The forest smoldered behind them, its trees reduced to skeletal silhouettes against the blood-orange sky. Smoke curled upward like the last breath of a dying god. Rosalinda didn’t look back. She couldn’t.

Azrakar’s hand was warm—too warm—wrapped around hers as they walked the narrow path carved through the woods. His grip was firm, grounding, yet it pulsed with something ancient. Something dangerous.

She dared not think about what she had done.

The village was gone. The screams had ...