Chapter 11

There were several days of hard travel—nights spent half-frozen, rolled into a tight ball of fur-lined cloak and blankets. Each day, Sorcha woke exhausted despite the all-consuming sleep, the way it pulled her under, deep beneath the waking world.

One night, the Wolf shook her awake, night heavy around them, his touch on her shoulder lingering. She sat up and pulled the furs to her chest, blinking and trying to see the Wolf’s face clearly. He was nothing but an outline, a black shadow within the dim tent—a monster in the dark.

When he spoke, his voice was flat.“You were screaming.”

Sorcha sucked in a breath and let it out shakily. Sweat glossed her face, the back of her throat raspy and dry. Without speaking, he handed her a waterskin, waiting as she drank. She was grateful for the coolness of the water and the way it soothed her throat. The Wolf didn’t ask what she’d been dreaming about. He merely took the waterskin back when she held it out and returned to his bedroll.

From then on, he would nudge her awake in the early hours without speaking, sending her heart racing into a fuzzy awareness. They didn’t speak in those moments, alone together without witnesses, when the world could have been a different place.

What place? What world?Sorcha wondered. Why would a monster take pity on her?

Finally, the blackness she found herself in each night began to take shape. Beneath the bloody memories of Ines and Rohan in the Golden Citadel—sinking into the glittering swirl of prophecies—were half-clear visions of the Saint. Armies met on a barren plain. A woman in red walked across a black marble floor. A man with a wolf skull mask held out a hand for her to accept.

The dreams were impossible to decipher without Kahina Kira. The priestess’s knowledge and understanding of the Saint was complete, her word final. She was the center of their religious knowledge—the ultimate voice and word—and the only person Sorcha had been completely honest with when it came to her visions.

Sorcha and the Wolf found a rhythm with their nights, falling asleep within a few feet of each other, his proximity something she was unable to ignore. He never asked about her dreams, and said nothing when he shook her awake, forcing the vision to release her.

In the mornings, she dressed in the beautiful items Prince Eine had sent with them. Boots lined with black fur, the outer leather soft and supple, the color as deep and rich as the crimson dress she wore. There were several cloaks with deep hoods, and thick leggings to wear beneath the simple split dresses made for riding—all crimson. The riders around her all wore the same black as the Wolf in various shades of wear. The Wolf’s was the darkest, the others washed-out shadows of the leader they followed.

As they’d ridden closer to the Black Stone Mountains, the cold had turned biting, snow filling the air and collecting on the shoulders of the men and backs of the horses. But the Wolf led them through a narrow pass, a path Sorcha would have overlooked had she come this way alone.

It wound through the mountains; the way so narrow they had to ride single file. But the pass was removed from the bitter cold and sheltered from forces of nature. Always, she rode behind the Wolf. He kept her close to him at all times, sleeping or waking.

In the evenings, she listened to the soldiers’ conversations, picking out the words she knew and working to understand the rest. Not all the men spoke the same languages though they communicated easily enough with one another. Several spoke more than one and translated for the others and everyone understood the tongue of the Empire of the White Snake. As the empire grew, conquering new lands and kingdoms, Prince Eine let the people keep their mother tongue as long as they understood his order to bend at the knee.

She’d watched and listened until she understood enough, picking up on most of their names and replacing the silly titles she’d given them in her mind. Holder of maps was Thompson. Yellow-eyes was Revenant. The Wolf’s magician was Domenico. The bad cook was Wes. The good cook was Juri. The one who always complained was Lev. The one who never spoke was Till. Then there was calm Magnus, the too tall Soren, round Lev, bald Cas, broken nose Rui, scared hands Imre, and scowling Bran.

It wasn’t long before she felt she knew them well enough, though she never tried to make herself understood.

Not that she needed to be. They had the map—the illustrated copies of her decorated skin—and wanted nothing to do with the witch. Whatever abilities they feared, she wished she truly possessed—to fly, to kill with a few words, to foretell the remainders of their lives and when they’d end. But her only ability was experiencing the murky dreams that came each night—a jumble of images and emotions—with nothing solid to hold on to.

If Ines had been with her—alive—she would have helped Sorcha to understand. They would have gone to Kira and deciphered the complications. But even in dreams, they were gone, shades waiting to be recalled when the Saint walked the earth once again.

* * *

Sorcha had never traveled this far before. It felt as if they’d crisscrossed the country, doubling back on the progress they’d made. The farther south they’d come from the Black Stone Mountains, the warmer it grew, though winter still crackled in the air.

The trees were different here, the landscape foreign, a place of imposing gray mountains and evergreen rolling hills. She’d grown up with the vast flat plains with thin thickets of trees, the remains of carefully cultivated fields and orchards—now fallow and barren in the early winter. This was a strange and beautiful landscape compared to home, but it was empty.

They moved through an abandoned world. Everywhere they went, cottages and little villages were silent. Everyone had fled the approaching Horde. Or some advance forces of the prince had come and gone, leaving a terrible silence in their wake.

Adrian rode at the head of their small band, Sorcha close behind, a soldier named Thompson behind her with the map. Revenant stayed at the rear, his eyes on her every time she turned in the saddle to glance behind them.

No one took the time to scout ahead or behind. They stuck together, easy and unbothered, confident they were the most frightening thing roaming the landscape.

They stopped to camp several times, which had Sorcha clutching her cloak around her and missing the warmth and privacy of Adrian’s large tent. Here, she had a bedroll under the sky, a shared fire, and she was exposed to the men’s curiosity and resentment.

The only member of the party who had warmed to her was Nox. She’d finally won him over after she began sharing the scavenged apples she took for Epona as a treat after their long days of riding.

Once, they’d slept in an abandoned cottage. She had lain in someone else’s bed, listening to the night, expecting at any moment for the house’s owner to come through the door and ask why a stranger was in their home. She’d been grateful for the bedroll and open sky after that. She’d hated the feeling of being in a space and not knowing if that person were alive or dead, a stranger in a private place—unwelcome and unwanted.

Sorcha had overheard the men talking among themselves about the Traveling City and the Horde. The city was trailing behind them, though she had no idea how it would make it through the mountains. There was no way it could pass through the narrow valley they’d traveled through.

While the Traveling City moved south, the Horde of the empire was moving north. There was a kingdom unconquered and a promise to be kept. Marius the Mad, a king of Cautes. From the info she’d been able to piece together, it seemed as if the man had crossed the prince. The price was death, and the Wolf was being sent to ensure it was carried out.

But between the Traveling City and Cautes sat the Silvas Wood. Her skin had promised there would be a fragment of the Saint there. They’d locate that piece first, and then she would watch the death of another city, this time from outside the walls. She would be the witness to Cautes’s demise.

* * *

“There is a door,” Domenico said softly, his gaze traveling over the deep shadows of the ancient forest. “That’s the only way in.”

Epona shifted beneath Sorcha, snorting and fidgeting. The trees radiated a sense of otherness—secrets and the promise of the unknown. Sorcha knew from the texts that a temple sat somewhere within, but it had never been made clear exactly where it might be. The Mapmaker had said distance meant nothing, and now they were all discovering the truth of that fact.

The men were on edge, irritated to be traveling with no clear goal in mind, and resentful of the woman in their midst. The Wolf remained unbothered by it all, cold and virtually silent as they traveled, keeping Sorcha near him at all times. Sometimes she could feel his gaze, hot and prickly, but when she turned, expecting to find his eyes on her, he was looking elsewhere.

They were at the border of an evergreen primordial forest—an ancient place full of palpable magic. Inside, waiting to be discovered, was a relic of the Saint. A piece she had never seen before, never touched. Her fingertips tingled with the thought.

“What does the door look like?” the Wolf asked.

Sorcha looked around when no one responded and then realized he’d spoken to her.

“I don’t know.”

“Your cult didn’t teach you?” he asked, derision coloring his words.

Sorcha bit the inside of her cheek to keep from responding, refusing to give him anything he might use against her later. As quiet as she’d been, she knew the little bit of emotion she’d let escape was being stored in that black mind of his. Whatever weakness she might display, he would take advantage of.

“Domenico, can you find it?” the Wolf asked, gesturing to the man who’d spoken earlier.

Sorcha studied the man, someone who had yet to talk much and kept mostly to himself. Domenico was short and thick, with his pale hair trimmed close to his skull and a fresh scar running across the top of his left hand. His eyes were a strange, flat gray, as if they had been cut from a thunderstorm sky.

The man walked up to the tree line, standing with his hands on his hips for several long minutes. One of the men behind her said something, a single word in a language she didn’t understand, and the others chuckled.

Domenico ignored them, licking his pointer finger on his right hand and holding it up as if to test the wind. The laughter died down, and the noise around them faded, birdsong vanished, the rustle of evergreens going still. Then he turned, waving them toward the right, and began to walk that way himself.

The trees they stopped in front of looked like all the others—dark trunks, spruce needles, with gently waving branches. But Domenico jerked a thumb behind him, mumbling something to Adrian as he passed to reclaim his horse.

“Thompson,” the Wolf said, and the other man urged his horse forward, stopping beside him. “What does the map say?”

Thompson pulled the parchment from a spot beside his knee and unrolled it carefully, studying it in silence. They all knew what the map looked like at this point. The Wolf involved his men in planning their routes and places to stop.

Thompson sighed.“There are no doors marked on this map, but the temple should be in there.” He gestured at the forest. “Near a path that crosses the length of the forest. It’s the only way in and out. The temple is a few yards off the path.”

“And we enter here?” the Wolf pointed directly ahead, glancing at Domenico.

“Yes,” Domenico said, accent thick. “Through those two trees. It is a door.”

A door.

Sorcha peered at the two trees. A door. How could that be? The forest was thick, trees growing so close together that it appeared impossible to weave through them on foot, let alone on horseback. The forest swallowed the light, sucking it in, pushing it down. It seemed as if nothing but the night survived beneath those branches.

“The witch should go first,” someone whispered.

A flush crept up Sorcha’s cheeks, heat spreading beneath her skin, burning her ears. She couldn’t be sure which man spoke and she refused to twist around in the saddle to check. If the Wolf heard, he ignored it, motioning Domenico forward. Though it pained her to be grateful to that monster for anything, she was grateful she wouldn’t be leading them into the trees.

Domenico mounted his horse and urged it toward the spot he’d indicated. One moment there he was moving forward, and the next he’d vanished between two tree trunks as if he’d never been. Nox went next, urged on by a silent command from his rider, and Sorcha’s docile Epona followed. The rest of the men followed after them, their whispers dying down, each one quiet and listening for whatever would come next.

* * *

It was warmer beneath the trees and not at all what she’d been expecting. It was summer here, not late fall or early winter. It was as if crossing the border had transported them through time as well as space.

They rode single file down the narrow track. Overhead, trees stretched toward each other, limbs tangling in the canopy, the underlayer and ground cover thick in the shadows. Everything appeared peaceful and quiet, but she felt watched from all directions.

There was something in the woods. They’d all felt it as soon as they had crossed the border. The men behind had exchanged a few words before going silent again. She could feel the intention of whatever was out there building as the sun slipped lower and the shadows lengthened.

The night was waiting, the moon ready to rise, and a sense of impending doom filled her. The others must have felt it too. They were quiet and watchful observers. Around the last campfire, the men had talked about this forest, but she hadn’t caught more than a handful of words at the time. Now, she wished she’d paid more attention.

To them, this was simply a stopping point along the way, just a temple—one of many. They would recover a relic of the Saint here and then move on to the next one. Epona balked, snorting and thrashing her head. Sorcha patted her neck and made a low, soothing sound. But the animal sensed something, aware of more than Sorcha’s human eyes could discern.

Maybe Epona was aware of the temple. Sorcha could only guess how they might find it in all this tangled growth. The forest on either side of the track was a solid wall of greenery. Every now and then, a low-hanging branch caught at her hair or sleeve, a sharp tug catching her attention, and she would have to free herself before they could move on.

Ahead, Nox took bites of leaves or latched on to branches, holding on as long as possible until they snapped back, stripped of all their greenery. But the Wolf didn’t seem bothered by it. He kept the grip on his reins loose, letting the horse take the lead. The man appeared relaxed in the saddle, and if he felt any tension, it didn’t show.

A large branch snapped off the path to the left, invisible but only paces away. Sorcha jerked in that direction, scanning the trees and searching for movement. Behind her, Thompson rustled the map, the sound of the scroll unfurling as familiar to her as her own breathing—the places they’d gone and the places they had yet to be. It was all laid out, bit by bit, and her skin tingled with the thought.

“It should be up ahead,” Thompson said.

“How far?” asked the Wolf.

Thompson snorted, speculation and uncertainty clear. “I’m guessing this isn’t the most accurate of maps. There’s no scale for distance.”

“Take a guess.”

“A hundred yards, maybe?” Thompson rattled the map again. “It’s hard to tell where we started, the markers could have changed. I have no idea how far we’ve come.”

The Wolf glanced back, his gaze sweeping over Sorcha before moving on.

Thompson held up the map and pointed to a spot. “I believe we came in here, but the markers on the map don’t correspond to anything we’ve passed. I think ‘map’ is stretching the word when it comes to actual locations. It’s more about ideas than places.”

Ahead, a huge tree stretched over the path. It was larger than those around it, with nothing beneath it but bare dirt and the collected leaves from years past. The wide trunk twisted upward, the pale bark peeling to reveal crimson beneath. The leaves were narrow and a vibrant red. It reminded Sorcha of the trees in the inner courtyards of the temple. In the Golden Citadel. Where she’d lived. Where Ines had last breathed.

Don’t think about it!

“That tree!” Thompson waved the map. “It’s on the map.”

The Wolf turned in his saddle until he caught Sorcha’s eye. “Did you learn about this place?”

She shook her head.

“It’s on your skin,” he said.

She stared back at him, face carefully blank.

As they came around the tree, the ruins of a temple came into view. Overgrown pillars and arches, pale rock and shallow steps. The forest was pressed close like a lover, trees intertwined with stone, becoming something wholly new and otherworldly. It was a ruin of a place that had once been immaculate and imposing. Fallen branches littered the steps, and vines crisscrossed the arches. Leaves had drifted, concealing sections of the stairs and what might have been fallen statues.

The men rode their horses up the first shallow flight of steps into an open courtyard. More steps led up to dark arches, the stairs too steep here for the horses to climb. They dismounted and began to spread out, swords in hands—wary and watchful. Sorcha kept her seat, Epona shifting beneath her and ears flicking back and forth.

Revenant and Domenico went up the steps together and passed under the arch into the darkness of the inner temple. Thompson rustled between the relic map and another she hadn’t seen before—the parchment dark with age, the lines on it faded. Adrian dismounted and crossed to Sorcha’s horse, reaching up to take the reins with one hand and offering the other to help her dismount.

“I don’t need your help,” she said.

Sorcha shifted in the saddle, ready to drop down on the other side away from the Wolf. She was tempted to kick him or nudge Epona forward and force him to drop the reins, but he reached up, wrapped his large hands around her waist, and lifted her down from the saddle in a smooth motion. She gripped his forearms, steadying herself, their gazes locked.

The Wolf’s eyes were so brown they were almost black—framed by long lashes—and with his full mouth pressed into a thin line, Sorcha found him hard to read. Was he in a hurry? Or was there another reason he’d pulled her from the horse? Sorcha exhaled, brows coming together, a question half formed on her tongue. His gaze shifted to her mouth, and for a moment, his grip tightened.

“Adrian,” Revenant called from the top of the stairs. “You need to see this.”

* * *

The sound of dripping water drew Sorcha, tempting, promising. More than anything, she wanted the chance to rest and drink something that hadn’t been in a waterskin for several days. But as she rounded the corner and saw the entrance to another large room, it wasn’t the fresh, clean smell she’d been expecting. A heaviness filled the air, cloying and thick, metallic tinged with heat.

Behind her, Thompson held a torch high, the light catching on the details of the room. Carnivore. Predator. Everything in this room spoke of the hunt, the chase, the conquest. The head of a giant wolf had been carved from a single piece of black stone. It dominated the wall and was ornamented with ruby eyes and clenched, golden teeth.

Sorcha hesitated in the entryway, watching as blood seeped from between its clenched jaws and collected on the bottom jaw, falling into a wide pool below it.

The blood dissipated in the water, a spring fed from an unseen source, the surface moving—shifting—the blood dissipating as the water circulated. A shallow step led into the water. The bottom was visible but distorted, a mix of white animal bones and waving green plants.

“Where is the water going?” Wes asked.

Sorcha shook her head, though he hadn’t been asking her.

“It must flow beneath the stone,” Thompson said. “Or there’s a tunnel or something.”

“Is it drinkable?” Lev asked. “Our waterskins are almost dry.”

“Would you want to drink that?” Magnus asked, pointing to the clenched jaws of the wolf as a trickle of blood fell.

“Do not drink from this place,” Domenico said from the back. “Take nothing from this place.”

“That’s what we came here to do, Dom,” Juri said. “And now you’re telling us not to?”

“Do what you want,” Domenico said, shaking his head. “But I wouldn’t drink from that pool.”

Sorcha could hear the shrug in Domenico’s voice. She had to agree. Even if she’d had nothing to drink for days, she wouldn’t dare drink from this spring. It wasn’t only because of the blood-stained wolf head. The bones visible at the bottom were unsettling. Who had put them there? Why?

But even as she wondered those things, the water called to her.

“What is this place?” Lev asked. “Was it on the map?”

Thompson shook his head.

“Is it on her skin?”

Lev took a step toward Sorcha, but the Wolf was there in an instant—a silent, solid figure between them. She couldn’t see the Wolf’s face, but she saw Lev’s expression shift from determination to startlement to acquiescence. Adrian would never let any of them touch her, even if they’d been tempted to offer some small kindness, which they never did.

Sorcha walked forward—the men keeping their distance—as she moved beyond the immediate circle of light thrown by the torch. The room was cool, and her skin prickled with magic, an electric sensation, as if lightning crackled through the stones waiting to be released.

Slowly, hesitating as if the carving might come to life and snap, she reached out.

She heard shuffling behind her, as if several of the men were leaving the room or possibly they were stepping forward. She ignored the distraction and focused on the imposing carving of the wolf. It was as tall as her torso, finely carved though not detailed—it was the impression and idea of a wolf, without each hair defined.

Blood continued to well from the clenched golden teeth, as if the jaws held back a flood, and the ruby eyes threw back the light of the torches behind Sorcha. Or did they hold their own glow?

Tentatively, she touched the snout, shocked at the warmth of it. Her brows drew together as she smoothed her palm over the jaw, avoiding the dripping blood.

Behind her, the men whispered, but she ignored them, keeping her gaze on the ruby eyes. A part of her believed—understanding in her bones—that it was alive.

“Witch.”

The wolf jaws snapped open, lips pulled back in a snarl, the sound of stone grating on stone filling the chamber. Blood flowed out of its gaping maw, no longer a trickle, but now a steady stream splashing into the pool, mixing with the water, swirling and clouding it until the bones at the bottom were hidden. Someone swore, and there was more scuffling.

A heavy hand dropped on her shoulder, turning her away from the carving. The Wolf stood over her, studying her.

“What did you do?” he asked, voice soft—no accusation, only curiosity.

“Nothing.” Sorcha shook her head. “I only touched it.”

The scent of blood, flowing so freely from the creature’s mouth, was overpowering. Impossible to ignore, impossible to escape. Stepping back hurriedly, she retreated to the safety of the torchlight. The ominous feeling of being watched heated her skin, leaving her mouth sour with the sensation. But nothing else changed. The wolf jaws remained open, the blood flowing freely now, steadily.

* * *

The relic they were searching for was gone.

The room obviously had held it at some point—the ornate alcove in the far wall with an altar would have been the perfect location. Ancient gilding still clung to delicately carved stone, along with painted flowers, vines, and skulls. The gold was flaking now but still caught and reflected the light of the torches. The ground around the alter glimmered here and there with pieces that had fallen away.

Sorcha held the torch up to the walls, fascinated by the remains of the murals. The walls carried a painted history, glimmering stones inset here and there—fiery rubies and clear deep green emeralds. A beautiful decay, untouched by thieves or passersby. The only thing that had touched this temple was time.

The Saint walked through the stories on the stone. The Saint as the past had known him. The Saint that had been hinted at in her teachings—conqueror and death dealer—but she’d never read or heard the full story. Kahina Kira had said there would be hard things ahead—hard truths. But the Saint had always been fair with his punishments. Only the unbelievers and unfaithful had ever paid a price.

What price?

Death.

It was here on these walls, as illustrated on stone as the ink on her skin. A golden skeleton, striding through a landscape, holding a body, blood running down the open chasm of his mouth. People were prostrated before him, people dead behind him. But never one of the red-robed figures, they came behind in single file, hoods pulled up to conceal faces, anonymous believers doing nothing to stop the destruction that preceded them.

Sorcha had only seen one book with illustrations like these. Kira had been angry with her for taking it from the area reserved for the most senior priests and priestesses. It had been so heavy, weighted with history—the story of blood and rubies. She’d been caught before she’d been able to finish it, only a few pages in, stomach tightening with a terrible sense of foreboding.

Was this what she believed? Was this what she was a part of?

Don’t think about it!

Don’t question. Don’t think. Accept the role and embrace the ordered life.

It was the only thing she’d ever known.

But the walls in this ancient temple told another story—a darker Saint stalked these walls. This was the Saint the world had known, one of blood, death, and destruction. Was this the future the empire was racing them toward?

A different mural caught her attention, this one not as well preserved on the opposite side of the room. Sorcha crossed to it, tracing the deep gouges in the stone that looked like claw marks. A temple surrounded by woods, high above the treetops, painted gold with inlaid tiles. It was beautiful, and even now, Sorcha recognized the shape. This temple. These woods.

Red-robed priests writhed on the ground all around it. So there had been members of the Aureum Sanctus who had paid a terrible price. She traced the outline of one figure, a man in the midst of becoming a wolf. A shifter. Farther down the wall, there were more shifters, all kneeling before the Saint with their hands raised, exaggerated tears falling from their eyes.

“They were cursed,” Domenico said. “See here? A punishment.”

Sorcha jumped, surprised she hadn’t heard him approach. But he wasn’t speaking to her. His attention was on the wall, and he raised his lantern, following the story. Who had added the murals if the priests had been cursed? Why had the Saint cursed them? And how? She had no one to ask. Only Kahina Kira would have known.

She wouldn’t have told you though.

“Why?” Thompson asked, coming to stand beside him.

“Who can guess at the mind of a god?” Domenico shrugged.

Sorcha turned away, scanning the room and the men in it. Her gaze fell on the Wolf, tall and dark, handsome features set in a scowl. He paced the room’s perimeter, one hand on the sword at his hip. For a moment, his eyes rested on her, and she blushed, wondering if he read the thought hovering at the top of her mind. Handsome. Monster.

“Where is the relic?” he asked.

“I don’t know.” Sorcha shook her head, folding her arms across her chest.

Revenant walked past her, out of the small inner room into the open air of the temple beyond. Domenico and Juri followed. She could hear the others in the room beyond, talking in hushed tones, words lost, only the intention clear.

Anger. Frustration. Distrust.

“What aren’t you telling me?” the Wolf asked, grabbing her arm and turning her to face him.

He stared down at her with hard black eyes, the flickering light of the torch beside the door so far away, so distant, leaving her alone with this dark stranger. The voices in the other room faded as the men went back the way they’d come.

Sorcha opened her mouth, mind racing.

“Don’t lie to me,” he said, voice so soft it barely registered.

“Why would I lie?” she asked with a swallow, the heat of his hand on her arm sinking into her, spreading out. “My goal is to resurrect my Saint. A goal I share with the prince.”

The Wolf narrowed his eyes as he took a step into her, crowding her backward. Sorcha took a step back, and he followed, his hand still locked around her arm. She stopped when she felt the smooth stone of the wall at her back. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see the details of the Saint. My Saint. But was he? Even if her faith wavered?

“Vessel. Priestess. Oracle. Whatever you are, I don’t trust that your goal is the same as the empire’s.”

His eyes roved over her face, a line appearing between his brows. Sorcha breathed heavily, trapped between this man and the wall, held in place by his iron grip. Heat gathered between them, an uneasy sensation coiling in her belly.

“You’re seeking death,” she whispered, unable to stop herself.

The Wolf dropped her arm and stepped away from her, then strode across the empty space.

Sorcha pulled in a breath, smelling the dirt of the temple and the green of the trees crowded around it. A strange cold filled the space he’d occupied in front of her only seconds ago.

“No, priestess,” he said. “I am seeking life.”

In a rush, he was at the door with the torch in one hand. The fire danced, light shifting over his face, reflected in his black eyes. He indicated the door.

She hesitated, rubbing her arm.

“Come,” he said tersely. “There are other places to search.”

* * *

If the relic had been anywhere, it would have been in the sanctuary.

But it wasn’t.

They searched the remaining ruins, beating through the underbrush, moving fallen branches, even pulling up loose pavers. But no, it wasn’t anywhere to be found, no matter how hard they searched.

Sorcha felt a perverse kind of joy. The Wolf had failed to acquire one of the relics—the first relic he’d been sent to collect with her in tow. It would displease the prince, Sorcha knew it would, and maybe if the prince was unhappy, someone else would take over the Wolf’s position here.

The man who had killed the Golden Citadel and set fire to the rubble corpse.

Sorcha wanted to escape him as badly as she wanted things to be as they had been, as badly as she wanted to turn back all the hours and days, take back the fall of her city and home. She’d washed her hands hundreds of times, yet still she saw the blood on them, felt the sticky heat of something that could never be washed away.

Go back, go back to the way things once were.

What if the prince didn’t recall the Wolf? Or what if the replacement was worse? She didn’t want to find out, not really. The evil she knew might be better than the one she didn’t. But maybe the Wolf didn’t need to be recalled or replaced. Maybe she could walk away. Walk until she fell exhausted to the earth and wait until leaves covered her, hiding her from the curious eyes of the world.

With no relic here and no promise of finding any if they continued on, maybe she really could walk away from this. Sorcha touched her shoulder, the tattoo beneath the fabric showing this place—the Silvas. The arm bone, depicted surrounded by ferns and branches, had been stolen or destroyed. Could the Saint return if pieces were missing? She wasn’t sure, couldn’t be. Nothing she’d read had specifically addressed missing relics.

Sorcha considered all of this as she returned to the area they’d claimed as their camp. The horses were tethered in the entrance within the first arches they’d passed through, but they’d refused to go up the stairs. The men had been uneasy about leaving them in the woods. There had been too many strange sounds with no visible cause.

They were all uneasy with the watchfulness of the Silvas.

Where they were now had once been a large chapel, a place for worshippers to come and make their petitions. It would have been crowded at one point, full of the faithful, each person searching for an answer to their prayer.

The temple she’d grown up in had been like that, with pilgrims coming from all over to see the hand of the Saint—a hand capable of miracles. A hand to bless them or hurt them. Sorcha had witnessed it once in her childhood—before the tattoos had begun, before the teaching had started in earnest.

There had been a man with graying hair, hard eyes, his jaw clenched around his pain and anger. He’d touched the relic with his eyes closed, lips moving with his silent plea. But when he’d opened his eyes, they were no longer clear. Blood leaked from his tear ducts, and his skin aged rapidly, wrinkling and drying out in a matter of seconds. She’d brought her hand up, covering her mouth to contain the cry of horror. A priest had led him away, out of the temple and onto the street where the man had been left to find his way home.

Not a true believer. Not a faithful worshipper.

Until then, the powers of the relic had only been hypothetical. She’d never witnessed the response of a true believer’s prayer and only read about what might happen if you asked for something but didn’t believe it.

For months, she’d been afraid to touch the relic, searching her heart and wondering if, deep inside, she had something in common with the pilgrim.

Kahina Kira had chuckled and squeezed her shoulder, offering comfort and compassion. Sorcha, you have been chosen. You could never fail him.

Guilt touched her then. She should have wanted the relic to be here. She should want to bring the Saint back into the world. Instead, she found herself thankful, relieved to find it missing.

Gone.

Gone like the priests who had taken care of this place. Gone like the pilgrims who had filled this temple. Gone and forgotten here in the heart of the Silvas.

A howl filled the night, spiraling out, expanding as it rose above the tree tops. The call caressed the moon as it climbed above the trees and into view.

Sorcha stopped breathing, frozen as another howl joined the first. Then another. She turned, searching the faces of the men around her. The Wolf was not among them.

The men were looking at each other, questions on their faces.

“Wolves?” Thompson asked.

“Possibly,” Domenico replied.

Wolves. Were they here to pay their respects to the Wolf? Or were they here to drag each person out of the temple and into the woods? Fresh meat—dinner and dessert all in one. The watchfulness of before, the feeling that something lurked beyond the screen of trees to either side of the path, must have been those wolves.

The Wolf appeared through an arch that led deeper into the temple, a direction they’d already searched. He gripped his sword in one hand and a long dagger in the other. Briefly, he surveyed his men, gaze skating over Sorcha and finally landing on Revenant. They exchanged a nod.

Long, mournful cries filled the air. They came from beyond the walls in every direction. The calls echoed through the trees, lingering like a lover’s words, threats and promises of what would come.

“What is that?” Juri asked.

The Wolf moved to the arch, standing motionless and looking down the steps and out into the Silvas—listening. The men watched him, waiting for their leader’s response.

With a slow shake of his head, he replied, “I don’t know.”

Sorcha wrapped her arms around herself, listening to the cries and trying to pick out one that might be closer than the rest. Anything that might indicate something was creeping up on them. But it was impossible to be sure. Everything, even the scuff of boots on stone, her own breathing, seemed to be amplified by the space.

When the Wolf turned back to them, his face was stone, eyes as dark as the temple around them. Sorcha could feel how the men changed around her, how they were tuned to him, shoulders straightening, hands going to their sword hilts.

“Light a fire. Stay in groups of three if you leave this room. I don’t want anyone going out alone for any reason. We’re all on watch.”

Several men nodded, others looking around the space for anything that might burn. Sorcha followed their gaze, wondering how far they would have to go to find wood for a fire. Wondering if something else would find them first.

“Someone had a fire here recently,” Domenico said. He kicked at a few scattered ashes, the remains of a half-burnt branch. He picked it up, gesturing to the small alcove. “It wasn’t a large fire though. Looks like they burned anything worth burning in this room already. Maybe they gathered more from the woods.”

“Maybe,” Adrian agreed.

“Who’s going?” Thompson’s gaze swept the group.

But the ruthless faces staring back at him were washed out and drawn in the flickering light of their few torches.

“I’ll go,” Juri said. “Who’s coming with me?”

Till lifted a hand without speaking. Magnus said he would go. The three left the ruins quietly, swords drawn, leaving the torchlight behind.

“No longer than ten minutes and remain within sight of the ruins,” the Wolf said, nodding to another group of three preparing to go in the opposite direction. “Be quick. Be quiet.”

“And her?” Revenant asked, drawing his sword and moving to keep watch over the arch as the men passed through it.

“Not your responsibility,” the Wolf replied, weapons remaining in his hands.

The Wolf turned, and warmth spiked through Sorcha as their eyes met. He looked away first, a strange sensation tickling across her skin. Sorcha forced herself to watch the remaining men as they adjusted their weapons and dropped their cloaks, testing the buckles on their leather armor. Beyond the arches, the horses whickered and stamped, restless as the howls filled the air.

The group left behind sat or stood together, listening to the night, hearts racing with a shared dread and unease.

* * *

“Are you afraid?” she asked the Wolf.

The question surprised her, and she bit her tongue, keeping whatever else she might say inside. But she searched his profile, wondering if she might catch a glimpse of the truth. He stood just beyond her reach, a barrier in the night against the unknown, guarding her because his prince demanded it.

“No,” he responded flatly, turning his dark gaze to her.

I am,she thought, wanting to offer him comfort so she might receive some in return—wanting something else to be happening in this moment other than what was. But why?Why do I want comfort from a killer? It was the fear. It was the howling filling her head, the wolves beyond the temple walls, the sense that they were creeping closer and would soon be on them.

But besides wanting comfort, now, even as she hoped to escape, even as she hoped the prince would be displeased and separate the Wolf’s head from his body, she also wanted a shred of warmth.

Sorcha was disgusted with herself, shifting her gaze away, turning inward. It was better not to meet his dark eyes, better not to look too long into the handsome face of this monster.

“I won’t let anything in these woods touch you,” Adrian said, his face expressionless, voice pitched low.

Sorcha nodded, accepting the comfort, the small amount of warmth he offered.

A scrabbling sound reached them, like massive claws on stone. A horse screamed, and Sorcha jumped to her feet, pressing her back against the wall. A figure appeared in the torchlight, filling the entrance, hulking and covered in fur—it stood on its hind legs, as tall as the lintel. Orange eyes swept over them, and bloody saliva dripped from the creature’s muzzle.

* * *

A werewolf.

Adrian’s childhood nurse had scared him with folk stories about them. She’d warned that if he misbehaved, they would come for him in the night under a full moon—a moon like the one above his head. She promised he would be turned into one of them, cursed to see the world through the eyes of a wolf and he would never again play or eat sweets or walk under a clear sky. He would be forever tainted.

A wolf. It twisted in him, the thought that he’d become what she’d warned him against being. He’d ended up on that road anyway—he had become a wolf. He’d believed her wholeheartedly as a child. As an adult, he’d roamed the continent, had seen things from myths and legends. There had been creatures, people who were not people, and he now understood the truth in her stories.

He simply drew his sword and hoped it would be enough.

“What is it?” Thompson hissed.

“Werewolf,” Adrian replied without taking his eyes off the beast.

It stood seven feet tall, a huge, broad-chested wolf-human hybrid with a sharp pointed face and orange eyes. Sharp claws tipped its fingers and feet, furious anger rolling off it in waves as it lifted its head and let loose a piercing howl.

Others answered.

There would be no way out of this place without facing them. Adrian heard other swords being drawn around him and Domenico murmuring a prayer to one of his gods. Adrian didn’t take his eyes off the creature. What did it take to defeat werewolves? In the stories, it seemed impervious to whatever weapons might be brought against them.But nothing could survive if you separated the head from the body.

“What do we do?” Thompson asked.

“Cut its head off,” Adrian said.

Armor clinked, and low whispers were exchanged. He couldn’t make out the words clearly, but their collective fear was a siege arrow directed at his gut. Tensing, he waited for the creature to step into the room. But it didn’t cross the threshold. It stood in the arch, staring at them, chest heaving, saliva dripping from its open maw.

“What’s it waiting for?” Thompson asked.

With his question, the creature began to growl—promising violence, promising dismemberment and pain.

But that was it. It was just a promise.

The creature vibrated on the threshold, held there, unmoving. Revenant picked up a pebble and tossed it at the creature, striking it in the leg. The werewolf roared, the sound deafening, but it remained where it was.

Relief and understanding flashed through Adrian. It couldn’t enter the temple. The howls beyond the crumbling walls continued, mournful and persistent, circling and closing in. They were surrounded, and if they left, they would all die. The others were probably already dead: Juri, Till, Magnus, Soren, Wes, and Lev. Six of his trusted unit. Six men he’d fought and bled beside.

“I don’t think it can enter,” Revenant said.

“You’re right,” Adrian agreed, relaxing his stance slightly.

“What happens next?” Domenico asked.

“We wait for dawn,” Adrian said.

“Do you think they’ll leave then?” Thompson rolled his shoulders, looking from Adrian to the werewolf growling in the doorway. “Moonlight is their thing, right? Isn’t that what the myths say?”

“I wouldn’t trust myths if I were you,” Revenant replied.

“Werewolves are myths, though, aren’t they?” Thompson whispered.

“This one seems pretty damn real to me, Thompson.”

“Enough,” Adrian said. “Once the sun rises, we’ll leave. For now, everyone is on guard. No one leaves this room. Understand?”

The werewolf growled, snapping its teeth, but remained where it was.

“Where’s the witch?” Revenant asked.

“What?” Adrian turned, scanning the space. Sorcha was gone. “Thompson, did you see her? Domenico? Where did she go?”

The men shook their heads, and Revenant’s yellow eyes gleamed with malicious pleasure.

Somewhere beyond the walls, wolves snarled and howled—sounding as if a small army of creatures waited for them in the night. A piercing scream filled the air, climbing in pitch until it abruptly cut off, leaving tense silence behind.

They exchanged glances, wondering who it might have been. The werewolf standing in the door lifted its muzzle, sniffing the air, and then darted away.

“Was that the witch screaming?”

Adrian’s stomach dropped.

* * *

Sorcha ran out into the darkness of the inner temple beyond the room they’d been crowded in, panting and fighting the panic in her chest. Soon the torchlight was gone—the murmurs of the men faded—and overhead, the full moon was huge and bright. Sorcha felt as if it were hovering directly over her, leaning closer to get a better look.

Moss and tiny delicate ferns covered the stones of the passageway. The cool scent of water filled the air, and for an instant, she wanted to stop and find the spring, swallow mouthful after mouthful in an effort to cleanse the panic from her body, and ease the ache at the back of her throat.

Under different circumstances, she might have enjoyed this place. She would have walked through the ruins, stopping to touch the stone or admire a trembling frond, but in the dark, her heart pounded, and the cries of the wolves reverberated against the stone. As she wove deeper into the ruins, each desperate breath filled her head until nothing remained.

Sorcha hadn’t planned to run, there was truly no escape, but it had been instinct. The Wolf would follow. Or worse, Revenant. She shuddered at the thought of the two men on her heels. But one scared her more than the other. The Wolf might be a monster, but he was alive. There was nothing living in Revenant’s gaze.

There was something in the Wolf, a twisting knowledge that was slowly unfurling in her mind. When he looked at her, there was something beneath the vicious cold he exuded. A shred of humanity. Maybe she was fooling herself, maybe there was nothing left, or there had never been anything there in the first place. But the voice inside telling her otherwise was growing stronger.

A stone rolled beneath her foot, and she fell, landing heavily on her hands and knees, crying out as she caught herself. Sharp pain shot through her wrists. The howling stopped, and she gasped in the sudden quiet. Every hair on her body stood on end as she eased back onto her heels and wiped her dirty hands on her skirt. She stood slowly, looking around, wondering how close the wolves were now.

The space around her was open, not the narrow way of the passage, but an area where several halls met and divided. Dark openings waited, five paths to choose from, and she wondered which way she should go. Where would she be safe? Would she be able to find a place to hide that the prince’s men wouldn’t be able to find?

Maybe.

It was a chance she was willing to take.

Sorcha took a tentative step forward, choosing a path at random and continuing her run into the night.

* * *

Sorcha was being followed. Something had been behind her since she’d left the last of the ruined temple behind. She was out in the wildness of the Silvas now, the howling fading behind her.

It was working. The Wolf, if he’d noticed her absence, was back there. She would lose herself in the woods and move south. Away from the winter blowing down from the north—a winter that would soon be here. It would be hard to navigate on her own, but she could make it.

The temples would be dangerous. The prince would be collecting their relics, searching for her. But the priests and priestesses would hide her, provide sanctuary. They would want her to be safe.

Another voice, this one cynical and bleak, whispered of other outcomes.

She would be discovered in an inner sanctum surrounded by the dead. Just as it had been before. From there, she would be forced to carry on this journey, marching ever onward to resurrect the Saint. And it might not even be the prince. At this point, with so many believers gone, other believers would want her to continue as well.

Only the Saint could bring them back now. And only Sorcha could bring back the Saint. There was no hiding who she was, what her life was meant for. Nowhere was safe, but there was no going back. No matter how far she ran, no matter where she hid, it would be impossible to outrun the voices filling her head, the feel of Ines dying in her hands.

The prince would put someone else in charge of her. She thought she’d wanted that, wanted it so badly she’d fled the temple as soon as the Wolf’s back was turned. But if she stopped now, he would find her and she’d continue forward with a different kind of protection—from the worst and by the worst—by a monster.

Her fate was the same. It didn’t matter which direction she ran. It didn’t matter if she ran now or even if she made it out of the woods on her own. Her fate was tied to the Saint. He was at the end of all roads for her.

They were connected by unbreakable chains.

She would always find the relics. She would always resurrect the Saint.

There was no reality where it could ever be any different.

But she didn’t stop, she didn’t turn back. Sorcha crashed through a bush, branches catching at her hair and skirts, scraping her legs and arms as she fell heavily. She groaned, swearing as she stood, continuing forward even as she fought to keep her balance.

She was tired of falling. Tired of scraping her hands. Tired of landing on her knees. They were already bruised, her palms scratched. The skin burned and stung, threatening infection, and her head ached with the urge to cry.

Slow anger simmered in her gut, frustration and exhaustion vying for space. She would use it to propel herself forward. She would keep the anger close and use it to stay alive, whether she made it out of the Silvas on her own or not. She wouldn’t give up trying. Maybe it was better to steer her own fate, to leave the monster behind.

But even as she ran, she shivered. He would never let her go. He was relentless.

A creature crashed through the trees beside her. An overwhelming animal stink filled the air—blood and fur, hot breath and musk. A large paw tipped with claws swiped at her, catching her dress,and she toppled to the ground. It rushed forward, pinning her in place.

A growl filled her ears as she lay panting in the leaves. The scents of damp earth and moss vied with the animal smell—wild and melding together to be one thing instead of many. A scratch burned on her face, and something sharp was digging into her shoulders.

A werewolf crouched over her, radiating heat, lips pulled back from sharp teeth.

She waited for the snap of iron jaws tearing into tender flesh, for razor claws to sink into her. It panted, its orange eyes intent as it stared down at her.

Nothing happened.

She scrabbled in the dirt, hair catching on twigs and leaves as she moved to sit up. Her heart pounded and bile rose in the back of her throat as seconds raced by and death failed to arrive.

In the moonlight, the creature was huge—a hulking beast with a pointed muzzle and eyes lit with an eerie orange glow. The gaze was intelligent, cautious and curious and angry all at once.

It snarled and she froze.

Soon, so soon, she would feel hot blood soaking into her clothes. Her own blood. There would be terrible pain as it tore out her throat, ravaged her face. But it didn’t come.

She inched backward again, tentative, watching the creature for any hint of movement.

It didn’t stop her as she wormed away, putting a little distance between them. Its stance changed, the attack pulled back, eyes intent as she scooted backward. She panted, nostrils full of that animal scent—predator, meat eater, hunter.

Heartbeats passed, seconds, moments, minutes, as they sat staring at each other. She had no way to measure the time except by the beating of her own heart.

They remained locked together, staring each other down, until her breath came more easily and the fear began to recede. The creature’s posture shifted, tense and poised, but more relaxed than it had been. Tensed in a new way.

Would it bite her? Stop her from moving? Let her go?

“Why are you here?” she asked, voice rough, emotion welling up. Slowly, oh so slowly, she reached out with one hand. “Do you know me? Or about me?”

The werewolf breathed out against her fingers, its hot breath rolling over her. A noise came up from its chest, a sound she felt in her own chest—a vibrating echo. An acknowledgment.

Excitement crashed through her, a moment of crazy, blinding hope.

The werewolf knew her.

But would it be able to help? It had snarled and snapped but not lunged to kill. And maybe it was tied to the Saint as well. Just as she was. Maybe this creature was tied to her.

A noise startled them both. A cry from a familiar throat. The werewolf turned its head.

She gasped and then screamed as a blade severed the werewolf’s head from its shoulders.

* * *

Steel bit into flesh, severing through taut tendon and bone, skin and muscle parting beneath the blade. Blood gushed over Sorcha. The scent of copper filled his nose—metallic and bitter. The beast’s head dropped into her lap as the body slumped to the side, paws twitching. She was screaming, a mixed wail of surprise and anguish.

“What have you done?” Sorcha gasped.

She looked up at him, face spattered with blood—dark in the light of the full moon—anger flashing in her eyes. Struggling to free herself of the dead thing, she stood and stumbled away from him, an arm outstretched to keep him at bay.

“It wasn’t going to hurt me!”

“You don’t know that,” Adrian said, tone flat, gathering a calm and disinterested demeanor to him like a cloak. “It would have killed you.”

He hadn’t expected thanks, but he had expected relief at being rescued. Instead, she was angry and distressed at the creature’s death.

Adrian had forgotten his anger with Sorcha’s escape the moment he’d seen the werewolf hunched over her. The prince would kill them all if something happened to the woman. Adrian wanted to keep his men alive—himself alive. Saving her was nothing more than saving his own skin.

That’s a lie.

Sorcha’s voice had gone hoarse, tears threatening to spill out of her wide green eyes.

Adrian looked down at the creature. It shifted subtly, the canine features fading, the body shrinking. Second by second, the beastly features receded until it became a bearded man with matted hair all over his body and long, yellowed fingernails.

It would have killed her. It had already killed several of his men. Juri and Lev, both excellent swordsmen and unmatched on a battlefield but caught off guard by something so strange and new.

More werewolves were out there, hunting in the night and lurking beneath the silver moon. Their animal gaze bored into him from the shadows, heating his skin, heavy as fists, menacing and feral. He needed to take Sorcha back to the safety of the temple. The creatures had not come into the ruins. And there they could keep the walls at their backs and defend the position until morning. They were too vulnerable here.

Sorcha took a step back, moving away from him and putting distance between herself and the dead thing.

She held up a trembling hand and whispered, “Stay back.”

Adrian remained motionless, aware of the silence around them, listening to the way her voice fell into it like stones into water. Stay. Back. Her voice rippled out, lapping up against the trees and the things hiding in them—watching them.

“You’re a monster,” she whispered, eyes darting back to the werewolf, mouth twisting in sorrow.

It would have killed you.

But he’d already said that, spoken the truth, and she’d denied it. Denied him. He’d protected her because the prince would skin him alive and leave him to rot in the sun on the outer wall of the Traveling City. That was all.

“I am not the monster here,” he said, voice flat, pointing at the corpse with his sword. “There is your monster.”

“You think just because you don’t look like one, you aren’t? You wear a human face. You pretend to be a person. You are the worst kind of monster.”

Something shifted inside him, slithering free of his soul, curling around the sudden pang of hurt and hiding it away. No, he wouldn’t let her words dig in, cling to him with claws of steel and iron. He would let anger replace it. He would let anger and disdain override this situation.

He stepped over the creature, stalking toward her, and she gasped. The sound thrilled him. He wanted her to be afraid, to obey him. He wanted her to be quiet and still, and maybe, just maybe, then she would disappear from his thoughts. Maybe then he would learn to slide a cool gaze past her without lingering, without stopping as his heart caught, stuttering.

He reached for her.

“Don’t touch me,” she hissed.

“If you don’t wish to be touched, follow me, listen to my commands, and I won’t lay a finger on you.”

“Why should I?”

“Because you’re spoiled. You’ve lived your whole life protected in a temple. Worshipped as a living god. Do you really think you would survive out here? With those?” He pointed to the werewolf with his sword again, dark blood dripping from the blade.

“Better them than you!”

“Do you think so?” He stopped, considering her fierce expression, the hard set of her mouth and glint in her eyes. She was covered in blood—hair, face, body. The metallic scent would linger on her for days.

“Yes.”

A wolf howled, the sound climbing, spiraling higher until it cut off abruptly.

Sorcha spun in a circle, searching for the direction the call had come from. She glanced back at Adrian, an expression he couldn’t read flashing across her features, and then she bolted into the underbrush.

He didn’t hesitate, plunging after her and swearing under his breath.

* * *

Sorcha stopped abruptly at the edge of a clearing, her figure haloed the moonlight, a shadow haloed and held motionless.

An arrow of desire pierced him. To capture or claim her?

He didn’t think about it as he crashed into her, arms coming around her, clamping her to him in a fierce embrace. With her back pressed tight to his chest, her hands came up, squeezing his forearms with more strength than he’d expected—fingers digging into muscle. His heart pounded against his ribs, anger roiling in his gut.

She could have gotten away. She could have been attacked.

He closed his eyes, willing away the anger and fear, pulling in a deep breath to calm his mind and heart. Sorcha was small and warm against him, the top of her head resting below his jaw, her hair tickling his chin. Soft. Warm.

Even sticky with blood and sweaty, there was some underlying sweetness, whatever she’d washed her hair with last—a faint floral scent.

The urge to remove his gloves and stroke her hair was overwhelming. He wanted to touch her with his bare hands, run his fingers through her hair, cup her face. He inhaled sharply, surprised with the sudden rushing desire, the vividness of it all playing out in his head as he clutched her against him.

Sorcha’s hands fluttered against his hold, patting his arms, pulling at his gloved fingers. He thought she was trying to pry him free, wriggle from his grasp, but she wasn’t trying to pull away. She was trying to get his attention. He opened his eyes, seeing their surroundings for the first time, understanding what they’d almost stepped into.

In the bright moonlight, the clearing head was visible—the horror happening at its center plain. Two werewolves were eating what remained of a man. There was no way to know who it might have been. Nothing that would have hinted at an identity remained. The armor had been stripped, the hands gone, with most of a leg eaten. There was no face. No identify marks.

As they stood transfixed, one werewolf snapped at the other. The creatures snarled at each other, one tugging at the body, the other refusing to let go. The snarling grew louder. A yipping came from across the clearing, and then another howl. One of the creatures dropped the dead man long enough to howl. Then the two were fighting over their dinner, roaring, the sound deafening.

“Adrian,” Sorcha said, voice shaking, body trembling. “Adrian, please, let’s go.”

Adrian. A name. His name. But in her mouth, it sounded unrecognizable. She’d spoken to him grudgingly and never addressed him directly over the last few weeks. She’d never said his name. In surprise, his hold loosened.

Sorcha turned in his arms and buried her face in his chest, smearing blood across his leathers. He held her, so focused on the woman in his arms that he barely registered the snarling from the clearing. She curled into him, breathless in the dark.

“We need to move,” he whispered in her ear, the words barely there. “We need to go while they’re distracted.”

Sorcha nodded, following as he turned, his arm around her as he led them away from the clearing. Behind them, the snarling continued, the pair of werewolves still bickering over their dinner. The wet sounds followed, clinging to the inner shells of their ears, holding on to the backs of their minds.

* * *

The howls stopped as soon as they reached the temple. His men were waiting within the walls, the horses untouched. Sorcha was sticky with blood, and she’d put a little distance between them as they’d trudged back through the trees. The men had studied her briefly as Adrian shared what they’d seen in the forest, and then he’d told her to get cleaned up in the spring.

Adrian sat beside the spring as Sorcha washed the blood away. The water was teeth-achingly cold, but she sank into it as if it were a warm bath. He kept his eyes averted though he could see her pale skin glowing out of the corner of his eye.

Sorcha didn’t speak to him again, didn’t meet his eyes. But she accepted the blanket he handed her with one hand and a dress he’d pulled from her pack with the other.

“There’s a fire,” he began, motioning to where they’d been gathered before the werewolves had appeared.

The spring was red, and at first, he thought she’d been hurt. The water couldn’t have been that red from what she’d washed from her skin.

He bent and scooped up a handful, letting the liquid fall through his fingers. It was no longer water. Now, the spring was made of blood.

“Do you turn water into blood?” he asked, not sure if it was a genuine question.

If her Saint could resurrect the dead, maybe this woman could turn water into blood.

She looked from him to the spring and then shook her head.

He led her back to the fire, a hand on her elbow, grip tight. He knew she wouldn’t run from him again. But he needed to make sure his men were aware of it as well. The rest of the night, Sorcha’s teeth chattered. She sat close to the fire, with two blankets wrapped around her shoulders with a glassy-eyed gaze.

They had found nothing but death here. No relic to carry out. No answer to any of the questions the men had. And now several had died. The prince had given him one more task to complete before they could leave the Horde and the Traveling City behind.

Cautes and King Marius lay between them and the next location on the map. Several battalions had broken away from the main body of the Horde and had begun marching in that direction. The prince had tasked the Black Tomeis with meeting them there.

Adrian had a king to kill.