Cassin woke to the taste of bile and blood.
He rolled onto his side, retching violently, his body convulsing as it emptied itself of everything—rage, grief, the last remnants of whatever strength had kept him moving. The ground beneath him was cold, damp with rain and something darker. His hands trembled as he pushed himself up, his vision swimming in and out of focus.
He was alive.
The realization hit him like a blow. He shouldn't be. He had felt his ribs crack, his bones shatter, his body fail—and yet here he was, whole and breathing. The Shard's doing.
A bitter laugh tore from his throat. Even death wouldn't take him.
His fingers dug into the mud, nails breaking against the earth. He wanted to scream. To tear his own skin off. To find the highest cliff and let gravity do what the world had refused to.
"You would waste it?"
The voice was not a sound. It was a presence, cold and ancient, slithering through his mind like smoke. The Shard.
Cassin froze. Then, slowly, he lifted his head.
"Waste what?" he croaked.
"This breath. This heartbeat. The vengeance you swore."
Vengeance. The word coiled around his chest like a noose. He had killed the man in black—ripped his throat out with his bare hands. It hadn't brought her back. It hadn't even made the hollow in his chest feel any smaller.
"I don't care," Cassin spat. "She's gone. And I—" His voice cracked. "I should have died with her."
The Shard was silent for a long moment. Then—
"Tell me of her."
The demand caught him off guard. "What?"
"The girl. Eira." The voice was softer now, almost curious. "What was she like?"
Cassin opened his mouth—to curse it, to refuse—but the words died before they could form.
What was she like?
The memories came unbidden. Her laugh, too loud for the darkness of the pits. The way she'd grin when she stole something right out from under a merchant's nose. The stubborn tilt of her chin when she argued with him about stupid things—whether the sky was bluer in the north, whether stale bread was better dipped in water or milk.
The way she'd looked at him, even when he gave her nothing but silence in return, like he was worth something.
His throat tightened.
"She was…" He swallowed. "She was light."
The Shard hummed, a sound like distant thunder. "And do you think she would want this? For you to throw yourself into the dirt and rot?"
Cassin flinched.
No. She wouldn't. Eira had fought for every second of her life—had fought for his when he hadn't even cared enough to do it himself. She would have cursed him for this. Called him an idiot. Maybe even slapped him.
The thought should have hurt. Instead, it was the first thing that had felt real since her death.
A gust of wind cut through the clearing, sharp with the scent of rain and iron. Cassin's gaze drifted to the corpse beside him—the man in black.
"You should blame yourself for this."
The words echoed in his skull. Why had he said that? It wasn't just cruelty—it was deliberate, a blade twisted to carve deeper.
Someone had sent him.
Cassin dragged himself forward, his body protesting every movement. His hands were stiff as he searched the man's clothes, fingers brushing against something cold and metallic.
A token.
He pulled it free, holding it up to the dim light. It was small, unremarkable—a simple disc of black iron, stamped with a symbol he didn't recognize. A crescent moon, its curve pierced by a single dagger.
Cassin's grip tightened.
This wasn't over.