The dream came like it always did—uninvited, inevitable and drenched in the scent of smoke and blood.
Berith stood in the remnants of a war camp, mud and blood still on his boots. Ash clung to the jagged edges of his armor like a second skin, and the banners behind him—torn, singed, victorious—swayed with triumph.
The war was over. He had won or so they said.
Berith will soon be returning home to open arms, to warmth, to her.
Marcella.
The sun was setting behind Cardania as he arrived at Montclair Manor. The great wrought-iron gates creaked open, servants stalling as if unsure whether to welcome him or mourn for him. They just looked at him with pity.
Berith stepped into the manor. No music drifted from the high balconies. No lingering trace of jasmine perfumed the corridors where she used to walk.
She was gone.
