The trees’ murderous energy fades as I follow Bleddyn out of the grove and onto a lantern-lit circular plaza. I slow, my whole body going rigid as I face what lies in its center.

A huge statue hewn from black opalescent stone stands before me. It depicts a larger-than-life Icaral who strongly resembles Yvan, wings powerfully outstretched as he throws a stream of stone-fire mercilessly toward the dead Black Witch splayed under his feet, his boot crushing her temple.

For a moment, my emotions storm, as I imagine a very different statue. A statue that defiantly rages against the cursed Prophecy images of both Realms—a tall, angular-faced Icaral and Black Witch caught up in a fire-bonding kiss.

“Look familiar?” Bleddyn asks from beside me. I glance at her, lost in an abyss of conflict, the forces bent on demonizing me feel like a multitude of walls closing in.

“Bleddyn, I need you to tell me where we’re going,” I say, a knot clutching my throat.

Her brow tenses as she stares at me, a surprisingly compassionate look entering her emerald gaze. She leans in close. “To the rune ship of a Resistance worker I’m friendly with. I’ve secured a spot for you working in her restaurant for a day or so.” She lowers her voice, stressing each of her next words. “The ship is warded by Smaragdalfar varg runes.” She gives me a significant look, understanding gathering inside me—it’s likely that both Vogel and the Vu Trin won’t be able to track me through them.

“C’mon,” Bleddyn prods, motioning me forward, and we head for the plaza’s far end.

I glance once over my shoulder at the statue, my heart twisting as I wonder how, if Yvan is truly alive, we’ll ever manage to navigate a world dead set on upholding a Prophecy that casts us as mortal enemies. My thoughts slingshot to Lukas, pain lodging like a thorn in my chest over the Wyvernfire bond running hot through my lines, my heart forever cleaved in two.

But there’s no time to wrestle with any of it as Bleddyn and I stride onto the First Tier’s already crowded main thoroughfare, pictures of my evil face tacked onto every shoppe and lantern post and hostile tree.

Dawn breaks over the tiered Voloi Mountains, its eastern glow brightening the sky as Bleddyn and I take rune lift after rune lift toward Voloi’s cloud-high Sixth Tier. We step off the final lift, and onto an amethyst-cobblestoned road, pale sunlight shafting over merchants setting out wares for tomorrow’s Xishlon holiday—bunches of violet roses, heart-shaped lilac flower wreathes, lavender trinkets, moon-decorated lace and every hue of purple garb. I’m amazed by just how varied the people look here—so many hues of skin tone and hair color, but most wearing distinctively Noi-style dress.