Page 205 of Harbinger

I shove the longing down and grit my teeth. Squaring my shoulders, I raise my sword. The fear burns off, leaving anger in its place. Anger at my brother for being a dick and this fucking giant wolf determined to eat me for dinner. And more than a bit of rage aimed at myself for wandering too close to the forest in the first place.

“I won’t hurt you,” I say evenly, determination threading the words, “if you don’t hurt me.”

“Arden!” Bishop’s shout cuts across the clearing.

I ignore the surge of relief. I can’t afford to think I’m safe.

“Little busy right now!” I shout back.

The massive horned wolf crouches, preparing to spring, as if it senses time is running out.

Seven hells.

I grit my teeth, bracing for the pounce as wind rushes overhead. Wings brush my hair, and something lands on my shoulder with a loud screech.

The oscen’s claws dig into my skin. It followed me from Vennaro. Naturally.

I freeze. So does the wolf.

For a moment, nothing moves.

Then … the wolf lowers its head.

Slowly.

Deliberately.

And sinks to the ground, ears flattening in submission, its giant, curved horns grazing the grass.

“What are you?” I whisper to the bird as the wolf lies before me, its eyes fixed on where the oscen rests perched on my shoulder.

Bishop skids to a stop a few paces away, then stares. He steps closer to me, and the beast growls softly. Bishop’s lips curl like he might snarl back. But the oscen angles its body, spreading its wings, and launches into the air with an echoing cry. It soars deeper into the heart of the Cinderwald, and Bishop brings his sword up as the wolf rises.

At least we’ll be ripped to shreds together.

But it doesn’t even look at us as it turns and bounds back into the trees after the oscen. The forest swallows both, and my knees buckle.

Next to me, Bishop slowly lowers his sword. “What the fuck just happened?”

I stare at the place where the wolf disappeared.

“I have absolutely no idea.”

I turn to check on Isidore and go cold. The little copse of saplings is black as ash now, fused into the Cinderwald like the boundary between the two never existed at all. Right where I stood and let my anger take me.

The magic that’s ruined the forest didn’t do this.

I did.

THIRTY-FIVE

The astrolatory in Damalis is smaller than the others I’ve seen in Antares. It’s little more than a chapel held together by rough wooden beams and stone. The roof’s glass panes are uneven, warped with tiny bubbles that distort the sky overhead. Rows of simple wooden benches face the altar at its center.

Bishop’s lips twitch. “Benches?”

“People still come here,” I say softly, speaking in the low voice my parents taught me to use in the sacred space when I was a child. “To seek guidance. Or when they want to ask the Stars’ favor.”

A young mother, her baby nestled in a sling, rises from one of the benches, nodding to us as she exits.