were small and fast and could slip out windows and slink through alleys that she could not.
Veronyka had refused and held fast to her grandmother’s old, withered hand. When their door had burst open, her grandmother turned to her, as calm and reassuring as the eye of the storm.
“Protect each other,” she’d whispered in Veronyka’s ear before being wrenched from her grasp and dragged toward the door.
Val had wrapped an arm around Veronyka’s middle, hauling her away, but Veronyka had refused to go quietly. She’d kicked and screamed and bit Val’s arm, but her fighting was useless. She’d been forced to stare, wild-eyed and panicked, as her maiora was swallowed by the seething crowd. Veronyka didn’t know how they’d found her grandmother or what had given her away, but the mob was too worked up to be reasoned with.
Val pulled Veronyka out the small window, only just evading the grasping, clawing hands of the crowd.
As they fled from the chaos, her grandmother’s whispered words echoed in Veronyka’s mind. Protect each other.
At the time she’d taken the words to mean that she and Val must look out for each other, but the longer she thought about it, she suspected that her grandmother had meant more than that. In the face of hatred and fear and death, her maiora had spoken about love and protection.
That was what being a Phoenix Rider meant to Veronyka. Riders were guardians and protectors, and that was what Veronyka wanted to be as well. It was how she’d keep her grandmother’s memory alive.
Still, Veronyka had hated Val in that moment, resenting the ease with which she’d left their maiora behind. Veronyka had fought, no matter how fruitless, but Val had not.
With time and perspective, Veronyka realized that Val had been what she’d needed to be for them to survive. Veronyka’s tears and panic helped nothing. It was Val’s determination and levelheadedness that had gotten them through. She was only eleven when their maiora died—just a year older than Veronyka—and had shouldered the burden of caring for them both ever since.
As Val lay down on their pallet against the wall, a pang of guilt throbbed low in the pit of Veronyka’s stomach. Val had done so much for her, had given her more than Veronyka could ever repay. Now Val had given her a bondmate—the greatest gift of all.
After a moment’s hesitation, Veronyka left the phoenix—the simple act of putting distance between them was like a physical pull on her heart—and joined her sister. They always slept together out of necessity, for warmth or because of limited space. Val would never admit it, but Veronyka knew they slept side by side for comfort, too.
As she settled in next to her sister, the knot of unease that had tightened inside her after Val’s disappearance loosened somewhat. Protect each other. No matter what, that was what they did—what they would always do. Val was difficult. She had the capacity for dismissiveness and cold cruelty. But she was also Veronyka’s sister, the person Veronyka loved and respected—and yes, feared—most. They would get through this, just like they’d gotten through everything in their lives: together.
Val faced the wall, and Veronyka stared at the back of her head. Her sister’s long dark-red hair pooled on the mat between them, the color rare and particularly unique among brown-skinned Pyraeans. The light of the fire made the strands glow, glinting off beads and brightly colored thread woven into dozens of braids. The plaited hairstyle had been a Pyraean tradition since before the Golden Empire, during the Reign of Queens, when Pyra was ruled by a succession of fierce female sovereigns—Phoenix Riders every one. Both men and women would adorn their hair, using valuable gemstones or found keepsakes to commemorate important events and milestones.
Even after Pyra became a part of the empire, Phoenix Riders would wear phoenix feathers and bits of obsidian, marking them as part of the elite class of warriors. Each piece of volcanic glass, often used for spears and arrowheads in the old days, represented a victory in battle, a token of pride and a mark of experience. It was said that Avalkyra Ashfire had so many knotted into her hair that they scraped and sliced her bare skin, leaving a mantle of blood about her shoulders.
Braids had become increasingly rare in the valley, where the decorations could be seen as a mark of loyalty to Phoenix Riders and Avalkyra Ashfire—and disloyalty to the empire’s governors. Val had refused to give up the