Page 187 of The Reckoning of Starlight

Serenna’s throat tightened but she nodded.

“We don’t know if one caused the other, or whether the silver eyes mean anything for an infant,” Aesar said, quiet and unflinching. “It may take years to learn whether the voices remain only voices, or whether something on the other side can reach through her. Today, she’s innocent. That is all we have the right to judge.”

He clasped his hands behind his back, a prince’s posture before a court, though there was no throne here. Only stone and rot, moss and vines climbing around a dying female while Ayla’s breath rasped through the silence.

“If we stop the king…” He trailed off. “She is my blood as well. Whatever her power becomes. Whatever shadow follows it.”

Ayla held his stare, the silence stretching just long enough to expose the crack in her certainty.

“You don’t get to claim her,” she said at last, but the words had lost some of their poison. “Not after his threat.”

“Lykor fears that her corruption is inevitable,” Aesar said. “But I do not.”

Ayla disregarded him, turning back to Serenna. “I told you what I know. Now I want your vow. Not his.”

Serenna watched the steady rise and fall of Sharyne’s chest, too small to know others had already begun writing a verdict into her blood.

“If we survive this,” Serenna said, each word settling heavier than the last, “I’ll see that she’s cared for.”

Ayla considered her a moment longer. Then, barely, she dipped her chin.

“You still have my artifact.”

Serenna nodded, aware of Ayla’s Starshard tucked inside her leathers, its faint hum carrying through her armor.

“Take my tether off.”

The courtliness vanished from Aesar’s posture. His shoulders set, weight shifting forward.

“You bargained for the girl,” Lykor growled. “Not your freedom. The collar stays.”

“What exactly do you think I’ll do?” Ayla snapped. “I can’t even stand.”

She adjusted Sharyne against her chest. The effort emptied her lungs, leaving the next breath ragged.

“I want to extract my power.” Her lips tightened. “When she’s old enough, give her what remains of Mishryn and me.”

Serenna’s hands went numb. “You’re already weak. You—”

“Please,” Ayla gritted out.

Serenna blinked at her sister. At the female who’d tormented her, tortured Fenn through stolen hands, commanded armies, and spent a lifetime taking what she wanted without ever lowering herself to ask.

Serenna glanced toward Lykor, who had the key.

He glowered back, refusal set in every line of him.

Jassyn’s hand settled on his arm.

A muscle ticked in Lykor’s jaw. He exhaled through his nose, muttered under his breath, and reached into his armor. The key flashed in the morning light as he flung it toward Serenna.

She snatched it from the air.

Lykor’s shadows rose in hooked coils, every tendril angled toward Ayla.

Serenna crossed the chamber. Rot thickened with every step, swallowing the damp green scent of moss where she knelt.

The collar hung loose against Ayla’s neck, its gold dulled where it had chafed over bone. Serenna fitted the key into the lock and twisted.