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Duncan looked away from the sky and turned slowly, taking in the quiet calm. He had never felt anything like it. Perhaps the closest had been the week he spent with Kora after the royal wedding, when the world had first seemed capable of peace.

Two slivers of air shimmered. Light gathered, folding inward until the silhouette of his father emerged, looking every inch the duke Duncan remembered. A few paces behind, another figure appeared—a male with long hair stirring in the breeze, starlight threaded through midnight strands. His severe, handsome face was set in solemn stillness.

Duncan ran to his father.

“Son,” Alaric said, drawing Duncan into a warm, solid embrace.

Duncan pulled back, searching his familiar features. “How is it possible you are here?”

“You are here,” Alaric replied with a warm, sorrowful smile. “But not for long.”

“What is the rush?” Confusion tightened around Duncan like fog. “Are we not home?”

Alaric placed both hands on Duncan’s shoulders and looked at him with the kind of love only a father carries for his child. “I am so proud of you,” he said. “I am proud of all my sons. But you…” His grip tightened. “You have endured the unimaginable. You have become what is required of you without becoming something unrecognizable to yourself.”

“I do not deserve it.” Duncan gripped his father’s arms, guilt stirring. “It should be you… Garriden.” He paused, suddenly unable to bear it. “Corwin.”

Alaric gave a firm shake of his head. “We are happy and well here. Do not trouble yourself.” His smile cooled into something sadder. “You know what must be done, and you will do it.” He sighed deeply, then whispered, “And I will see you again soon.”

He glanced behind him.

Duncan looked past his father, remembering the male. The male lifted a hand and his eyes began to shift between blue and black, like day eclipsed by night then freed again.

The air vanished from Duncan’s lungs. He clawed for breath, each inhale a labored struggle. Alaric’s shape blurred, dimming as though consumed by mist. “Father—” Duncan rasped, reaching for him as panic exploded in his chest.

His father faded, the valley fading with him.

Then, abruptly, the world lurched.

Air rushed back into Duncan’s body in a full, shuddering breath.

His eyes flew open.

Winter swallowed everything.

He lay in the middle of a battlefield. The air was sharp with blood and something metallic that lingered in the throat.

For a breath he did not move. Then memory came rushing back in a disorienting wave: the violent fall from his horse, the bloom of agony as the blade cut through his gut.

Duncan drew a careful breath, bracing for the pain that should have followed.

None did.

He looked down.

There was no wound. No rupture. Only the dark, sticky remnants of blood clinging to his armor where it had once poured freely. He stared at the stain in confusion until the strange absence of pain pulled him upright before he had fully decided to move.

The next thing he saw was green eyes. Wide with relief. Brimming with tears.

“My love,” Kora sobbed. She collapsed into him, her hands cradling his face.

“What happened?” Duncan asked. Speaking felt strange. He looked at her more closely, not yet ready to trust what he was seeing. “I saw Merrick… then I was in Emberglade.”

Kora shook her head quickly. “You were wounded. And Yaoaya… she healed you.”

“Healed me?” Duncan repeated. His hand drifted to his abdomen, fingers brushing the dented armor, searching for proof of what his body insisted was true. “What do you mean?”

“Your Grace—my apologies,” Sven blurted, breathless and horrified as he stumbled forward. “The man came out of nowhere… I swear to you I tried—”