Page 165 of She Who Holds My Wrath

Her voice breaks as the rain begins to fall in fat droplets from the clouds above. “My people are dead.”

The storm queen trembles. And suddenly, she looks very, very tired. I turn away, unable to watch her fracture further.

My fault. My fault. My fault. The voice whispers in my head over and over. I squint my eyes, rubbing at my head to try and remove the manic whispers of guilt in my thoughts. My eyes quickly widen when I see a dead soldier.

He lies partially buried beneath collapsed stone. But it’s not the sight of a dead soldier that has me focusing on him. It’s something about his armour that catches my eye, so I step closer. The metal is unfamiliar: dark, almost liquid in appearance. It’s etched with symbols that shift if I stare too long.

Recognition prickles as images of the grimoire flash through my mind.

“Is that…” my voice tightens. “Særathi runes on his armour?”

Beside me, Aran goes still. “Y—yes.”

The word is barely air as realisation settles.

“So they managed it,” I murmur. “They gained the hand of the Særathi… but why? Why would they help the Six?”

Aran doesn’t answer me as I see curiosity has taken over and he slowly lowers himself to kneel beside the body. It’s as if he’s moving on autopilot, reaching out to trace his thumb across the runes etched on the soldier’s armour.

Aran gasps. But instead of it sounding startled, it comes out wounded. Like something inside him just tore open. He goes utterly motionless and panic rises in my chest.

“Aran?” I step towards him.

His eyes are unfocused, moving rapidly as if seeing something none of us can. His breathing turns ragged, his hands beginning to shake as his thumb manically swipes back and forth over the runes.

I drop down beside him, touching his shoulder gently. “Aran.”

He doesn’t hear me. His lips part, his complexion paling as his eyes continue to search.

“No…”

The word fractures, sounding just like it did the day he realised Velentha was gone. My pulse hammers as I feel him tremble beneath my touch. Korithax shifts closer to me, forever the protector at my back.

Aran’s shaking suddenly stops, his head dropping on a ragged gasp. I watch warily, as his shoulders rise and fall in rapid succession. His head lifts slowly, his gaze locking on to mine. The look he gives me sends chills across my body. He’s looking at me like he’s seeing a ghost.

“I thought you were dead,” he whispers.

Every nerve in my body ignites as I subtly shift away from him. “What are you talking about?”

His chest shudders. “They told me you vanished.”

Confusion churns and I swallow the lump forming. “Aran…”

The freezing rain pelting my skin does nothing to take away the fire I feel from seeing the look of devastation across his face.

His voice breaks completely. “You never returned.”

He stares at me like I’m something fragile, his deep-black hair drenched and plastered to his forehead. And the love that he usually has for me in his eyes burns so much fiercer.

“My sister.”

The storm sounding ahead is nothing compared to those two words echoing across the graveyard of the fallen realm.

Impossible.

My brother.

Impossible.