Page 56 of No Greater Sorrow

“For the Knowing One? No.”

Great. So, all the Dark Saints knew.

“However, that sickle interests me. May I see it?”

Hesitating, Aleja unhooked the weapon from her belt and handed it to him hilt first.

Merit gave another low hum but said nothing as he analyzed the bands of pink, gold, and blue that swept across the curved blade like the northern lights. “The weapon is clearly attuned to you, but most of the enchantments have left it. Only a remnant of Astraelis magic remains. I presume that it was imbued with Val’s power when he broke my chains. Is this the blade that killed Roland?”

“Yes.” Aleja shifted in her chair. Merit, Orla, and Roland had been united in their condemnations of Nicolas at the last war.

“A pity. He was a good soldier before… everything.”

“I thought you might have made it.”

“The sickle is older than me, but my ancestors have been crafting weapons for Otherlanders since the Second taught my ancient relatives the craft. One of them may have forged it.”

“The first of your line created the Knowing One’s sword.” Aleja could remember some of the story, but it had been a long time since she’d stood in the throne room listening to Nicolas tell her the history of the Otherlanders and the Astraelis.

“Correct. Are you satisfied with your sickle, or shall I recreate your old weapon when I get a chance?”

Aleja leaned back in her chair, uncertain of what to say. Perhaps this was some sort of peace offering, though Merit’s voice remained flat and perfunctory. “Maybe later,” she said, thinking that this is what her old self would have done. “Make sure our soldiers are well-armed first.”

Self-sacrifice, just like the Second had forced her to learn.

“Very well, Wrath. If I recall anything else about the box, I’ll send word.”

Merit disappeared, leaving her alone with Garm. The fact that the Dark Saint of Sloth was here should have felt like a victory. Despite nothing going as planned, they’d managed to break him out without anyone dying. She closed her eyes and listened to Garm’s deep breathing, willing herself to stand and find a bed. With the final Trial only days away and all the Dark Saints back, there were people far more competent than her running the camp. In the distance, she could hear the scattered shouts of joy at Merit’s return, the clank of metal, boot fall muffled by dirt, and the great wing beats of black dragons circling overhead.

Aleja wished she could see her grandmother, but asking one of the Avisai to carry her back to the palace wouldn’t go unnoticed. She’d talked her way onto the mission to prove herself, not just to Nicolas, but to the other Saints. None of them had the chance to run back to their families whenever they felt like it.

Garm’s hot breath moved over her knuckles, but for once, he too was silent. A tear slipped down Aleja’s cheek, followed by another—scorching hot, as if her fire was boiling them from the inside. Perhaps her family were right in treating her as a temporary person, someone who was doomed to die young and undeserving of the affections her cousins received. She’d never had a real friend until Violet, nor a proper lover until Nic, and it felt as though both had pierced her heart with needles— thin needles, sharp needles, easy to forget until someone drove them in deeper.

“You’re crying,” Garm said.

“Just for a moment. I’ll be fine.”

“The cooks are roasting pheasants. I can smell them from here. Should I steal us one?”

Aleja laughed softly, scratching Garm behind the ears. “You’re a good boy. Would you go watch over Nicolas? I need to be alone for a minute.”

Garm looked stern, as if he was about to protest, but the crease between his light brown eyebrows relaxed and he nodded before leaving Aleja behind. She set the small golden ring box on the table and watched it, wondering what her old self would say to see her crying alone at an empty war table.Hello? she asked her inner voice.Are you there? You’ve been so quiet today.

Silence was the only response.

* * *

“Hey.”

Aleja hadn’t realized that she’d fallen asleep, the chair in the medical tent stiff against her back. Nicolas’s voice woke her from a dream in which she had been wandering through a field full of fig trees.

His silver eyes watched her. “You’re here,” he said simply.

“Of course, I am.”

“We got Merit back?”

“We did.”

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