and Bronte both wear the clothes they arrived in—Anemone in a blue dress covered with a cloak she borrowed from Amya and Bronte in her grey fighting leathers. She’s clearly used to the cold and comfortable, even with her arms bare.

What a motley crew we make.

“You look beautiful,” Willow whispers as she adds some finishing touches to my makeup. Without a mirror to use, I have to take her word for it. “He’s going to lose his mind.”

“Pretty sure he’s about two seconds from that every time she walks in the room,” Anemone jokes from the rickety table, flipping through the Book of Night.

“You sure we’ll be okay?” I ask her, my constant worries about what happened with my grandparents ever at the forefront of my thoughts.

“Not entirely,” she answers, offering me an uncertain look. “But mostly.”

“Willow, maybe all of you should go somewhere else,” I say. “Far away. Just in case . . .”

Just in case this causes another explosion and kills everyone within firing range.

“If you think I’m about to let you bond without me there, you’re dreaming,” Willow says.

“But—”

She flips a hand. “But nothing. Anemone will ensure we’re all fine, and I will not let you do this alone. I wouldn’t miss this for anything.”

I give her a small smile. “I love you, Willow.”

“I love you too. Now let’s get going. They’re waiting for us.”

We gather our things and, with the dogs leading us, make our way down a short path to a cave entrance. We wind down a tunnel, deeper and deeper into the mountain. It takes us what feels like a long time to get there, and I try not to think about the weight of stone over our heads. As we descend, it starts to feel like the walls are closing in on me. My breath grows tight, and sweat breaks out on my forehead.

“Lor? Are you okay?” Willow asks as I come to a stop, pressing one hand along the wall and one to my chest as I try to draw a proper breath.

“She’s claustrophobic,” Bronte says, her voice distant and hollow in my ears. “It’s normal for a lot of people when they go under the mountains.”

Bronte gently touches my forehead with two fingers, and the tight feeling in my chest dissipates, the wooziness clearing from my head.