Page 123 of The First Scar
Chapter 28
AMARIA
Heat hit me first. A wall of it—bonfire roaring at the center of the cavern, flames climbing high enough to lick the vaulted ceiling. The noise came second: drums, stomping boots, voices tangled together in something between a war cry and a hymn.
Rebels danced around the bonfire, movements wild and unpracticed, faces split wide open with grins. Others sang—timeless songs of freedom and defiance, their voices hoarse but relentless.
Smoke and rendered fat and the yeasty bite of rough ale—the cavern smelled like a tavern that had caught fire in the best possible way. Behind me, someone was crying and laughing at the same time.
I'd slipped out after the ceremony to breathe air that didn't taste like adrenaline. Hadn't lasted long.
Brannick got to me before I'd taken three steps.
He clapped me on the back hard enough to rattle my teeth, his booming laugh echoing off the stone. "Little flame!" He pulled me into a rough embrace, lifting me right off my feet. "You did it, you mad, beautiful witch! You actually did it!"
Serenya was next—throwing her arms around me, pulling me close, her eyes bright with tears she wasn't trying to hide.
"I can't believe it worked," she whispered against my hair. "I can't believe we actually—"
She couldn't finish. Just held me tighter.
Her gaze swept the celebrating crowd, then came back to me.
Her voice trembled. "And next—the Veil itself. Amaria, imagine if we actually heal the Rupture. Imagine what the world could be."
I didn't have words. I just held her closer. And that warmth should have been enough. It almost was. But my body kept tracking a gap in the room that no one else seemed to notice—a six-foot absence shaped exactly like him.
Maxx was suddenly there too, leaning into the light.
He raised his horn of ale in a silent toast. "To the Scion of the First Scar," he said, then dropped a piece of roasted meat into my palm.
"Eat. You look like death warmed over, and I refuse to let you collapse before you've properly gloated."
I grinned and bit into the meat, juices running down my chin, and didn't care.
Around me, the rebels danced and sang and wept with joy. The bonfire crackled, sending sparks spiraling up toward the vaulted ceiling like offerings to deaf gods.
One of the songs shifted—slower, older, a melody that curled through the smoke like something half-remembered. My lips moved along with the words. Just the shape of the words, no sound.But pain too vast will crack the glass—I stopped. I hadn't sung that since my brother. Since the prayer tree. I blinked back tears. Swallowed it back down and took another huge bite out of the meat instead.
I wiped my chin, then dragged the grease off on my leather vambrace. Serenya would scold me later for gunking up the mechanism. Worth it.
A fiddle struck up in the crowd—a fast, wild tune that had no business sounding so joyful in a place built for the dead.
Maxx's eyes lit up. Before Serenya could protest, he grabbed her hand and yanked her into the fray, spinning her into the chaos of dancing rebels.
"Maxx—I don't—" But she was already laughing, stumbling to keep up as he pulled her closer.
He spun her out, then reeled her back in, and she waslaughing—that rare, unguarded sound I'd only heard a handful of times in all the years I'd known her. Maxx said something close to her ear, and her cheeks flushed. She shoved his shoulder. He grinned like he'd won the most precious gift in the realm.
Maxx caught me watching and shot me a wink over Serenya's head.You're welcome, it said.
I rolled my eyes. But I was smiling.
The ale was warm in my hand, the horn slick with condensation. My gaze drifted across the flames and I spotted Ryla near the edge of the dancers. She was swaying to the music, loose and easy, her head tipped back—and her throat bare. Noscarf. No high collar. Just the lattice of scars she'd hidden for so long, now gilded by the glow of the fire for anyone to see.
Torin stood behind her, one hand resting on the small of her back, his thumb tracing slow circles against her spine. He wasn't watching the fire or the dancers. He was watching her. Like she was the only thing in the room worth looking at.
That's when Brannick's hand closed around my wrist.
