their bondmates often got left behind at camp whenever Tristan’s patrol needed to speak with the townspeople or check in with the refugees. Their temporary town butted up against the southeastern edge of the village proper, so Tristan’s patrol avoided bringing their phoenixes there if they could help it.
Xephyra hated being left behind and would often treat Veronyka to an endless stream of mundane information when they were apart, including mental images of pretty flowers or oddly shaped rocks. When she didn’t know the word for something, she’d shove the image before Veronyka’s eyes so forcefully, it was like a moment of temporary mirroring.
That’s poison ivy. Stay away.
That’s a wasp’s nest. Definitely stay away.
That’s my dinner—Xephyra, don’t eat that!
They did make one exception to the rule, however, just over a week into their time at Rushlea.
It was the twenty-first day of the ninth moon of the year, which was the anniversary of the end of the Blood War. Typically, all work was put on hold for daylong festivities, but Veronyka hadn’t expected anyone to want to celebrate in such dangerous times. However, it seemed the villagers and refugees needed an excuse to blow off some steam now more than ever.
Many of the evacuated children had been begging to see the firebirds again for days, and so Tristan had promised that the phoenixes could go to the refugee camp during the celebrations—but only with their Riders.
While at Vayle Tristan’s patrol had slept in tight quarters within the circular ruins of Malka’s outpost, here they were more spread out, scattered under jagged overhangs or in soft, grassy hollows. The ground grew rockier to the north of Rushlea, leading into Petratec and Montascent, and quarries and mines dotted the countryside. There were several that were still in use, but they were farther north; those nearby were abandoned. Veronyka felt a strange draw to them, these gaping wounds in the mountain. Like much of Pyra, they were relics of another age, when the province was thriving. Now they were evidence of its deterioration.
It was the morning of the festival, and Veronyka sat at the edge of camp under a gnarled old tree, the sun already hot, beating down in a golden haze of light just outside her shady sanctuary. The Riders were normally up and making their way into the village before dawn, but since it was a holiday, they’d been able to sleep in.
“Hey,” Tristan said, striding up the slope toward her and popping the last bites of his breakfast into his mouth. The other Riders were still sleeping or murmuring quietly to one another, enjoying the late start. “Do you know what today is?”
Veronyka was poring over the list of exiled Riders, again. She kept rereading the notes, hoping for something new to reveal itself, but there were only so many words on the page, and she had them memorized by now.
After days of searching for Doriyan, she had all but given up hope, and Val was at the forefront of her mind once more. People were missing. People were dying…. Wasn’t it a worthy risk to reach out to Val and simply ask if she were responsible? Yes, it meant sacrifice for Veronyka and Tristan, but they were both willing to do that, weren’t they? And now that they understood the possibilities, wouldn’t they be better equipped to ensure that what happened during the relay test didn’t happen again?
Pheronia hadn’t been able to get through to Avalkyra, and thousands died. But Pheronia didn’t have what Veronyka had—she didn’t have shadow magic. Was the thing Veronyka had always considered a curse the one thing that could save them all?
Sighing, Veronyka put down the list and gave Tristan her full attention. He stood in front of her, oddly formal, his hands clasped behind his back. She thought back to his question and frowned at him.
“Today is the anniversary of the end of the Blood War…,” she said, puzzled by the expression on his face.
“It is, but that’s not what I meant.” He paused, as if considering his words, before adding, “It’s also your birthday.”
Veronyka stared down at the puzzle box, still sitting idly in her hands. Her extremities felt suddenly numb and weightless. My birthday.
Seventeen years ago, fire and ash had blanketed the empire, and Avalkyra Ashfire, the Feather-Crowned Queen, had died. Pheronia—Veronyka’s mother—had died too, but with no magic or bondmate, she remained doomed to that fate, unlike her magical sister.