Shadow.
Red’s mind tripped over the thought, then latched. When she’d seen Arick outside the Shrine, Arick who was Solmir, there’d been no shadow on the ground behind him. And Kiri’s words in the dungeon—one the man, one the shadow.
Five priestesses lay dead, five lives to free five kings. Solmir, already half here, should be condensing into flesh, should be using the sacrifice to manifest fully in this world. But still he held on to the connection with Arick, staying the shadow as long as he fought Eammon.
As long as Solmir fought Eammon, Arick would stay the man.
Fife crouched between Lyra and the war between shadow and forest, hand on his dagger. When he spoke, it was with his characteristic bluntness. “I don’t know what your next move is. But I’m staying with Lyra.”
“I’d never ask you to do anything different.”
Still brusque, but with affection in it. “I know.”
Red knew what had to happen now. But it was a heavy weight in her middle, one she didn’t want to look at too closely. Not until it was clear there was no other choice.
The choice would have to be made quickly. Eammon couldn’t fight a shadow forever.
She pushed herself up on shaking legs. “I’m going to the grove.”
Fife met her eyes. Nodded.
Red took off running.
Lear met her at the edge of the sweeping shadows ringing the grove, swiping blood from his face. “Tried to stop them.” He waved his scarlet-streaked hand to the priestesses’ bodies, nearly hidden in writhing darkness. “Kept begging them to run. None of them listened, and the redhead knocked me a good one before I could try to pull them out.” The wound in his forehead dripped into his eyes; he wiped the blood away like it irritated more than pained him. “I didn’t go any farther before the shadows sprang up, but Raffe is still in there.”
“I have to go find him.” Even with all the Wilderwood spilled from her, the grove still felt repellent. Something that should never be under the sky. “I have to find my sister.”
Concern lit Lear’s eyes. “If she’s in there, I don’t know what exactly you’re going to find.”
“Me either.” Red swallowed. “But it’s our only chance of stopping this.”
Lear nodded. Then he inclined his head in a short bow. “Good luck, Lady Wolf.”
Before she could lose her nerve, Red ran forward, leapt over the furrow of growing shadow, and landed inelegantly next to the corpse of a priestess.
The grove was blanketed in silence, blocking out the roar of gods outside. The ground was dark but solid, even as it rumbled. Still, she could almost feel the fault lines forming beneath her feet, cracks something could seep through.
The sentinels bowed inward, ashamed. Red put her hand on a trunk like she could offer comfort. There were more of them than she realized, growing only inches from one another, the white of picked bones.
It gave Kiri plenty of places to hide.
The snap of a twig was Red’s only warning as the High Priestess lurched from behind an inverted sentinel, swiping wildly at Red with a bloodstained dagger. She ducked away, the slash catching only the fabric of her sleeve.
“Should’ve killed you before.” Kiri’s voice sounded ravaged, like she’d been screaming for hours. “Can’t do anything to stop it now.” Another wild swipe, weighed down by blood-soaked robes. “Our gods are coming, and you’ll—”
A hollow thunk, a hilt on her temple. Eyes rolling back, Kiri slumped to the ground.
Behind her, Raffe sheathed his dagger.
His fingernails were torn and bloody. The hilt of the dagger was pockmarked, chipped, like he’d slammed it repeatedly against a rock. “Took you long enough.”
Outside the grove, a muffled roar. He turned toward it with an arched brow, only mildly interested, then nodded at the body of the priestess near the edge of the trees. “How long do we have?”
“Not long. Eammon—” His name burned in her throat, made her swallow past a lump that felt bladed. “He’s keeping Solmir occupied, but he can’t for much longer.”
Another roar, another shudder of the ground, like it was the back of some slow-waking beast. Raffe nodded, then headed through the bone-like trees. Silently, Red followed.
The grove opened on a clearing with two things in the center. Arick, face caught somewhere between shame and resignation.
And a coffin.
It looked made of smoky glass, like shadows frozen in ice, but the figure inside was clear. Dark hair, closed eyes, face the same color as the bone-pale trees. At the edges of her body, veins ran black, and the threads of darkness continued past the bounds of her skin— down the stone sides of her grave-slab, down into the rotten ground with its twisted branch-roots churning through the earth.