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Rakoshya was against the wall beside one of her water-forged seers, frowning into the ice-blue bowl filled with water. She was scrying for the First’s fate.

“Well?” Hadima demanded, voice hard as stone. That word was a challenge. An accusation.

Iryana’s mark burned, sharp and insistent. It throbbed, pulling her, demanding her. Now? Thelbiz wanted her now? She didn’t care what they wanted, didn’t care for their war. The gods were on their own. Fuck off, she willed into the mark.

The tugging on her mark dissipated.

The seer leaned over to whisper to Rakoshya who turned to them with a pained look on her face. Rakoshya just shook her head, and Iryana felt the blood drain out of her face.

“What does that mean!” she snapped, voice shrill.

“It means there is nothing more to be done... It won’t be long,” Hadima whimpered, sagging in defeat. Her back was bowed, shoulders hunched forward, like her usual strength and will were gone.

Iryana could only blink, her mind unable to process those words. She was missing something. Surely, she was missing something.

The First lifted her arm, and it shook as she sought Hadima’s hand. “You did well. Took away the pain. It’s a great gift.”

Her words were stilted and slow, like it was a struggle to string them together.

Hadima nodded, tears streaming down her cheeks. “I’m sorry.”

“Death is not—always avoidable.” She sucked in a shaky breath, chest wheezing. “I must talk to my heir. Everyone else out.”

Iryana stiffened. “No, they need to help you.” But she could hear people leaving.

“There is nothing to be done.” Rakoshya bowed toward the First, met Iryana’s frantic gaze with an apologetic one, and slipped out of the chamber.

“No, you’re wrong!”

A hand squeezed her shoulder, and Iryana jerked around to see Pyetar looking down at her. “I won’t be far.”

She searched his eyes, trying to understand, to find something that made sense. But she found only grief. Pyetar let go of her shoulder, bowed deeply, and then left. He left.

Iryana looked between her clan frantically, searching for someone to put a stop to this. Her grandmother couldn’t give up. She couldn’t. But one by one, her clan members bowed deeply to their First, foreheads pressed into the dirt, and left with tears in their eyes.

Hadima lowered herself beside the First, chest heaving as her head rested on the floor, but when she stood, it was like she had donned armor. Hadima’s back straightened, her shoulders rolled back, and her chin lifted despite how it trembled.

“Rest easy knowing we carry your oaths,” Hadima recited, then helped pull a sobbing Misha off the ground. “We’ll wait for you outside, Iri.”

Iryana didn’t nod, didn’t respond at all. Just stared as her sisters retreated. This wasn’t happening.

Uncle Dinhal crouched next to Iryana and gently patted his mother’s hand. Tears leaked down his face, gathering on his beard. It was only the three of them now. Iryana stared at him, waiting for him to do something. To stop this.

“My baby boy,” Iryana’s grandmother rasped, smiling faintly at Dinhal. “So proud—of you.”

“I’ll miss you, Mom,” he said in a low, broken voice.

“Love you—sweet boy.”

Dinhal seemed to brace himself, eyes sliding shut. “We carry your oaths.”

When he stood, Iryana grabbed her uncle’s hand, nails digging into his gloves.

“Don’t go,” she cried. If he left… she’d have to accept that the First, that her grandmother, was dying.

“You must be strong, Iri.” And then he walked away.

Iryana stared at his retreating form, and then the empty tunnel he’d left through, eyes wide in horror.