POV: Rissa

Mark slept fitfully beneath the slanted branches, his breathing shallow but steady. The fire’s glow cast soft flickers across his face, making him look younger. Gentler. Almost like the man I’d met that night in New Orleans before the Knowing, before the vessel, before everything became teeth and prophecy.

I sat a few feet away, knees pulled to my chest, staring at the rune Eamon had etched into the moss. It was still faintly glowing, long after its purpose had ended.

“You ...