She never used to cry. As a girl she knew neither sorrow nor grief. Pain led only to anger. When wronged she felt no self-pity, but righteous, vindictive outrage. Tears were a sign of weakness. They were for women and children. Not for Eris. Never for her. She did not cry, not when run through by an orc’s blade, not when burned to cinders by an infernal, not when her staff was destroyed and her leg was broken, not when taken away from all her friends by the Seekers and facing down certain death or confronted with the reality that any number of her companions had been killed.

Reality had to be confronted and squared down. Not wept away. Tears could not wash away the truth.

But nothing could stop her now. Now she was all tears. She buried her head in Rook’s chest and found her face covered in his blood, colder and colder with every second, and she could not stop herself. She could not stand to lift herself up for any purpose but to take a breath. She kneeled there over him, clenching his body, waiting for him to wake up. But he never did. And she knew he never would.

At first she shrieked. Then she wailed, all words escaping her. Then she fell quiet and she did nothing but cry.

This was something he had done to her. He had perverted her. Made her weak. Corrupted her and domesticated her. She hated him for it. That he could make her feel this way, bullying her endlessly, coercing her with sexual desire into love—and then—then leave her alone, like this. Running off for no cause. Throwing his life away. Yes, she hated him. He was the stupidest man to ever live. He was a complete fool. And she loved him, he had made her love him, and then…

She clawed at him. Over and over again she whispered, “I hate you,” into his chest. She hated him for leaving her. She hated him for ignoring her. She hated him for throwing his life away for so little. And above all she hated him for dying like a hero, for selflessly running to save others, for sacrificing himself for strangers, because Eris knew that heroism, that selflessness, that infinite idiocy and complete lack of regard for himself—she knew and recognized that this was precisely the man she loved.

And so she didn’t just hate him. She hated herself. Eris should have scoffed to hear that a duke had thrown his life away to save plebians. She should have scorned him to her companions. She should have mocked his useless death.

Instead she cried, because now he was gone, and they would never be together again.

A man approached. He grabbed her shoulder gently and said something, but she pushed him away, screaming, “Leave me!”

Then she embraced him again. And with every second thereafter her hatred only grew, until she was desperate for vengeance. She sniffled away her last tear and roared in anger, and even though her body ached and her muscles whined and every inch of her skin was covered in hives and rashes, she was ready to burn down Katharos herself, just to vent her rage, to avenge Rook’s death, to—

But that was worst of all. That was what made her angriest. There was no one to seek out for revenge. There was no demon to hunt down. The Kynigos was dead, Rook had killed it, and it only cost him his life. That meant it was all his fault. She had no one to be angry at, except him.

She hated him for that most of all.

“Eris,” Aletheia said. Her voice was weak. She was still sobbing.

“Shut up!” Eris snapped.

“Eris,” the girl said again. “Eris!”

She clenched a handful of Rook’s hair in her fingers. Then she shot upright, rage in her eyes, and she looked at Aletheia. All of her hatred was distilled in her look, and the girl saw it, flinching as if it burned just to look at her. She was hideous. Puffy. Disheveled. Bloodied. Still on the ground. Eris only calmed when she realized that she must have looked far, far worse.

“What?” she yelled.

Aletheia’s lips quivered. Tears still trailed down her eyes. “Rook was Strategos,” she whispered. A long delay later she added, “We’re criminals.”

A moment. She regarded Aletheia with confusion—and then she understood. She knew what the girl meant. Rook had been duke, Rook had been the hero, Rook was the one immune to the Prince’s edicts—he had been their only shield in the city. With him gone, there was nothing to stop the guards, or the Cult, or even the Seekers swooping down upon them.

Aletheia pointed. The Archon’s knights had arrived. They helped survivors from ruined buildings and swept the streets, and they came Eris’ way.

“We have to go,” she said.

Eris looked down at Rook. He was very cold now. The night was very cold, the first cold night of the year. “No. We will not leave him.”

“Eris!”

She grabbed Lord Arqa’s sword. It was worn by a sling around the shoulder, Jason had equipped its sheath that way when they first met him and they hadn’t changed anything since, and she took its scabbard from Rook’s body and hung it around herself. Then she tried to lift him into her arms—

He weighed two hundred pounds. He was all muscle. She never could have carried him even if she were well, but she wasn’t well, she was very sick, and even the sword was nearly too heavy for her to lift.

She collapsed back down to his side. “Help me!” she said.

“I can’t! I’m too weak!”

“Is there anything you can do?” Eris yelled.

The girl started to cry again. She shook her head. At least she was honest. “We have to—we have to leave him. Eris. Please.”

Aletheia grabbed her by the shoulder and pulled Eris upright, and they stumbled back together on their feet. Then she saw him from a distance. A grievously wounded corpse. An empty shell. It meant nothing. It wasn’t Rook. He was dead. She knew all that, and yet to leave his body was to accept that she would never see him again. It was to accept that he was gone. She could not—

Five knights came their way. They might not recognize Rook, or if they did, they might not know what to do with him. They might give him a funeral, to appease the plebians. But what about Eris and Aletheia? Did the Gray Council command more soldiers to attack them? Would they be recognized by their eyes? Even without them they were distinctive, especially together but even apart, and Eris could not conceal their appearances now—

She began to cry again. Sniffling. Water down her cheeks. And then she turned, and she stumbled after Aletheia, and she left Rook behind.

The girl had to prop her up. She could barely walk. Aletheia was athletic, but she was half a foot shorter than Eris and far lighter, and it was a slow, miserable, perilous journey through the dark and disarrayed streets. Bodies were dragged from buildings down the scar of destruction left in the Kynigos’ wake; hundreds of charred corpses piled up in the streets. Over the course of its rampage the demon had killed and consumed thousands. Aletheia led them back to the closed gate Eris was forced to navigate around, and she levitated them up the walls then down the other side.

The horse was waiting for them there. Aletheia mounted easily, and over the course of minutes she attempted to haul Eris into the seat beside her, finally using another spell of levitation to place her on the saddle’s back. It had been neglected, somehow, in the chaos, with this section of the city having evacuated early on.

They rode for Korakos. Galloping most of the way. It was a miserable journey. Every jolt made Eris retch. She threw up twice. She was ready to collapse by the time they ascended the hill, approaching the raised portcullis and then the now-absent great hall gate beyond.

They were greeted by Ajax. He had been on watch all night.

“What the fuck is happening? Where’s Rook?” He looked at Eris with horror, and when she babbled in reply, saying nothing at all with fifty words, he fetched Khelidon.

Khelidon had gone to bed, but he wasn’t asleep. Eris and Aletheia waited for him on the steps to the throne. They were both still crying. Eris tried as hard as she could to stop, to focus in on the rage she had felt when over Rook’s body, but such anger couldn’t be sustained. Now she felt sorrow. Disbelief. And fear of what came next.

“Eris! Where is he?”

She looked up at him. Aletheia did, too, but she burst into tears. Eris’ chest shook as she tried to form her first words, the syllables catching in her throat, but finally she wiped her face with a blood-soaked hand. “He is dead.”

Eris saw in Khelidon’s face that she had misjudged him. There was true horror at the news. Disgust. Fright. And sorrow, even in knowing that he was now duke. His features went white.

“What happened?” he said weakly, his voice low.

“He was killed,” Eris said.

“What of the demon?”

“Gone.”

He nodded slowly. “You look—very poor. I’ll have a slave draw a bath for you. Then you should rest.”

Eris tried to protest. She wanted to fight. But she could only nod. She needed to clean herself off. And she needed to rest.

“I want to stay with you,” Aletheia said. She grabbed Eris’ arm. Eris hissed in pain where the girl made contact with her rashes. “Please.”

“The castle is safe, Aletheia. There’s no need for that,” Khelidon said.

“I want to stay with Eris.”

Eris shook her head. She didn’t want to be with Aletheia. She didn’t want to be with anyone except Rook. She desperately wanted to be alone. But when she looked at her, she realized that after four years on the road, four years of adventure and hardship, four years of death and victory, this girl was the only one who knew it all. She was the only survivor. She was the only one left. For so long Eris had had Rook, but now it was only Aletheia. And how horrible was it to admit that now Aletheia was her only friend in the world—and she was Aletheia’s?

So she nodded. “Fine,” she said.

“You can both have your own baths. I’ll stay guards outside you rooms if it makes you feel safer—”

Eris glared at him. “She will stay with me.”

He fell silent. “Very well. I’ll help you upstairs.”

Rook’s sword was waiting for her on the ground in her bedchamber. When she saw it she began to cry again. Aletheia curled up on a chair like a cat, staring at the ground, while Eris stripped herself off, tossing Lord Arqa’s sword where it wouldn’t do any damage, and waited. A slave brought in hot water for the room’s bath. Then she submerged herself, letting torrents of gore wash off from her.

At first the hot water stung her hives terribly. Then she tingled, to have her skin so suddenly warmed. Then she let her muscles loosen and relax, and sorrow again descended onto her.

Eris loved to bathe, and Rook loved to bathe with her. He would descend on her when she was in the bath like a vulture. He could not keep himself away when she was disrobed. Now they would never bathe together again. They would never sleep together again. They would never kiss, or embrace, or spar wits, or insult each other. They would never see each other again, because he was dead. She would never again known the warmth of his soul against her own when she closed her eyes and reached out with her Essence. That was robbed from her forever—and he was the one who took it away.

But then something happened. For an hour she sat in the tub snorting, sniffling, listening to Aletheia’s sobs, thinking of nothing but what it meant for a lover to die and feeling nothing but the pain of her spellsickness throughout her body. She let herself calm down in the water, and even as it turned brackish in the candlelit room, even as it became disgusting and gore-ridden, she managed to slow her heart for the first time in hours.

That was when she sensed him. When she closed her eyes. The ember that had gone out was there with her again. When she reached out with her Essence she detected in her presence herself, her own soul, and Aletheia, and…

And Rook. With her. So close. Unmistakable. It was just the same presence she had come to know so well. It was him, who had intermingled with her, becoming one, so many times. And it was there. Alive again.

She sat upright in the tub. For a moment there was excitement—the thought she had missed something, that he was back—but then she knew. Only a moment was required. Of course. It was obvious. She should have realized. She was such a fool. An idiot little girl. Diana had said—but she should have known already. After so many months, she had been so near Rook so often, and so close to overcasting, and it had taken so long, that she hadn’t thought—there had been no time to think, even with such discussion so prevalent, that she—

She climbed from the tub and stumbled toward Aletheia. The girl roused from her seat and beheld Eris’ approach with confusion, shifting upright with wide eyes.

“What?” she whispered.

“Give me your necklace,” Eris commanded.

“Why?” She clutched it defensively.

“Give it to me!” Eris tried to grab it; Aletheia fought her off easily, but after a few moments she relented, and she let Eris remove the silver chain from which hung her circular locket, and she popped it open at once. In the candlelight she gazed into its two reflections.

On the left she saw herself. Arcane focus in one hand. Staff in the other. Heavy winter clothes. Nothing but herself, hardly any older than she was today.

Her eyes panned over.

On the right she saw herself. She held no magical items. There was a look of bewilderment on her face. She was hardly any older than she was today. And in her hands, held like something toxic, naked and exposed to the world, was a newborn infant. A boy.

Two parallel paths. Two branching futures set out before her.

She dropped the locket to the ground. She let out a wail and collapsed onto the bed.

“What?” Aletheia said. She grabbed the locket, checked to make sure it wasn’t broken, then came over to Eris’ side. “What’s wrong?”

Eris shook her head. She buried her face in her hands. She bit her palm in fury. “Leave me be,” she managed, but the girl didn’t leave; instead she sat down by her side.

“Are you okay?” she whispered.

Eris gasped. She shook her head. Suffocating herself in a pillow. Chewing on the fabric. Then she rolled onto her side, and again with tears in her eyes she said words she could barely stand to formulate, words that brought physical pain to her lips and made her scream in horror, words that clearly expressed the fact that no, she was not okay:

“I am pregnant.”

There was no sorrow now. No grief. No trepidation. No remorse or remembrance. Eris was returned to the moment of Rook’s death, to the moment he left her, and she knew only fury.

This was always his plan. He had known all along, she was certain of it. Seducing her. Raping her. Taking her body and perverting it for his own purposes. That was what he always wanted. He told her often enough, didn’t he? Yet still she delayed her suspicion. She knew such a fate was always a possibility, yet it had been avoided for so long, for nearly two years, and she had grown to think—

But she had been battered constantly. A sword had been run through her gut. She was frequently injured. Who was to say she had not conceived before? Yet only now, in the relative peace of their months in Katharos, had the child grown enough that she might notice—

Child. It was not a child. It was a parasite, uninvited. The very thought made her sick. Nothing in life revolted Eris more than motherhood. She had no desire at all but to reach out with her Essence and snuff out its heartbeat. She could feel it within her womb. She knew it was there. It would be easy. She could end its nascent life before it ever began, and then she would be free, and she would never need contemplate such horrors as children ever again.

She would have done it. She could have done it. She was furious, at it, and above all at Rook. She wanted her vengeance: how better to be avenged than to destroy the son he always wanted? She closed her eyes and tried—

But there was no mana left in her body by then. She was tapped to mundanity. The parasite in her womb would live, for now. She cursed it for lasting this long. For surviving her injures. She cursed it for the suffering it had caused her—for this was the source of her illness, now she was certain. What else? And the demon of Moronos—it had not been unable to detect Rook’s presence; it had sensed the soul of the fetus, considering them two distinct organisms brought into its realm to bargain. That was some months ago—the parasite could not have been conceived long before then, for she and Rook had not touched each other for weeks preceding that.

Aletheia fetched her a gown. She put it on, and as before, her anger quickly faded—though it lingered this time. She felt immensely betrayed. She felt violated. She was disgusted with Rook, and with herself. And as the night progressed, as her mind continued to boil, she ultimately felt only stupid. She did not understand how she could possibly be so naïve.

Her tears. Her instability. Her weight gain. Even Aletheia saw it, looking at her now: Eris was not fat. She was pregnant. Three months. Perhaps four. She concealed it well, being so tall, but knowing what to see—she felt only more the fool.

Aletheia retreated alongside her into the bed. Eris did not like to admit it, but she was grateful for the girl’s company. When she tried to embrace her, she relented, and they pulled closely together.

“…is it Rook’s?” she said at last.

Eris did not want to discuss this. She did not want to acknowledge it was real. But she could think of nothing else now. She turned to glare at Aletheia.

“Whose else would it be?” she growled.

Aletheia looked away innocently. “That means you’ll keep it, right?”

“No.”

“You have to.”

“I will not.”

“Then I’ll raise him.”

“Stop it! There—will be no ‘him!’ This conversation is over!”

Silence. Until… “That means he’s the new duke.”

Eris’ face frosted over. She did not enjoy that thought at all. That was a reason to spare the infant. That was—a course for her life she did not want.

Rook had ruined her. And she was so exhausted. She just wanted to go to sleep. Everything would be clearer in the morning.

The only benefit of a drained Essence was that it came with sheer exhaustion. She drifted asleep easily, once her heart let her. All night Aletheia stayed clutched to her arm. Yet despite her tiredness she woke up often through the night, roused by some forgotten dream, remembering all at once what had happened: tears again in her eyes.

Such an occasion saw her awake but not alert as the door to the bedchamber was creaked ajar. She thought nothing of it. It was Rook sneaking in to bed late at night. It was a maid coming to fetch a forgotten object. It was just a dream, a distraction from her sleep, and she closed her eyes again. Even momentary fits of wakefulness were followed by tears.

The sound of metal pricked her ears. A noise of a dull clash of two objects. Almost like—

She opened her eyes just in time to see the shadow sweep across her. Her first instinct was to shoot out a spell, but when nothing came she rolled over to her side. A sword was thrust down into the bed—

Aletheia screamed in pain, shooting awake. It sliced through her left bicep.

Eris toppled off the other side of the bed. Then she saw a man in the room, dressed in armor, a sword in his hand. He had stepped on Rook’s blade that was still lying on the ground—he hadn’t seen it in the darkness when he entered. Aletheia yelped in pain again and sparks shot out from her fingers; they caught on the bed’s sheets and set them aflame, showering the armored man but doing little to stop him. He tried to grab her and she squirmed away, when just then another man barged in through the room’s door, kicking it open.

It was Ajax.

The armored man took Aletheia by the neck. He raised his sword to run her through—but she grabbed him by the wrist. Golden flame engulfed her fingers. A moment later he screamed in pain, dropping his sword, and she sent out a jet of flame to engulf him.

He stumbled back against the wall.

The flame licking his armor caught a curtain on fire. Smoke flooded the room.

Ajax rushed to Aletheia. He sliced down at her, cutting her leg. She screamed in pain.

Eris watched on, bewildered. At first she didn’t understand, but then betrayal was something she was all too familiar with. She didn’t know what to do. She couldn’t fight. She could hardly do anything. She could only…

Arqa’s sword. It was there, on the ground, beside her now—she grabbed it.

Ajax punched Aletheia and stunned her. Then he put his sword to her throat. “Sorry, love,” he said.

Eris swung at his head. She was slow and clumsy; Ajax had enough time to dodge out of the way, but Aletheia was saved. She swung at him again. He raised his sword to parry the blow—and it was an enchanted sword, Hierax’s sword, the sword they had given him earlier that same day. Arqa’s blade would have cut through any other, but that enchanted sword caught the blow and parried it. He caught Eris in a bind and pushed her back.

His companion in armor scrambled to get out of his melting cuirass. He removed his breastplate and his helmet, screaming as smoke continued to fill the room.

Eris stumbled away from Ajax. She could outfence no one.

“Why?” she sputtered.

“You’re a criminal,” he said. “Helping a duke take down a prince? The sentence for that is death.”

“Your tune was different this morning.”

“This morning you had the protection of a Strategos. Now you’re a liability. It’s nothing personal.” He lunged for her, and he would have impaled her had it not been for Aletheia on the ground. She grabbed Rook’s sword and sliced at his unarmored ankles. He stumbled, and that was enough time for Eris to bring down Arqa’s blade on his neck.

He wore armor, but it cut clean through. Effortlessly. Like it was air. Ajax’s head tumbled to the ground and he fell dead at Eris’ feet.

And as the blade tasted blood, she felt it become empowered. A pulse of mana shot out through its fuller. It revitalized her. Woke her up. Dulled her pain. Soothed her spellsickness. Then all she wanted was to taste more blood.

She gave in. She went to the guard; he was ready to fight now, but when their swords met, his was cut in two, and she thrust him through the heart.

The blade cried out for more. Another pulse through the fuller. Another wave of invigoration. All her pain was gone now. She was alert as any morning. She looked the black blade over with glee: this was an artifact of true power. A heart-seeking sword.

Aletheia groaned on the ground. Smoke still in the air. She coughed.

Eris sheathed the sword. She grabbed Aletheia and helped her up. Then the two gathered their things, their magical items and weapons and their packs for traveling, and above all Rook’s sword, and they stepped out into the hall.

“Khelidon wants us dispatched,” Eris said, setting the girl down against the wall. She had a serious wound to her arm and a more minor one to her leg. They wrapped the injuries in bandages at once. “He does not want to risk another attack from the Seekers.”

“What do we do?” Aletheia said.

Eris glanced down the hallway. Silent, for now. “I will kill him,” she said.

“Eris!” she grabbed at her arm. “We can’t fight them now! Not like this!”

“I do not care.” She drew Arqa’s sword. “He will pay for this.”

“We have to go! We can’t stay here! He knows you’re spellsick!”

She shook her head. She knew Aletheia was right, but she needed blood. It was blinding now. She wanted nothing but revenge. She had to kill Khelidon or she could not live with herself.

“No. We are not leaving without his head.”

“Eris! It’s the sword! You aren’t thinking straight! We can come back for him later! Eris, please! You can’t—you might—just please. Please don’t go.”

Her eyes narrowed. The sword. Yes. The sword. It returned her to her baser impulses. It thirsted for more violence, after so long in its scabbard. But there would be time for that later. Aletheia was right.

She nodded. “Yes,” she said. “Yes.” She helped Aletheia up. “I know a secret passage. Khelidon showed it to me during the ball. We will make our escape that way.”

At first she carried Aletheia by the shoulder, but her wave of vigor faded as her bloodlust went unfulfilled. By the time they made it to the stairs, she could barely carry herself and the weight of her own gear. Aletheia had to limp on her own. They made it to the lower level, to the corridor that led to the secret passage Khelidon brought her through during their incursion months past, and she remembered just where it was.

They encountered three guards there in the hallway. Eris recognized them, though she did not know their names. She drew Arqa’s sword once more.

“Stand back,” she said.

“We have orders to bring you to the dungeons,” one said.

“You have seen what I can do to armies. Do you think you will be spared the same fate?”

The leader of the three drew his sword—and he used it to push his compatriot to the side. “Let her go,” she said.

“Khelidon said she had—”

“I don’t care what he said! Let her go!” He nodded at her. “I’m sorry about the duke. He was a great man.”

Eris stared at him. But she wasted no time. She put the sword away, taking Aletheia by the hand, and the two fled out through the secret passage. Navigating the tunnels was impossible by memory—it took years to become acquainted with their identical, interminable corridors. But after hours of searching they eventually reached an exterior exit, a tunnel that led out near Crowsbrook, and on the other side it was unguarded. They emerged through a locked door into a concealed area near the stream, where the vegetation was thick and boulders obscured the hidden entrance.

Eris felt the compulsion to return. The need for Khelidon’s blood. It would be easy with this sword. She could do incredible things with its power. Already the rashes on her arms were receding. If only she killed another with it—if only she killed Aletheia—she might have enough magic to…

She stopped herself again. She pulled the sword off from around her shoulder and tossed into the river. She had magic; she did not needs its corrupting influence. She did not need to be driven mad now, of all times. She was done with demons. She never wanted to face one down again.

Besides, she had defeated three greater demons now. Clearly she did not need their power.

The sword sank down to the bottom of the water, and there it disappeared forever.

The two women limped as far as they could. Dawn came soon, and they turned to give Castle Korakos one final look.

So much work. So many months. So much bloodshed. And all for nothing. Nothing at all. The only thing they would have to show for their half a year spent in Katharos would be Aletheia’s new scars, uncountable bitter new memories, and…

She closed her eyes and put a hand to her stomach. She still hoped she was mistaken. Hoped somehow she was paranoid.

She reached into her backpack and retrieved Rook’s compass. The compass that led him to her, and her to her memories. She watched its dial spin about its circumference, gliding frictionless around the bottom of the sphere, until…

It pointed precisely at her belly. No matter how high or how low she held it, that was where it led. She dropped the compass and sat down on the grass.

Aletheia used a spell to clean her bandages. Her bicep bled badly, but she didn’t complain. Instead she sat down beside Eris.

“Do you think Jason—is in on it?”

Eris shook her head. “I do not care.”

“But…do you think?”

She sighed. “I do not know.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Then why did you ask?”

Aletheia stared at her feet. “You’ll keep the baby, right?”

Eris grit her teeth. “There is no baby.”

“Eris.”

She buried her head in her palms. “I do not know,” she said again. Her anger had subsided. Now, again, she felt only sadness. Indifference. She could not believe she was pregnant. It did not make sense to her. She could not possibly imagine the future Aletheia referred to. “I have not decided.”

Aletheia started to cry. “Please don’t kill it,” she whispered. “It’s all that’s left of him.”

Maybe she had the right idea. Maybe she could be given this parasite. Then Eris would be free. That was still a terrible fate, but…

She shook her head. “That is months away. The…it…may not even survive. For now we must decide where we are to go.”

Aletheia nodded, wiping her tears away. “Will they send another demon after us?”

“If they do, then we are dead already,” Eris said. “But I do not think so. Rook is dead. We are gone from Katharos. The largest embarrassment for the Council is gone. If they come after us again, it will be with Seekers.”

“But are phylacteries are destroyed.”

“Then we are free.”

“…I don’t have any money.”

Eris sighed. “Nor do I.”

“I miss being a princess.”

Eris stared at the distant keep. She thought the statement over. All the comfort, gone. Certainty, annihilated. The only man she had ever loved was dead. A parasite was growing within her womb. She was severely ill and unable to use magic. Impoverished. Betrayed by her lover’s brother, nearly killed. She had killed two men herself that same day. It was a horrific day, the worst of her entire life.

But still her eyes narrowed.

“I am not certain I do,” she said. “We are adventurers once again.”

A sudden fit overcame her. She sobbed into her hands. But then she lifted herself up off the grass, and she helped Aletheia up after her.

“We must rest and heal,” she said. “That is our priority. Then we will return and kill Khelidon.”

“After the baby is born.”

The words stung Eris like a lance. She cringed. “We will return and kill Khelidon. Then we must depart to far-off shores, where we will not be found. And then…we will continue as we were.”

Aletheia grabbed her wrist. “We?”

Eris sighed. “Will you follow me, if I tell you to stay?”

“Yes.”

“Then I suppose ‘tis we.”

She nodded. And then, still bleeding, she hugged Eris for a long time. It was a revolting, sentimental gesture—but she could not bring herself to hate the girl any longer. Perhaps now, finally, she knew why the girl latched onto Rook after Astera’s death, and now latched onto her; because Eris herself, robbed of her one friend, felt a desperate gulf in her heart, and she needed another to fill it.

So be it. If the two of them were to be sisters after all this time, then they would be sisters.

Then together they departed off into the fields outside Katharos, toward the sunset, heading east away from the city.