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January 29 - February 9, 2024
“What the fuck was that thing?” Nesta glanced to the shadows behind Bryce, as if someone stood there. But she said, “A Middengard Wyrm.” “Middengard?” Bryce started at the word. “Like—Midgard? Did they come from my world originally?” Horrific as the creature was, to have another being from her world here was … oddly comforting. And maybe finding a scrap of comfort in that fact proved how fucking desperate she was. “I don’t know,” Nesta said. “Are they common around here?” If they were, no wonder the Fae had bailed on this world.
Nesta’s eyes slid to Bryce’s for a heartbeat. As if understanding at last: Bryce’s “unhealing” hand. The blood she’d wiped on the walls. Her musing about the linked river system in these caves, sussing out what they knew regarding the terrain and the Wyrm. To unleash this thing—on them. “I’m sorry,” Bryce said to her. And ran. She meant them no harm—she hadn’t lied about that. They could undoubtedly face the Wyrm and live. Nesta had said her sister had done exactly that. But Bryce needed to learn whatever Urd had sent her to discover.
Even Sabine paused to watch as Sigrid plunged her clawed hand into his chest, ripping out his still-beating heart in the same moment that she inhaled deeply, and that glimmering light—the secondlight—of his soul rose up through his body, into their fused mouths— Not Ithan’s problem.
“I yield.” She added a heartbeat later, “I yield to the Prime.” The words struck a chord in him, one of despair and suffocation. But he couldn’t stop it—the instinct to reach forward and lightly clamp his teeth around Perry’s slender throat. To take that cinnamon-and-strawberry taste into his mouth. To accept her submission to him. Her recognition.
“Morals,” the River Queen mused. “What morals do you have other than ensuring your own survival at any cost? Was it your morals that guided you when you took my daughter’s maidenhead, swearing to love her until you died, and then toyed with her affections for the next decade?”
Only when they stood before it did Connor speak again. “That bullet,” Connor said, nodding to where Ithan held it, “was made by us—the dead. For Bryce.” A soft, pained smile crossed his face at her name. “To use with the Godslayer Rifle.”

