Page 115 of Harbinger

The realization barely registers. I don’t have the strength to care who he contacted or why. Instead, I let the astrolabe slip from my fingers and fall into the mud beside us.

Nothing matters now.

My gaze drifts to the dagger lying near my knee. The blade is dark with blood, and a quiet dawning slips in—an ending is within reach.

I pick up the dagger and turn it over with deliberation, watching how the light slides along its stained edge. My grip tightens once, then loosens. Blood has dried into the lines of my palm, cracking when I flex my fingers. Kieren trusted me. Bishop saved me. They’re gone, but the dagger is here.

Branches snap somewhere behind me—too loud, too sudden in the quiet—and instinct flares.

If more people are coming to kill the harbinger, so be it.

But it’s Taliesin’s voice that breaks the night. “Arden.”

Taliesin barrels into the clearing like he expects to find a brawl and a punch line, but he stops short. The hand on the hilt of his sword slackens and drops to his side as he turns, taking in the full scene. His gaze lands on me, on the body in my arms and the one beside me, and his throat slides. Without a word, he bends, lifting my fallen cloak from the ground, and drapes it carefully over Kieren’s body.

I should have done that.

I left him uncovered, like I left him to die.

“May the Stars welcome you,” he murmurs over my best friend, “and may the night be kinder to you than this world was.”

He lingers for a moment like he’s adding another private prayer before he turns to me, but I don’t look up.

It’s as though I can’t, as though something heavy weighs my eyes to the dirt that’s still soaking up Bishop’s blood. I can’t look at Bishop.

I can’t look at Kieren—not when looking would mean admitting that he’s gone.

Taliesin kneels in front of me and reaches for the knife. My fingers lock around the hilt like it’s the only solid thing left in the world.

“Easy,” he says in a low voice. “You don’t need that.”

He pries it from my hand slowly as if afraid I might shatter if he handles me too roughly.

Light bobs in the trees, and Vessica steps into view a heartbeat later, sword already in hand. Her eyes sweep the clearing, cataloging the damage.

“What the fuck happened?” she demands.

Taliesin shoots her a look. “Not now.”

She follows his gaze to me, then to Bishop’s body, and her breath leaves her in a single, sharp exhale.

“Stars above,” she mutters. “Of course.” Her eyes sweep the bodies like a battlefield report.

But when they land on me—on Bishop—something hard strains in her jaw. She doesn’t say anything.

Somehow, that’s worse.

Taliesin straightens, squaring his shoulders. “Get her back to Miradores.”

I shouldn’t go back there. Not after I ran from it.

But Vessica doesn’t move as she asks, “What about … you?”

“I’ll handle this,” he says more seriously than I’ve ever heard him, whatever mask he usually wears replaced by grim determination.

Maybe they’re used to this as soldiers, accustomed to watching their friends fall and not get back up. Maybe death is a fact they’ve learned to live with.

She nods, sheathing her sword. Stepping forward, she crouches down so that we’re face-to-face. “You need to get up.”