Dire Bound Quotes

I am Meryn Sturmfrost, Queen of Nocturna, and I will use the twisting dark in my bones and my blood to hunt Killian Valtiere to the ends of the earth.

Give me the word and I’ll tear out his throat. All the lives I’ve ever taken were just training for this moment, my queen. Make me your instrument of vengeance. Let my hands act out your every savage, depraved thought. Use me. I’m yours.

Make me your instrument of vengeance. Let my hands act out your every savage, depraved thought. Use me. I’m yours.

If there’s one thing I’ve learned in my twenty-three years alive, it’s this: women in pain give men confidence.

Our people can’t even win a war; we’d never survive a revolution.

It takes a special man to tame a wild thing.

The Strategos direwolves have convened and chosen their next leader. Anassa. You are the new Strategos Alpha.

Tell me you thought about me. That you think about me now." My lips move, but I can't speak. His hand drops, and I feel suddenly cold. Bereft. The way I've felt for so long now. Even before arriving in Chaparral. Since I manifested at age eleven and lost myself. Became simply the fire-breather to everyone who knew me. My parents. My sister. Cassian. They saw me as that first and foremost. I guess even I'm guilty of that. Of seeing myself as nothing beyond the last drake dire-breather. Only now, here with Will, I realize I'm something more. Someone not bound by the rules of her pride, her face, her family. Someone who can be loved for herself, draki or not. "I thought about you," I whisper, my voice not my own. It belongs to someone else. Someone brave, someone about to risk everything and follow her heart. "I've never stopped thinking about you." Somehow, I doubt I ever will.

Perched upon the stones of a bridge The soldiers had the eyes of ravens Their weapons hung black as talons Their eyes gloried in the smoke of murder To the shock of iron-heeled sticks I drew closer in the cripple’s bitter patience And before them I finally tottered Grasping to capture my elusive breath With the cockerel and swift of their knowing They watched and waited for me ‘I have come,’ said I, ‘from this road’s birth, I have come,’ said I, ‘seeking the best in us.’ The sergeant among them had red in his beard Glistening wet as he showed his teeth ‘There are few roads on this earth,’ said he, ‘that will lead you to the best in us, old one.’ ‘But you have seen all the tracks of men,’ said I ‘And where the mothers and children have fled Before your advance. Is there naught among them That you might set an old man upon?’ The surgeon among this rook had bones Under her vellum skin like a maker of limbs ‘Old one,’ said she, ‘I have dwelt In the heat of chests, among heart and lungs, And slid like a serpent between muscles, Swum the currents of slowing blood, And all these roads lead into the darkness Where the broken will at last rest. ‘Dare say I,’ she went on,‘there is no Place waiting inside where you might find In slithering exploration of mysteries All that you so boldly call the best in us.’ And then the man with shovel and pick, Who could raise fort and berm in a day Timbered of thought and measured in all things Set the gauge of his eyes upon the sun And said, ‘Look not in temples proud, Or in the palaces of the rich highborn, We have razed each in turn in our time To melt gold from icon and shrine And of all the treasures weeping in fire There was naught but the smile of greed And the thick power of possession. Know then this: all roads before you From the beginning of the ages past And those now upon us, yield no clue To the secret equations you seek, For each was built of bone and blood And the backs of the slave did bow To the laboured sentence of a life In chains of dire need and little worth. All that we build one day echoes hollow.’ ‘Where then, good soldiers, will I Ever find all that is best in us? If not in flesh or in temple bound Or wretched road of cobbled stone?’ ‘Could we answer you,’ said the sergeant, ‘This blood would cease its fatal flow, And my surgeon could seal wounds with a touch, All labours will ease before temple and road, Could we answer you,’ said the sergeant, ‘Crows might starve in our company And our talons we would cast in bogs For the gods to fight over as they will. But we have not found in all our years The best in us, until this very day.’ ‘How so?’ asked I, so lost now on the road, And said he, ‘Upon this bridge we sat Since the dawn’s bleak arrival, Our perch of despond so weary and worn, And you we watched, at first a speck Upon the strife-painted horizon So tortured in your tread as to soak our faces In the wonder of your will, yet on you came Upon two sticks so bowed in weight Seeking, say you, the best in us And now we have seen in your gift The best in us, and were treasures at hand We would set them humbly before you, A man without feet who walked a road.’ Now, soldiers with kind words are rare Enough, and I welcomed their regard As I moved among them, ’cross the bridge And onward to the long road beyond I travel seeking the best in us And one day it shall rise before me To bless this journey of mine, and this road I began upon long ago shall now end Where waits for all the best in us. ―Avas Didion Flicker Where Ravens Perch

When Morgenthau surveyed the contemporary United States in The Purpose of American Politics, what he saw wasn’t pretty. Americans were materialistic, hedonistic, and apathetic, their only aim in life apparently to consume more and more in a complacent haze of unconstrained appetite. The economy was wasteful, the government paralyzed. The public sphere had virtually disappeared as individuals struggled to grab what they could for themselves and the hell with anyone else or any larger purpose. Public policy was determined by moneyed pressure groups with no concerns beyond their own parochial interests, and morality consisted of what you could get away with. Americans no longer made any distinction between freedom and license, and the consequences for the country were bound to be dire. “No society,” Morgenthau warned, “can go on like this forever without decay following stagnation; the fate of Spain tells us what is in store for such a nation.

May I inquire what is the point?” he snapped impatiently. “Indeed you may,” Lucinda said, thinking madly for some way to prod him into remembering his long-ago desire for Elizabeth and to prick his conscience. “The point is that I am well apprised of all that transpired between Elizabeth and yourself when you were last together. I, however,” she decreed grandly, “am inclined to place the blame for your behavior not on a lack of character, but rather a lack of judgment.” He raised his brows but said nothing. Taking his silence as assent, she reiterated meaningfully, “A lack of judgment on both your parts.” “Really?” he drawled. “Of course,” she said, reaching out and brushing the dust from the back of a chair, then rubbing her fingers together and grimacing with disapproval. “What else except lack of judgment could have caused a seventeen-year-old girl to rush to the defense of a notorious gambler and bring down censure upon herself for doing it?” “What indeed?” he asked with growing impatience. Lucinda dusted off her hands, avoiding his gaze. “Who can possibly know except you and she? No doubt it was the same thing that prompted her to remain in the woodcutter’s cottage rather than leaving it the instant she discovered your presence.” Satisfied that she’d done the best she was able to on that score, she became brusque again-an attitude that was more normal and, therefore, far more convincing. “In any case, that is all water under the bridge. She has paid dearly for her lack of judgment, which is only right, and even though she is now in the most dire straits because of it, that, too, is justice.” She smiled to herself when his eyes narrowed with what she hoped was guilt, or at least concern. His next words disabused her of that hope: “Madam, I do not have all day to waste in aimless conversation. If you have something to say, say it and be done!” “Very well,” Lucinda said, gritting her teeth to stop herself from losing control of her temper. “My point is that it is my duty, my obligation to see to Lady Cameron’s physical well-being as well as to chaperon her. In this case, given the condition of your dwelling, the former obligation seems more pressing than the latter, particularly since it is obvious to me that the two of you are not in the least need of a chaperon to keep you from behaving with impropriety. You may need a referee to keep you from murdering each other, but a chaperon is entirely superfluous. Therefore, I feel duty-bound to now ensure that adequate servants are brought here at once. In keeping with that, I would like your word as a gentleman not to abuse her verbally or physically while I am gone. She has already been ill-used by her uncle. I will not permit anyone else to make this terrible time in her life more difficult than it already is.” “Exactly what,” Ian asked in spite of himself, “do you mean by a ‘terrible time’?” “I am not at liberty to discuss that, of course,” she said, fighting to keep her triumph from her voice. “I am merely concerned that you behave as a gentleman. Will you give me your word?” Since Ian had no intention of laying a finger on her, or even spending time with her, he didn’t hesitate to nod. “She’s perfectly safe from me.” “That is exactly what I hoped to hear,” Lucinda lied ruthlessly.

Ils sont bien ainsi jusqu'à cinquante à se lever et à se promettre, se dire et se jurer l'un à l'autre qu'il n'est de merveille ou d'aventure connue d'eux dont ils n'iraient à la recherche, en si hostile terre que ce soit.

God gave us free will. He didn’t want a bunch of mindless followers bound to His will. He wanted loving participants in the relationship,

IN DIRE STRAITS, WE HEAD STRAIGHT TO THE OCEAN The good Lord answered Beryl’s prayer when Dorjan came home next. On the cusp of the rainy season, when porch sitting Beryl was more inclined to watch tufts of moisture hung from invisible threads in fairytale skies than her playing children, he announced, “I have a will ‘ta move ‘ta the land of Hollywood and ‘burgeoning coastal developments,” like he’d read that phrase in a magazine. Then, he pressed on the horn in case she hadn’t heard his hollering. “I want a piece o’ that action, baby,” he said. “I can run my own company. ‘Reckon I know to do just about anything related to construction. Heya baby, why not?” He grinned as he rolled out of the driver’s seat. As she came down the steps to him, he smacked his thighs in a rhythm and did a fancy two-step. “The sun’s always shining. There’s bound to be work for me till I have no more need.” She went to hug him. “Lickety split, we’ll be going west… at the childr’n’s school break,” he said. That’s just what the Hudsons did. They left their free-of-charge huge, white house to the older brothers and sisters, taking brother Dennis along in the back seat with three of the children. Coalbert, sitting up front, sighed. “We’re just gonna leave the house like that? For someone other’n us to occupy, Daddy?” His heart was lying in that big white house with the wraparound porch. “Small thing. The place is tainted. It ‘taint yours and it ‘taint mine.” “I hope we get an indoor toilet, Mama!” Laila shouted. “Your daddy’s set on getting all the new things where we’re going to.

This severely crew-cutted, Mr Rambo, Die-Hard Terminator type, wore neither helmet nor goggles. He was also shirtless under his black, armoured vest and had two belts of oversized bullets slung over his shoulders and crossing at his chest. He obviously being one of a mind that size was indeed important, looking the butch business as he cradled an almightily impressive BFG in his bared, muscle-bound arms. The outer edge of the right one’s bicep having three stripes tattooed upon in… No, honestly. The huge weapon he held looked as if it’d been specifically designed for bringing down either crack addicted bull elephants, smack riddled rhinos in dire need, or heroin dependant hippos desperate for a fix.

Racist power believes in by any means necessary. We, their challengers, typically do not, not even some of those inspired by Malcolm X. We care the most about the moral and ideological and financial purity of our ideologies and strategies and fundraising and leaders and organizations. We care less about bringing equitable results for people in dire straits, as we say we are purifying ourselves for the people in dire straits, as our purifying keeps the people in dire straits. As we critique the privilege and inaction of racist power, we show our privilege and inaction by critiquing every effective strategy, ultimately justifying our inaction on the comfortable seat of privilege. Anything but flexible, we are too often bound by ideologies that are bound by failed strategies of racial change.

Narian was walking restlessly around his parlor when I entered, and my worry increased tenfold. Was he moving about because he was in pain? I glanced around the room, noticing an empty wineglass and a half-eaten bowl of soup. “You’re out of breath, Alera,” he said with a smile. “I hope that means your conversation with Nantilam went well.” I hesitated, unsure how to begin, unsure how to tell him what she was demanding, what she had done to him. Unsure how to tell him she had meted out one last betrayal. “How are you feeling?” I blurted, and he laughed. “I’m fine, but you don’t seem to be. Come and talk to me.” He took my hand and led me to the sofa, pulling me down to sit beside him. He winced as he did so, an indication he was experiencing some discomfort. I brushed his hair off his forehead, subtly checking for a fever, then told him of the High Priestess’s desires. “The terms of the actual treaty are not a problem, Narian, but Nantilam won’t enter into it unless you agree to make Cokyri your home. She wants to control your power, now and in the future, even to the point of progeny.” “Alera,” he calmly said, taking both my hands in his. “Those decisions are not hers to make. Besides, she’s a little late.” “I don’t understand.” He looked at me, bemused, then rolled up his right shirtsleeve, revealing an intricate tattoo encircling his forearm just below the elbow--the Cokyrian symbol that a man was voluntarily bound to a woman. I stared at it; I stared at him; and I burst into tears. His eyebrows rose in surprise, but he nonetheless took me into his arms. “That’s not the reaction I expected,” he drolly commented, “but it’s convinced me something is wrong.” “How….are…you…feeling?” I managed between sobs. “You’ve already asked me that, and I’m fine.” When I finally had my weeping under control, words tumbled from my mouth. “Even if the revolt has been successful, the High Priestess won’t enter into a treaty unless you stay in Cokyri. Otherwise, she’ll attack Hytanica again, and this time she will kill all of our military leaders and enslave my people. And she wants you to bind yourself to a woman of her choosing because if your powers pass to a child, she wants the child to be Cokyrian.” “That’s all well and good, but this time, she won’t be able to have things her way. There’s no need for you to worry about this. We are strong enough to take her on, Alera.” “But we’re not.” I glanced once more toward the food he had been given, and a flicker of understanding appeared in his eyes. “We have no choice, Narian, because she’s poisoned your food and drink and only she can heal you. And I don’t know what to do, only that I cannot let you die!” “Shhh,” he soothed, holding me close, and I couldn’t understand how he could be so calm. Not when panic rose higher inside me with each passing moment. When I had quieted, resting with my head cradled against his chest, he tried to sort through the things I had said. “So Nantilam, in her wisdom, has linked Hytanican’s freedom to my willingness to stay in Cokyri, and she has effectively taken me out of the fighting by poisoning my food?” I shudder, then nodded. “If I stay here, she is willing to sign a treaty, but if I’m not, she will never relinquish Hytanica and I won’t be around to prevent it.” “Yes,” I murmured. “So she is tearing us apart, dictating the rest of my life and we have to go along with it or she will destroy Hytanica?” “Yes. And we’re running out of time.” He shook his head in awe. “I have to hand it to her, Alera. She’s ruthless in pursuing what she wants.” “This is serious, Narian.” I found his attitude almost irritating. He obviously understood the direness of his situation, yet was acting like it was only a game. “I know it’s serious, but there is only one choice as far as I’m concerned. I don’t want to live without you, Alera. I won’t live without you.

So she is tearing us apart, dictating the rest of my life and we have to go along with it or she will destroy Hytanica?” “Yes. And we’re running out of time.” He shook his head in awe. “I have to hand it to her, Alera. She’s ruthless in pursuing what she wants.” “This is serious, Narian.” I found his attitude almost irritating. He obviously understaood the direness of his situation, yet was acting like it was only a game. “I know it’s serious, but there is only one choice as far as I’m concerned. I don’t want to live without you, Alera. I won’t live without you.” I sat up and searched the depths of his blue eyes. “What do you mean?” He leaned forward and kissed me tenderly, and my pulse raced. Then I put my hands on his chest and pushed myself away. “Tell me, Narian.” “All right. There are three things I believe with all my heart. Hytanica can withstand a Cokyrian assault. I can no longer let Nantilam control my life and I will die before I let you go.” His eyes met mine and he unlaced my blouse, slowly pushing it off my shoulders. This time I did not resist him. “What I want,” he softly finished, “is to spend these last hours holding the woman I love, the woman to whom I am bound.” “But how are you feeling?” “Trust me, Alera, I’m not feeling any pain right now.” Tears trickled from the corners of my eyes as I opened his shirt and ran my fingers over the muscles of his chest. He stood, leading me to the rug in front of the hearth, where he drew me down to kneel beside him. His touch was warm, gentle, as he almost reverently removed my clothing, then he stripped off his shirt and breeches, his skin and his golden hair glistening in the light cast by the fire. As my pulse and breathing quickened, he caressed me, first with his eyes, then with his hands and mouth. “I love you, Alera,” he whispered against my skin, and I gave in to him completely, sinking into the feelings he stirred in me, knowing I stirred the same feelings in him. In all my dreams of what this moment would be like, I had never imagined the soaring bliss that came from giving yourself to another person with reservation, without fear, without pressure. A person you loved and trusted with all your heart and who returned those feelings a hundredfold.

p2 I'd seen a photo of the actual red and white checked notebook that was Anne [Frank]'s first diary. I longed to own a similar notebook. Stationery was pretty dire back in the late fifties and early sixties. There was no such thing as Paperchase. I walked round and round the stationery counter in Woolworths and spent most of my pocket money on notebooks, but they weren't strong on variety. You could have shiny red sixpenny notebooks, lined inside, with strange maths details about rods and poles and perches on the back. (I never found out what they were!) Then you could have shiny blue sixpenny notebooks. That was your lot. I was enchanted to read in Dodie Smith's novel I Capture The Castle that the heroine, Cassandra, was writing her diary in a similar sixpenny notebook. She eventually progressed to a shilling notebook. My Woolworths rarely stocked such expensive luxuries. Then, two thirds of the way through the book, Cassandra is given a two-guinea red leather manuscript book. I lusted after that fictional notebook for years. I told my mother, Biddy. She rolled her eyes. It could have cost two hundred guineas - both were way out of our league... My dad, Harry, was a civil servant. One of the few perks of his job was that he had an unlimited illegal supply of notepads watermarked SO - Stationery Office. I'd drawn on these pads for years, I'd scribbled stories, I'd written letters. They were serviceable but unexciting: thin cream paper unreliably bound with glue at the top. You couldn't write a journal with these notepads; it would fall apart in days... My spelling wasn't too hot. It still isn't. Thank goodness for the spellcheck on my computer!

For the sake of objectivity, the programme analysed both histories - real and alternative - without being informed which was which. It concluded that the second, actual sequence of events was statistically so improbable that it could not possibly happen. ... We are required to believe a) that a drug-addled, womanising inexperienced Catholic with strong links to criminal organisations could defeat the most experienced politician in the country, and that his dire medical condition and dubious character could be kept secret. And also that he could conduct exceptionally successful diplomacy in 1962 while being high as a kite on a coctail of painkillers and stimulants; b) that a president, his brother and several others could all be murdered in a short space of time, by insane gunman, each acting alone, for no discernible reason. Also that Kennedy could be shot by someone with known links to the Soviet Union without there being any consequences; c) that Nixon in office would sanction a pointless burglary, during an election campaign he was bound to win anyway, and that a man with such experience would fail to control the minor political scandal that resulted; d) that 1980 the United States would elect as president an ageing actor with little experience and dyed orange hair.

Killian

No, why did he lick me?” I demand, hands in fists. Venna’s lips purse. “Oh, we lick each other’s tattoos when we’re done. It’s an instinct to help heal the surface of the skin.

He’s not the kind of person who understands how lethal grace can be.

the moment our eyes met, I knew I would be his. It takes a special man to tame a wild thing.

And in case my implication is not crystal fucking clear: you touch her again and I’ll cull you myself.

Who did this to you?” he demands ferociously, one calloused hand clamping hotly on my thigh. Heat flashes through me, starting in my breasts and ending low, between my legs. 

Holding my gaze, he lowers his head and licks the fresh tattoos again, slow and deliberate. 

We’re two predators who’ve agreed to hunt together for the sake of the kill, but she doesn’t trust me any more than I do her.

I’ve seen men like him before. The quiet ones. The dangerous ones. The men who don’t shout threats because they simply don’t need to.

You must, so you will.

I’m sorry, sir, I’ve only got one room left, and

That’s what you get for betting against a woman.

He pokes the bruise again, pain lancing through me. Fuck this guy. I pull my head back and spit in his face.

The room quiets around the three of us, people turning to stare openly now. I shift toward Killian until he’s at my back. He snakes a warm arm around my hips and I breathe in pine, letting it calm me. Then, loudly so everyone can hear, I say, “I’m his, and his alone.

Who did this to you?” he demands ferociously, one calloused hand clamping hotly on my thigh.

The love of my life to return to.

Hold still, kitten,

He reaches through the bars and grabs my wrist, the contact alighting my blood. “Give me the word and I’ll tear out his throat. All the lives I’ve ever taken were just training for this moment, my queen. Make me your instrument of vengeance. Let my hands act out your every savage, depraved thought. Use me. I’m yours.

reaches through the bars and grabs my wrist, the contact alighting my blood. “Give me the word and I’ll tear out his throat. All the lives I’ve ever taken were just training for this moment, my queen. Make me your instrument of vengeance. Let my hands act out your every savage, depraved thought. Use me. I’m yours.

Crown Prince Killian descends to the balcony while I stand there frozen, my whole world crumbling around me. And then, seated at his father’s side, he lifts his head and looks right at me, dark blue eyes filled with regret. My heart cracks. Lee.

Who did this to you?” he demands ferociously,

I’m sorry, sir, I’ve only got one room left,

As if possessed by something I don’t totally understand, I pull my knife from its hidden sheath and slash at my own hair. The silver strands split instantly.

You were born to lead, girl. Whether or not you believe that is of no consequence anymore. You must, so you will.

Okay, I’ll triple the amount of guards in the city. If there are more at work, we’ll catch them, I promise you.

Anassa senses my fury. For a thundering heartbeat, I’m certain she’s going to attack Jonah and his wolf. And then someone else does it for us. Jonah is there one moment and gone the next. Jonah’s body slams against the wall of the training yard. A second after it happens, there’s a rush of wind, as if death just streaked past me and only narrowly left me breathing. The sheer power I just felt like a glimpse of something primordial … Someone is shouting. Gamma Daegan, I think. The wolves from both packs fall back, parting to give me a view of Jonah’s crumpled body where he’s groaning on the ground. My vision swims slightly as blood pours from my nose. A dark figure is standing over Jonah, shouting. At first, it’s garbled by the ringing in my ears. Then the words come through in a deep, enraged voice. “—you do not touch an Alpha that way!” Stark’s chest is heaving. Cratos isn’t beside him, but he doesn’t need his wolf’s sheer size to threaten Jonah. The menacing way his tattooed hands are clenching and unclenching says it all, like he’s imagining them around Jonah’s throat. “She’s not my Alpha, sir,” Jonah says, but his eyes are averted. “Your Alpha gave you an order not to use your magic on Strategos at full strength, and you disobeyed it!” Stark bellows. His entire pack stirs at the echo of his voice. Some of their wolves’ ears fold back, their heads lowering submissively below their shoulders. Stark’s voice quiets, but only slightly. It’s still loud enough for the whole training yard to hear, laced through with menace.

Tell me about the children,” I say. “Where were they taken?” His perfect brow furrows with confusion. “You’re looking for children?” Goddess, even his voice is gorgeous—musical and lilting. “The children you were keeping in the basement cells,” I grate. “The ones you sent your Nabbers for in Sturmfrost.” He blinks. “‘Nabbers’?” His gaze flicks to Stark in bewilderment. “What is this idiot talking about?” “Don’t play dumb,” I growl, impatience thrumming in my veins. “You’ve been abducting children from Nocturna for years. You were keeping at least three of them at the temple. Now tell me where they are.

Siphons, our ancient, monstrous enemy from the neighboring country of Astreona.

The war has been going on for five hundred years, but between our country’s Bonded and their direwolves and Astreona’s Siphon strength, it’s rare for either side to take much ground.

I’d trade sun and sky and light itself to know I’d never have to lose him.

That’s strange—there shouldn’t be a breeze. My eyes dart to the window, which is shoved open, letting in the icy air. Heart pounding, I run over to Saela’s bed. There’s nobody in it. Saela is gone.

Something has broken and resettled in my chest. I promised her. Promised Saela that nothing would hurt her. I fucking keep my promises.

You know,” Igor starts, “I’ve met a lot of strong people in my day, between the fighting circuits and the army. But I’ve never known a stronger-willed brat than you.” “Thanks?” I grin at him. “I think?

Izabel and Venna have been conversing again, and as I open my mouth to speak, Izabel spins toward me and says, “Right then. You’ll join us on the Ascent.” Huh. “That’s really not—” “You saved Izabel’s life,” Venna says simply. “So now we’ll save yours.

heavy, rhythmic sound of Anassa’s breathing. A lock of my hair, tugged loose from my ties, whips past my gaze. It recenters my focus. Silver. All my dark hair has turned a luminous silver-white, the same color as Anassa.

but I’ve got places to be. A sister to save. The love of my life to return to.

These rare connections between wolves allow their riders to communicate telepathically even across pack lines, without the aid of the Sovereign Alpha. Mated direwolves are cherished because they can protect each other—and, in turn, their Bonded riders and their packs—even better during battle. Also because mated direwolves often result in direwolf pups, thereby continuing the Bonded line. However”—he slumps into the chair again—“mated wolves have become more and more rare over the past several hundred years.

My little sister was taken by Nabbers. That’s why I enlisted, to try to find her.” Henrey stares at me blankly. “What?” I ask. “What’s a Nabber?” My blood goes cold. Dread settles over me like a thick layer of snow. “You don’t … have Nabbers in Blumenfall?” Maybe it’s a terminology difference, maybe they call them something else. “Siphons who steal children? Kids get kidnapped out of their beds at night.” His brow pinches, and he shakes his head. “I’ve never heard of—” The deafening horn calling us to our next class sounds through the halls. I wince, clenching my jaw as the sound worsens my headache. I follow after Henrey quickly, slightly dizzy. No Nabbers in Blumenfall. I don’t understand.

Excellent,” says Elinor. “This is why the war has gone on so long. Through their blood magic, Siphons have achieved functional immortality and the ability to manipulate human perception. This is how they infiltrate our borders and defend against our Bonded attacks. And the older a Siphon is, the more powerful their abilities become. We don’t even know half of what they’re truly capable of, as we interact primarily with their youngest soldiers—the more senior Siphons are rarely part of their forward guard.

Anassa’s voice fills my head, thick with wrath. “Some people deserve to die.

You are an Alpha. You are not permitted the luxury of open weakness.” Fuck, this man is intense. “Everyone. Has. Weaknesses,” I hiss.

a woman astride a massive wolf, her face serene. Her head is adorned in an intricate crown composed of two direwolves leaping toward each other.

Whereas the lessons I was getting at my mother’s knee mostly involved insane ravings about “the twins.

How the madness runs in my blood, lurking in the shadows, waiting to drag me down into its depths.

I’ve only got one room left,

but Igor’s been training me to throw them anyway. He said you never know when you might need to make someone shit their pants by tossing a dagger at their head.

It hurts. Fuck, it hurts. But that’s another thing Anassa doesn’t know about me. I’ve always used pain to fuel my anger, to keep myself going.

Coat silvery white against the snow… a ghost.

Whether or not you believe that is of no consequence anymore. You must, so you will.” Well, that’s pretty clear. I still cannot fully fathom that this is happening, but I guess it doesn’t matter if I want to accept this. It’s done.

can’t remember his name. Roddert something?

The only thing they recovered from him was a finger.

I almost forgot how devastating grief is. How it leaves you husked and raw, but never numb. The pain is like a gaping wound—one no dressing can cover, no shield can truly protect. The agony of it might lessen, but it never truly leaves. It’s not just one feeling, either. Grief has layers and layers: sadness, bitterness, guilt, regret…