Tirianna

The small satchel sits heavy in my palm, rough-spun leather warm from my skin. It shouldn’t weigh much—there’s barely enough room inside for what remains of the Heart of Atheren—but it presses down on me like a living thing, like every protector who ever bled to keep it safe has laid their hand over mine.

My Lycan stirs at the sensation. Ours. Guard it. Hide it.

I know. I murmur under my breath, thumb rubbing the corded drawstring.

This has always been my beginning and my end.

Hope sits across from me on the low stone bench, her knee bouncing. Keith stands with his back to a gnarled oak,...