Page 305 of Heat of the Everflame

When her gaze shifted back to me, her golden slitted pupils seemed to deepen to an ominous bronze. A dark rumble rolled in her throat.

I sat up straighter. “Which one? Fortos? It was Fortos, wasn’t it? I knew he must have been a prick.”

A ripple of amusement shot back, but beyond that, she didn’t answer.

“Was it Montios? Sophos?”

Again, no answer. I listed off each of the remaining Kindred, and though flickers of mild feeling accompanied some, none inspired the harsh darkness I’d felt in her a moment ago.

I frowned. “Who was it, then?”

My throat went tight in phantom pains as Sorae strained against the bounds of whatever held her back.

Her head slowly turned to the east, snarling and fangs bared. My heart skipped a beat. I searched for some sign of danger, but nothing was there.

I looked again at Sorae—her gaze wasn’t on the sky, but on the ground.

In the distance, the mountains gave way to a dark forest set on a series of steep, undulating hills. Its trees were blackened and gnarled, like each one had been burned—or poisoned. At its center, set into a low valley whose base I couldn’t see, several columns of smoke rose into the air.

My godhood stirred. It was still deeply weakened and lethargic, but wide awake, and sharply aware in a way I’d never felt it before. It pressed to the edges of my skin, tugging me toward the shadowy trees.

Claim me, Daughter of the Forgotten.

I jolted upright in surprise. My godhood had only spoken that phrase to me twice before—each time I’d surrendered to a Crown.

Something else tickled at my mind. A memory, perhaps, or a dream. An image of screaming and bloodshed, of explosions and a blinding light. Of my mother’s arms around me and a crushing pain.

Sorae let out a low whine. I shook my head to clear the vision.

“That must be the Guardians’ camp my mother mentioned,” I said, squinting at the distant smoke. Sorae’s muscles tensed beneath my legs. I suspected she wasn’t keen for another showdown with the mortals like the one we’d had in Arboros. Neither was I.

Still... something was calling me toward that forest. A pull from deep within. A sense that the course of my fate ran through those hills.

Trust your instincts, Luther had told me.

And my instincts were telling me there was something I needed to see.

A glance at the sun warned I’d been gone longer than I’d planned. I blew out a frustrated sigh. I couldn’t risk being away when Luther’s magic went dark again, and I’d promised him no more running into danger alone.

Begrudgingly, I pushed my instincts aside and set Sorae into a swift pace for our return. My heart broke a little at her disappointment, and I silently renewed my vow to find some way to set her free.

“Were you friends with Rymari, the Montios gryvern?” I asked.

A heavy sadness bled across the bond, a sorrow tinted with shame that left me wondering if she’d been involved in the battle that had weakened Rymari enough for the Guardians to strike her down.

I stroked my hand gently along the fur of her leonine haunches. “Whatever happened, it wasn’t your fault. That blame lies on her killer.”

She sent back a pulse of gratitude, but her guilt didn’t ebb, and I understood—no amount of hating my father’s murderer would ease the blame I felt over his death, either.

“I think Rymari saved our lives back in Umbros,” I said, thinking back on the jar of lavender flame that had put an endto the Umbros Queen’s attack. “I wish I had some way to thank her.”

Sorae took a sudden sharp turn off our path.

I opened my mouth to order her back on course, but Sorae snapped her jaws before I could get the words out, her clicking fangs seeming to beg me to stop before she was bound to obey.

As we drew closer to the ground, I noticed something odd. This part of the mountains had no snow, but at the center of a grassy plateau lay an impossibly perfect circle of unblemished white.

Sorae landed just beside it. The draft of her wings sent a whirl of snowflakes flying out of the circle and into the air. She bent to the ground to let me dismount, then crept forward to the circle’s edge. She hung her head low, her eyes closing, her wings folding back. There was something almost reverent to her stance.

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