Page 122 of Mother of Death and Dawn

Serel’s handwriting was neat and delicate, nearly a work of art, but here all of those sweeping loops and even lines morphed into frantic parodies of themselves. He wrote to me from a bunker at the center of Malakahn, hiding from an onslaught of fire from the Threllian Lords and the Fey. He described Fey magic Wielders breaking down stronghold walls and doors, tearing apart houses.

They’re killing everyone they see,he wrote.Even the Threllian citizens of Malakahn. The goal is clearly to destroy, not recapture.

Then, after a long stretch of paper:

They will succeed.

Serel was a practical person. He spent most of the page describing in detail the formations of magic users and the types of power they Wielded. He listed the Threllian houses that he could identify, so I would know who had exhausted their resources. He told me that they burned all tactical plans in the west building, but the east had been infiltrated before they had time to burn them. He warned me that any information we recorded there had likely been taken by the Threllians.

As he wrote, the writing grew sloppier. Drops of red now blotted out entire words. And it was this second part of the letter that clenched in my chest, the words I couldn’t shake from my head:

Don’t worry about me. We are going to try to get to Orasiev. We’ll get this letter out before we go. Hopefully it will reach you. I should say that I want it to reach you because the information above is important. That’s true, but the real reason you need to get this letter is because I want to make sure you know that I love you.

I’m so sorry about Max.

The lines here grew shorter, choppier, the writing outright scrawls.

I should have helped you find him. I know how much

how much you loved him. I should have known

thats a thing you don’t let go of, ever

tell filias I love him if you

see him

If you dont then I suppose i will wherever I go

thank you for the wild ride.

serel.

I stared at that scratched signature. The letter would have been written somewhere between days and weeks ago. Ishqa had not been able to retrieve letters from the rendezvous point, and even if he had, who knew how long this one had taken to make it out of a war zone. It was a miracle we had gotten it at all.

Was Serel still alive, somewhere? Had he made it to Orasiev? Or was he still in Malakahn, dying slowly in the ruins of our greatest success?

My head spun. The alcohol I had consumed earlier that night churned in my stomach.

I stood, leaned over, and vomited into the sand.

Sammerin held my hair back as gags wracked my body in waves. Between bouts, I moaned, “I feel awful.”

“I don’t doubt it.”

“Can you—?”

“I’m afraid not. A Valtain healer would be able to help, but my gifts are relatively useless against nausea.”

Terrific, I thought, and vomited some more.

Finally, when I had exhausted myself, I slumped back against a fallen log. I felt like all the blood had left my limbs. Alcohol was poison. I was never drinking it ever again.

Max handed me a canteen of water. “Drink. As much as you can keep down.”

I did, but my mouth was still sour and ashy.

His fingers brushed my shoulder—the touch was so small, and yet so affectionate. “Are you alright?” he said quietly. The way he was looking at me now was so similar to the way he used to look at me then. He knew I was not alright, and his voice said as much. Still, I nodded.

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